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Presented  to  the 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO 
LIBRARY 

by  the 

ONTARIO  LEGISLATIVE 
LIBRARY 

1980 


7143$  < 


THE 


ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


A  MAGAZINE  OF 


literature,  Science,  &rt,  ana 


VOLUME   CXIV 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  COMPANY 


1914 


COPYRIGHT.    1914, 
BY  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  COMPANY. 


AP 

1. 

Ag 


LiBRAnY 


Riverside  Prets,  Cambridge,  Mutt.,  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 


INDEX  BY  TITLES 
Prose 


PAGK 

Academic  Freedom,  Howard  Crosby  War- 
ren   689 

Adventures  in  American  Diplomacy,  III. 
The  Treaty  of  Ghent,  Frederick  Trevor 
Hitt 231 

Afternoon  Ride  of  Paul  Revere  Columbus 
Dobbs,  The,  Virginia  Baker  ....  242 

Agriculture  of  the  Garden  of  Eden,  The, 
J.  Russell  Smith .256 

Associated  Press,  The  Problem  of  the,  An 
Observer 132 

At  Seventy-Three  and  Beyond,  U.  V.  Wil- 
son   123 

Blue  Reefers,  Elizabeth  Ashe         ....  675 

Boy,  The,  Anna  Fuller  , 265 

British  Liberalism  and  the  War,  /.  0.  P. 

Bland 665 

Browning  and  the  Special  Interests,  Wil- 
liam Austin  Smith 809 

Coeducation,  What  of,  Zona  Gale     ...  95 

Crisis,  The,  John  Jay  Chapman  ....  714 
Critics  of  the  College,  The,  Henry  S.  Prit- 

chett 332 

Curtis,  George  William,  Some  Early  Let- 
ters of,  Edited  by  Caroline  Ticknor  .  .  363 

Danger  of  Tolerance  in  Religion,  The,  Ber- 
nard ladings  Bell 92 

Decadence  of  Human  Heredity,  The,  S.  J. 
Holmes 302 

Devastation  of  Dennisport,  The,  Mary 
Heaton  Vorse 646 

Do  Our  Representatives  Represent?  Fran- 
cis E.  Leupp 433 

Education  in  Vermont,  James  Mascarene 
Hubbard 119 

English  as  Humane  Letters,  Frank  Ayde- 
lotte 377 

Eugenics  and  Common  Sense,  H.  Fielding- 
Hall 348 

European  Tragedy,  The,  Guglielmo  Ferrero    681 

European  War,  the: 
British  Liberalism  and  the  War,  J.  0.  P. 

Bland 665 

Crisis,  The,  John  Jay  Chapman    .     .     .    714 


PAG* 

Estimate  of  German  Scientific  Culture, 
An,  John  Trowbridge 816 

European  Tragedy,  The,  Guglielmo  Fer- 
rero   681 

Germany's  Ability  to  Finance  the  War, 
Roland  G.  Usher 738 

German   Methods   of   Conducting   the 
War,  Heinrich  Fr.  Albert 838 

Italy's  Position,  George  B.  McClellan     .    556 

Japan  and  the  European  War,  Kiyoshi 
K.  Kawakami 708 

Kaiser  and  his  People,  the,  Kuno  Francke    566 

Mailed  Fist,  The,  and  its  Prophet,  H.  L. 
Mencken 598 

Reasons  behind  the  War,  The,   Roland 
G.  Usher 444 

War,  The,  and  the  Way  Out,   G.  Lowes 
Dickinson 820 

Failure  of  the  Church,  The,  Edward  Lewis  729 

Father  Fred,  Zephine  Humphrey      .     .     .  207 

Flag-Root,  Lucy  Huston  Sturdevant       .     .  112 

Flavor  of  Things,  The,  Robert  M.  Gay       .  418 

Friendless  Majority,  The,  0.  W.  Firkins   .  482 

Game,  The,  Simeon  Strunsky       ....    248 

Garden  of  Eden,  The  Agriculture  of  the, 
J.  Russell  Smith 256 

German  Literature  and  the  American  Tem- 
per, Kuno  Francke 655 

German  Scientific  Culture,  An  Estimate  of, 
John  Trowbridge 816 

Germany's  Ability  to  Finance  the  War, 
Roland  G.  Usher  ........  738 

German  Methods  of  Conducting  the  War, 
Heinrich  Fr.  Albert  .......  838 

Glory-Box,  The,  Elizabeth  Ashe    ....    758 

Grandfather  Crane  invokes  the  Aid  of  Sor- 
cery, Virginia  Baker 486 

Greek  Genius,  The,  John  Jay  Chapman    .      70. 

Hidden  Treasure  of  Rishmey-Yeh,  The, 

Abraham  Mitrie  Rihbany 721 

Hooker,  Joseph,  Gamaliel  Bradford       .     .  19 

Hour  in  Chartres,  An,  Randolph  S.  Bourne  214 

House  of  Sorrow,  The,  Anonymous       .    .  769 
How  the  Army  was  Kidnapped,  Charles 

Johnston •  469 


IV 


CONTENTS 


Impulse  to  Futurism,  The,  H.  W.  Nevinson  626 

In  the  Pasha's  Garden,  H .  G.  Dwight      .     .  145 

In  Those  Days,  Robert  M.  Gay     ....  127 

Italy's  Position,  George  B.  McClellan    .     .  556 

Japan  and  the  European  War,  Kiyoshi  K. 

Kawakami 708 

Jelly-Fish  and  Equal  Suffrage,  The,  C.  Wil- 
liam Beebe 36 

Kaiser  and  his  People,  The,  Kuno  Francke  566 

Laissez-Faire  in  Religion,  Washington  Glad- 
den    497 

Lawyer's  Conscience  and  Public  Service, 

The,  Charles  A.  Boston 400 

Life's  Non-Sequiturs,  Lucy  Elliot  Keeler    .  533 

Little  Mother,  A,  Florence  Gilmore  .     .     .  381 

Mailed  Fist  and  its  Prophet,  The,    H.  L. 

Mencken  .  598 

Maurice  Barres  and  the  Youth  of  France, 

Randolph  S.  Bourne 394 

McClellan,  George  B.,  Gamaliel  Bradford  .  508 
Meditations  on  Votes  for  Women,  Samuel 

McChord  Crothers 538 

Message  to  the  Middle  Class,  A,  Seymour 

Deming 1 

Mind  in  Plants,  Ada  Watterson  Yerkes  .  .  634 

Modernist,  The,  0.  W.  Firkins  ....  278 

Morality  as  an  Art,  Havelock  Ellis  .  .  .  700 

Motherhood  and  the  State,  Albert  Jay  Nock  157 


Novel-Reader,  Recent  Reflections  of  a  . 


520 


Okhoy  Babu's  Adventure,  Charles  Johnston  309 

On  Noses,  Lucy  Elliot  Keeler 274 

Our  'Classical  Recollections,'  Annie  Kim- 
ball  Tuell        778 

Our  Cultural  Humility,  Randolph  S.  Bourne  503 

'Our  Lady  Poverty,'  Agnes  Repplier     .     .  452 
Our  Nearest,  and  Our  Farthest,  Neighbors, 

Margaret  Sherwood 191 

Pagan  Morals,  Emily  James  Putnam     .     .  355 

Philanthropy  with  Strings,  Edward  A.  Ross  289 

Plants,  Mind  in,  Ada  Watterson  Yerkes     .  634 


Plea  for  Erasmians,  A,  Charles  H.  A.  Wager  83 
Pleasures  of  an  Absentee  Landlord,  The, 

Samuel  McChord  Crothers 164 

Possessing  Prudence,  Amy  W.  Stone  .  .  342 
Professor  in  a  Small  College,  A,  Raymond 

Bellamy 608 

Rab  and  Dab:  A  Woman  Rice-Planter's 

Story,  Patience  Pennington  .  .  577,  799 
Rain  of  Law,  The,  William  D.  Parkinson  107 
Reading  of  Books  Nowadays,  The,  George 

P.  Brett 620 

Reasons  behind  the  War,  The,  Roland  G. 

Usher 444 

Reply,  A,  to  '  A  Message  to  the  Middle 

Class,'  E.S 14 

Revelation  of  the  Middle  Years,  The, 

Cornelia  A.  P.  Comer 460 

School,  Simeon  Strunsky 546 

Seth  Miles  and  the  Sacred  Fire,  Cornelia 
A.  P.  Comer  790 

Sherman,  William  T.,  Gamaliel  Bradford   .     318 

Some  Early  Letters  of  George  William  Cur- 
tis, Edited  by  Caroline  Ticknor  .  .  .  363 

Some  Enthusiasms  I  Have  Known,  Robert 
Haven  Schauffler 47 

Some  Remarks  on  American  and  English 
Fiction,  Edward  Garnett  747 

Something  Big,  Like  Red  Bird,  Margaret 
Prescott  Montague 199 

Symons,  Arthur,  and  Impressionism,  Wil- 
bur M.  Urban 384 

Syndicalism  and  the  General  Strike  in 
Italy,  George  B.  McClellan 294 

Telephone,  Joseph  Husband 330 

Thomas,  George  H.,  Gamaliel  Bradford      .     218 

Uniforms  for  Women,  W.  L.  George  .  .  589 
Useless  Virtues,  The,  Ralph  Barton  Perry  .  411 

Victorian  Hypocrisy,  Annie  Winsor  Allen     174 

Wander,  Gino  C.  Speranza 30 

Wickedness  of  Father  Veiera,  The,  Wilbur 
Daniel  Steele 59 


Poetry 


As  I  Drank  Tea  To-Day,  Fannie  Stearns 
Gifford 189 

Changeling,  Fannie  Stearns  Davis  Gifford  815 
Chimes  of  Tennonde,  The,   Grace  Hazard 

Conkling 849 

Christ's  Table,  Margaret  Prescott  Montague  376 

End  of  the  Game,  The,  M.  A.  De  Wolfe 
Howe  680 


England  and  America,  Florence  T.  Holt     .  537 

Life  and  Death,  Anonymous 263 

My  Lady,  Olive  Tilford  Dargan    ....  56 

Nostalgia,  Katharine  Fullerton  Gerould       .  317 

November  in  the  City,  Edith  Wyatt       .     .  644 

Poet  Silent,  A,  Alice  Brown 91 


CONTENTS 


Prosperpina  and  the  Sea-Nymphs,  Grace 
Hazard  Conkling 478 


Stork,  The:  A  Christmas  Ballad,  Anony- 
mous       757 


Road  to  Dieppe,  The,  John  Finley   . 


787      Tulip  Garden,  A,  Amy  Lowell 


INDEX  BY  AUTHORS 


230 


Albert,  Heinrich  Fr.,  Germany's  Method  of 

Conducting  the  War 838 

Allen,  Annie  Winsor,  Victorian  Hypocrisy  174 

Anonymous 
A  Reply  to  *  A  Message  to  the  Middle 

Class' 14 

The  Problem  of  the  Associated  Press     .  132 

Life  and  Death       263 

Recent  Reflections  of  a  Novel-Reader    .  520 

The  Stork:  A  Christmas  Ballad     ...  757 

The  House  of  Sorrow .769 

Ashe,  Elizabeth 

Blue  Reefers 675 

The  Glory-Box 758 

Aydelotte,  Frank,  English  as  Humane  Let- 
ters    377 

Baker,  Virginia 

The  Afternoon  Ride  of  Paul  Revere  Co- 
lumbus Dobbs 242 

Grandfather  Crane  Invokes  the  Aid  of 
Sorcery 486 

Beebe,    C.    William,   The   Jelly-Fish   and 
Equal  Suffrage 36 

Bell,  Bernard  Iddings,  The  Danger  of  Toler- 
ance in  Religion 92 

Bellamy,  Raymond,  A  Professor  in  a  Small 
College 608 

Bland,  J.  0.  P.,  British  Liberalism  and  the 
War 665 

Boston,   Charles  A.,   The  Lawyer's  Con- 
science and  Public  Service 400 

Bourne,  Randolph  S. 

An  Hour  in  Chartres        214 

Maurice  Barres  and  the  Youth  of  France    394 
Our  Cultural  Humility 503 

Bradford,  Gamaliel,  Union  Portraits: 

I.  Joseph  Hooker 19 

II.  George  H.  Thomas 218 

III.  William  T.  Sherman 318 

IV.  George  B.  McClellan 508 

Brett,  George  P.,  The  Reading  of  Books 

Nowadays 620 

Brown,  Alice,  A  Poet  Silent 91 

Chapman,  John  Jay,  The  Greek  Genius  .       70 

Chapman,  John  Jay,  The  Crisis   .     .     .  .     714 

Comer,  Cornelia  A.  P. 

The  Revelation  of  the  Middle  Years  .     460 

Seth  Miles  and  the  Sacred  Fire     ...  790 

Conkling,  Grace  Hazard 

Prosperpina  and  the  Sea  Nymphs      .  .     478 

The  Chimes  of  Termonde  849 


Crothers,  Samuel  McChord 
The  Pleasures  of  an  Absentee  Landlord  .     164 
Meditations  on  Votes  for  Women      .     .    538 

Dargan,  Olive  Tilford,  My  Lady        ...      56 

Deming,  Seymour,  A  Message  to  the  Mid- 
dle Class 1 

Dickinson,  G.  Lowes,  The  War  and  the  Way 
Out 820 

Dwight,  H.  G.,  In  the  Pasha's  Garden,  A 
Stamboul  Night's  Entertainment  .  .  145 

Ellis,  Havelock,  Morality  as  an  Art  .     .     .     700 

Ferrero,  Guglielmo,  The  European  Tragedy  681 

Fielding-Hall,  H.,  Eugenics  and  Common 

Sense 348 

Finley,  John,  The  Road  to  Dieppe   .     .     .  787 

Firkins,  0.  W. 

The  Modernist,  An  Essay  in  Verse    .     .  278 

The  Friendless  Majority 482 

Francke,  Kuno 

The  Kaiser  and  his  People        ....  566 
German  Literature  and  the  American 

Temper 655 

Fuller,  Anna,  The  Boy 265 

Gale,  Zona,  What  of  Coeducation?   ...  95 
Garnett,  Edward,  Some  Remarks  on  Ameri- 
can and  English  Fiction 747 

Gay,  Robert  M. 

In  Those  Days        127 

The  Flavor  of  Things 418 

George,  W.  L.,  Uniforms  for  Women     .     .  589 

Gerould  Katharine  Fullerton,  Nostalgia       .  317 
Gifford,  Fannie  Stearns 

As  I  Drank  Tea  To-day 189 

Changeling 815 

Gilmore,  Florence,  A  Little  Mother  .     .     .  381 
Gladden,  Washington,  Laissez-Faire  in  Re- 
ligion   497 

Hill,  Frederick  Trevor,  Adventures  in  Am- 
erican Diplomacy.  III.  The  Treaty  of 
Ghent .  .  231 

Holmes,  S.  J.,  The  Decadence  of  Human 
Heredity 302 

Holt,  Florence  T.,  England  and  America    .     537 

Howe,  M.  A.  De  Wolfe,  The  End  of  the 
Game 680 

Hubbard,  James  Mascarene,  Education  in 
Vermont U9 

Humphrey,  Zephine,  Father  Fred    .    .    .    207 


vi  CONTENTS 

Husband,  Joseph,  Telephone 330      Ross,  Edward  A.,  Philanthropy  with  Strings    289 


Johnston,  Charles 

Okhoy  Babu's  Adventure 309 

How  the  Army  was  Kidnapped     .     .     .    469 

Kawakami,  Kiyoshi  K.,  Japan  and  the  Eu- 
ropean War 708 

Keeler,  Lucy  Elliot 
On  Noses  .  274 


Life's  Non-Sequiturs 


533 


Leupp,  Francis  E.,  Do  Our  Representatives 

Represent? 433 

Lews,  Edward,  The  Failure  of  the  Church  729 

Lowell,  Amy,  A  Tulip  Garden 230 

McClellan,  George  B. 

Syndicalism  and  tne  General  Strike  in 
Italy 294 

Italy's  Position 556 

Mencken,  H.  L.,  The  Mailed  Fist  and  Its 

Prophet 598 

Montague,  Margaret  Prescott 

Something  Big,  Like  Red  Bird      ...     199 

Christ's  Table 376 

Nevinson,  Heniy  W.,  The  Impulse  to  Fu- 
turism   626 

Nock,  Albert  J.,  Motherhood  and  the  State     157 

Parkinson,  William  D.,  The  Rain  of  Law  .  107 
Pennington,   Patience,   Rab  and   Dab:   A 

Woman  Rice-Planter's  Story)   .     .      577,  799 
Perry,  Ra'ph  Barton,  The  Useless  Virtues  .  411 
Pritchett,  Henry  S.,  The  Critics  of  the  Col- 
lege         332 

Putnam,  Emily  James,  Pagan  Morals    .     .  355 

Repplier,  Agnes,  'Our  Lady  Poverty'    .     .     452 
Rihbany,   Abraham   Mitrie,    The   Hidden 
Treasure  of  Rishmey-Yeh 721 


Schauffler,  Robert  Haven,    Some  Enthusi 

asms  I  Have  Known 47 

Sherwood,  Margaret,  Our  Nearest,  and  Our 

Farthest,  Neighbors 191 

Smith,  J.  Russell,  The  Agriculture  of  the 

Garden  of  Eden 256 

Smith,  William  Austin,  Browning  and  the 

Special  Interests 809 

Speranza,  Gino  C.,  Wander 30 

Steele,  Wilbur  Daniel,  The  Wickedness  of 

Father  Veiera 59 

Stone,  Amy  Wentworth,  Possessing  Prudence  342 
Strunsky,  Simeon 

The  Game 248 

School 546 

Sturdevant,  Lucy  Huston,  Flag-Root  .  .  112 

Ticknor,   Caroline    (Editor),   Some   Early 
Letters  of  George  William  Curtis       .     .     363 

Trowbridge,  John,  An  Estimate  of  German 
Scientific  Culture    .     ...     .     .     .     .     816 

Tuell,  Annie  Kimball,  Our  Classical  Recol- 
lections       778 

Urban,  Wilbur  M.,  Arthur  Symons  and  Im- 
pressionism     384 

Usher,  Roland  G. 

The  Reasons  behind  the  War  ....    444 
Germany's  Ability  to  Finance  the  War  .    738 

Vorse,  Mary  Beaton,  The  Devastation  of 
Dennisport 646 

Wager,  Charles  H.  A.,  A.  Plea  for  Erasmians  83 
Warren,  Howard  Crosby,  Academic  Freedom  689 
Wilson,  U.  V.,  At  Seventy-Three  and  Be- 
yond       123 

Wyait,  Edith,  November  in  the  City     .     .  644 


Yerkes,  Ada  Watterson,  Mind  in  Plants 


634 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 

Academic  Courtesies 141       In  the  Chair 715 

'All  Manner  of  Meats' 853 

'Alps  on  Alps  Arise' 857      Le  Nouveau  Pauvre        573 

Asylums  for  the  Hopelessly  Sane      .     .     .    426 

Old  House  on  the  Bend,  The        ....     575 

Fault  Found  with  Forty 287 

Fearsome  Garter-Snake,  The        ....     283      River,  The 855 

Flat  Prose 430 

Some  Letters  I  Have  Known        ....    422 

Hindsight 571 

'Howlers' 138      Vicarious  Career,  The 285 


In  a  Train  with  Lamb 428      Waggling 718 

Wizard  Word,  The 142 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


JULY,  1914 


A  MESSAGE  TO  THE  MIDDLE  CLASS 


BY   SEYMOUR    DEMING 


THE  housemaid  of  a  college  presi- 
dent had  been  offered  a  situation  in  the 
family  of  a  New  York  millionaire.  As 
the  wage  promised  her  would  have  de- 
nuded the  academic  cupboard,  she  was 
asked  —  a  shade  respectfully  —  by  the 
president,  whether  she  intended  to  ac- 
cept. 'No,'  replied  the  girl  primly,  *I 
think  I  prefer  to  remain  in  a  middle- 
class  family.' 

Let  the  reader  hesitate,  therefore, 
before  deciding  hastily  that  he  is  too 
wise  or  too  foolish,  too  rich  or  too  poor, 
to  be  within  bowshot  of  the  house- 
maid's innocently  poisoned  arrow.  For 
to  be  described  as  belonging  to  the 
American  middle  class  to-day  is  some- 
thing between  a  compliment  and  an 
insult.  To  disentangle  the  one  from 
the  other,  let  me  invite  you  first  to  give 
ear  to  a  parable  which  has  the  added 
virtue  of  having  been  snapshotted  as  it 
was  happening. 

THE    PARABLE1 

Twelfth  week  of  the  strike  in  Elm- 
port.  It  began  in  April.  Until  June, 
the  strikers  had  managed  to  avoid  that 
response  to  the  incitements  of  a  mill- 

The  facts  of  the  strike  upon  which  this 
'  parable '  is  based  are  complicated.  Many  of 
them  are  in  dispute.  The  author  of  this  article 
simply  describes  the  events  as  he  saw  them.  Con- 

VOL.  114  -  NO.  1 


subservient  constabulary  which  a  na- 
tion, suckled  in  the  creed  that  the 
natural  rights  of  man  are  the  common- 
law  rights  of  eighteenth-century  Eng- 
lishmen, reproachfully  terms  'disor- 
der.' Then  befell  the  riot.  A  woman 
was  killed  outright  by  a  revolver-shot 
fired,  some  say,  by  the  police,  some 
say  by  the  strikers.  Ten  people,  most- 
ly mill-operatives,  were  carried  to  the 
hospital  with  cracked  sconces  or  bul- 
let wounds.  Nineteen  strikers  were 
thrown  into  jail  on  charges  of  riot  or 
murder.  Parades  were  forbidden.  The 
Poles  were  denied  the  use  of  their  own 
society  hall  for  strike  meetings;  and 
the  town  invoked  an  ordinance  aimed 
at  freedom  of  speech  and  public  as- 
semblage. A  sympathetic  clergyman 
offered  his  churchyard  as  a  meeting- 
place.  The  town  government  retaliated 
with  another  ordinance,  to  prohibit 
any  meeting  on  property  abutting  on 
a  public  highway,  —  this,  somewhat  on 
the  principle  of  the  French  Assembly 
which  decreed  that  no  deputy  should 
be  a  crown  minister.  *  Say,  rather,  gen- 
tlemen,' replied  that  statesman  sarcas- 
tically, 'no  deputy  named  Mirabeau!' 
From  the  flat-topped  tombstone  of 

troversy  concerning  his  appeal  to  the  Middle 
Class  is  perhaps  more  profitable  than  dispute 
concerning  the  experiences  which  led  him  to 
make  it.  —  THE  EDITORS. 


A  MESSAGE  TO  THE  MIDDLE  CLASS 


a  soldier  of  the  American  Revolution, 
a  strike-leader,  haranguing  his  fellows, 
was  dragged  to  arrest.  The  town  later 
voted  twelve  thousand  dollars  for  spe- 
cial police.  These  reserves,  by  an  amaz- 
ing blunder  in  tact,  were  recruited  in 
part  from  the  police  of  Lawrence,  — 
the  worst-hated  by  mill-workers  of  any 
constabulary  in  New  England. 

The  theatre  of  this  bitter  warfare 
with  its  threatenings  and  slaughter  is  a 
sweet,  gracious  port-town,  once  a  fish- 
ing village,  quaintly  nestled  among 
great,  dome-like  glacial  hills  and  ma- 
jestic sweeps  of  salt  marsh  washed  by 
a  sounding  surf  among  sand-dunes. 

There  are  three  towns  in  Elmport. 
One  is  a  winding  of  elm-arched  streets 
among  the  ample,  gambrel-roofed 
homesteads  of  two  centuries  ago.  Wide 
chimneys  and  peaked  dormers  shoul- 
der among  the  boughs  of  sleek  maples, 
shapely  elms,  and  ancient  oaks.  Bur- 
nished colonial  brasses  gleam  in  the 
sunshine  on  front  doors.  Gardens, 
behind  white  fences  and  hedges  of  box, 
are  gay  with  old-fashioned  flowers.  In 
the  cool,  dim  parlors  of  these  stately 
houses,  amid  ancestral  mahoganies, 
dwell  the  children  of  the  old  settlers 
who  keep  the  stores  of  the  town  (which 
are  maintained  by  the  wages  of  the 
operatives),  or  go  to  their  daily  tasks 
in  the  city,  or  live  on  the  incomes  of 
their  investments  (including  stock  in 
these  strike-fettered  mills). 

Across  a  stone  bridge  of  pre-revolu- 
tionary  date,  under  the  gaunt  walls  of 
the  mill  buildings,  lies  the  second  Elm- 
port,  —  the  new.  Its  streets  shimmer 
in  the  blistering  glare  of  sun  on  shade- 
less  asphalt  and  brick  walls;  its  door- 
yards  are  grassless;  its  wooden  tene- 
ments stand  bleak  in  winter,  sweltering 
in  summer.  Here  are  no  crimson  ram- 
bler roses  to  sound  their  note  of  color 
against  greenery;  here  is  only  hard- 
eyed  poverty  intensified  by  the  grim 
battle  of  strike-time,  when  wages  have 


stopped  and  expenses  are  going  on. 
Against  the  old  Elmport  of  farmers 
and  sea-captains  is  set  the  new,  —  a  mill 
population  of  alien  birth.  These  two 
are  working  out  their  destinies. 

But  aloof,  on  the  eminences  com- 
manding views  of  the  open  downs  and 
the  illimitable  sea-horizon,  are  the  vil- 
las of  the  rich,  -  -  the  third  Elmport. 
So  the  three  great  classes  are  repre- 
sented here:  the  rich,  indifferent;  the 
middle  class,  bewildered;  the  poor,  in 
revolt. 

When  the  trouble  at  Lawrence,  the 
year  previous,  was  ended,  it  was  evi- 
dent that  something  must  be  done 
to  revindicate  before  the  country  the 
repute  of  that  city.  Not  that  Lawrence 
was  worse  governed  than  many  an- 
other American  city,  but  that  the 
strike,  applying  the  acid  test  to  the 
efficacy  of  our  institutions,  revealed 
their  defects  in  the  worst  possible 
light.  Was  there,  then,  a  conscientious 
effort  to  remedy  the  conditions  which 
had  produced  the  strike?  There  was 
not.  But  a  wealthy  citizen,  dying,  left 
five  thousand  dollars  to  build  a  me- 
morial flag-pole.  Instead  of  removing 
the  causes  which  created  the  protest 
of  the  foreign  laborers  in  the  mills, 
your  sole  idea  was  to  rebuke  the  pro- 
test. This  was  the  reply  of  the  middle 
class.  You  substituted  the  symbol  for 
the  thing. 

In  Elmport  it  was  the  same.  'As  a 
rebuke  to  the  methods  of  the  I. W.W. ' 
and  'to  vindicate  the  loyalty  of  the 
town  to  our  national  institutions/  Elm- 
port  resolved  —  to  arbitrate  the  strike? 
No.  The  attempt  at  this  was  a  failure 
because  the  mill  management  denied 
that  there  was  *  any  thing  to  arbitrate.' 
To  mitigate  the  discontent  by  scour- 
ing up  the  reeking  tenements?  No. 
A  militant  young  clergyman  had  pro- 
posed this,  to  be  promptly  checked  in 
his  generous  enthusiasm  by  the  reve- 
lation that  the  rents  from  these  tene- 


A  MESSAGE  TO  THE  MIDDLE  CLASS 


ments  were  sustaining  his  own  parish- 
ioners, certain  of  whom,  when  he  tried 
to  put  through  a  housing  ordinance  in 
spite  of  them,  fought  him  tooth  and  nail 
and  defeated  the  ordinance.  No.  To 
vindicate  its  reputation  and  prove  its 
loyalty,  Elmport  resolved  —  to  have  a 
Fourth-of-July  parade. 

This  was  the  answer  of  our  old  Amer- 
ican middle  class  —  the  people  who 
won  our  independence  and  freed  the 
chattel  slaves — to  the  wage-slave  re- 
bellion. They  would  bandage  a  poison- 
ed wound  with  the  national  colors. 

So  Elmport  was  gay  with  flags.  The 
July  sun  drenched  yellow  gold  on  the 
stately  elms,  the  smooth  lawns,  the 
venerable  houses.  Bands  crashed. 
The  parade  flowed  past.  Ten  burly 
policemen  in  single  rank;  tall-hatted 
town  dignitaries  on  horseback;  Grand 
Army  veterans  in  blue,  and  their 
wives  in  white;  Boy  Scouts  in  their 
pretty  uniform  of  brown  khaki;  busi- 
ness men  carrying  an  enormous  flag, 
bjanket-fashion  (a  hint  to  cartoonists), 
as  if  to  toss  the  I.  W.  W.  leaders  as  raw 
recruits  are  tossed  in  the  army;  a  boy 
and  two  men  impersonating  son,  sire, 
and  grandsire,  after  Willard's  painting 
of  the  'Spirit  of  '76'  that  hangs  under 
the  town-hall  tower  which,  a  few  miles 
down  the  coast,  sits,  like  a  horseman, 
bestriding  the  promontory  of  the  an- 
cient town  of  Marblehead;  and  brass 
bands  variously  discoursing  'My  Old 
Kentucky  Home,'  'Everybody's  Do- 
ing It,'  college  football  songs  and  other 
national  anthems,  at  march  time  - 
this  was  the  rebuke  administered  by 
the  middle  class  to  syndicalism. 

Syndicalism,  meanwhile,  was  sweat- 
ing in  the  little  back  room  of  a  Polish 
coffee-house,  busily  folding  circulars  to 
be  mailed  to  the  radical  press  of  the 
country. 

In  the  white-paneled  parlor  of  one  of 
those  colonial  houses  which  the  archi- 
tect Inigo  Jones  need  not  have  been 


ashamed  to  acknowledge,  among  the 
marble-topped  tables  and  Sheraton 
chairs  of  the  old  order,  a  Protestant 
minister  is  trying  to  formulate  an 
answer  to  the  question:  'What  shall 
Elmport  do  about  it?'  a  question  equi- 
valent to  '  What  shall  the  Anglo-Saxon 
American  middle  class  do  about  it?' 
And  this  is  his  answer:  — 

'If  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States  did  not  forbid  us  to  imprison 
men  for  their  political  beliefs,  we  ought 
to  clap  these  I.W.W.  leaders  into  jail 
and  keep  them  there.' 

'  But,'  interposes  the  questioner  mild- 
ly, with  a  motion  toward  the  parade 
which  is  passing  the  windows  of  the 
parsonage,  '  is  n't  your  celebration  to- 
day in  honor  of  a  struggle  to  put  an 
end  to  that  kind  of  procedure?' 

'Perhaps,'  says  the  minister, '  but  all 
the  same,  we  shall  have  to  come  back 
to  it.' 

What  he  could  not  see  was  that  in 
his  resentment  and  impatience  he  was 
repudiating  the  principles  for  which 
his  townsmen  were  theoretically  hon- 
oring the  '  patriot '  dead,  celebrated  on 
the  granite  monument  in  the  middle  of 
the  town-green  in  front  of  his  house. 
He  and  they  were  honoring  the  symbol 
and  ignoring  the  thing.  '  Mouth  honor, 
breath.'  Let  the  old  issue  appear  in  a 
new  guise,  and  that  new  guise  was,  to 
them,  a  disguise. 

A  fortnight  earlier,  the  town  of  Lex- 
ington, now  a  comfortable,  middle- 
class  suburb  where  there  are  no  very 
rich  and  no  very  poor,  was  celebrating 
its  two  hundredth  anniversary.  The 
press  of  the  following  day  duly  re- 
corded that  the  speakers  'excoriated' 
the  I.W.W.  Now,  while  it  is  possible 
to  look  on  the  I.W.W.  without  un- 
qualified approval,  it  is  also  possible 
to  understand  its  syndicalism  as  the 
symptom  of  a  disease.  Lexington  was 
denouncing  the  symptom  under  the 
impression  that  this  was  to  eradicate 


A  MESSAGE  TO  THE  MIDDLE  CLASS 


the  disease.  That  the  Spirit  of  '76, 
which  it  had  commemorated  with  a 
gallant  bronze  statue  by  Mr.  Kitson  on 
the  town  common,  is  in  our  midst 
again  in  the  form  of  a  labor  revolt  had 
not  even  remotely  occurred  to  these 
ancestor- worshipers.  They  were  Elm- 
porting. 

Certain  enterprising  students  of  his- 
tory (who  have  suspected  that  there 
are  some  aspects  which  fail  to  get 
themselves  written  in  books  which 
publishers  can  afford  to  print)  have 
made  the  enlightening  discovery  that 
the  abolitionists  in  the  '50's  were  say- 
ing things  about  the  flag  much  more 
revolting,  to  people  whose  loyalty 
was  more  implicit  than  discriminating, 
than  anything  yet  uttered  by  our  Et- 
tors  and  our  Hay  woods.  They,  too, 
were  hated,  feared,  and  *  excoriated/ 
They,  too,  were  upbraided  for  assailing 
our  'national  institutions'  (among 
which  was  the  institution  of  chattel 
slavery),  by  people  whose  intentions 
were  of  the  best,  whose  business  trans- 
actions were  at  least  commercially 
honest,  whose  private  lives  were  above 
reproach,  and  whose  only  error  was  the 
somewhat  serious  one  of  having  got 
their  patriotism  wrong-side-up-with- 
care.  A  ship  in  distress  sets  its  colors 
fluttering  in  the  rigging  in  the  reverse 
position.  Let  a  middle  class  reflect 
that  it  is  quite  humanly  possible  to 
steer  a  ship  of  state  into  distress  by  too 
persistently  honoring  the  flag  —  union 
down. 

At  Gettysburg,  on  the  same  day  that 
Elmport  was  parading,  the  great 
American  middle  class  held  an  anni- 
versary observance  which  was  full  of 
heartache.  Did  it  occur  to  any  of  them 
that,  had  the  nation  listened  to  the 
voice  of  its  conscience,  in  the  abolition- 
ists of  the  thirties  and  forties,  there 
might  have  been  a  way  to  avoid  the 
tempest  of  death  that  swept  that  field 
of  horror?  Did  it  occur  to  them  that 


for  the  want  of  that  ear  to  hear  they 
paid,  as  poor,  heartsick  Garrison  said 
they  would  pay,  in  their  blood,  in  their 
tears,  and  in  the  precious  lives  of  their 
loved  young  men?  Does  it  occur  to 
their  children,  the  American  middle 
class  of  to-day,  that  we  stand  once 
more  in  the  '50's,  with  the  voices  of 
the  slavery  abolitionists  crying  in  the 
wilderness? 


THE    MESSAGE 


Dear  friends,  let  me  beg  you  to  hear 
me  patiently.  Let  me  beg  you,  most 
of  all,  to  believe  that  I  am  not  saying 
what  I  shall  say  for  the  fun  of  the 
thing.  I  would  rather  some  one  else 
said  these  things  and  said  them  better 
than  I  can;  but  I  have  waited  for  that 
some  one  to  speak  until  I  can  wait  no 
longer,  for  the  time  is  growing  short. 
You  must  let  me  do  it  as  best  I  can,  and 
make  allowances  for  my  bluntness,  not 
for  my  sake  but  for  your  own;  for  there 
is  no  longer  time  to  beat  around  the 
bush.  And  remember  this :  everything 
I  shall  say  hurts  my  pride  as  much  as  it 
hurts  yours,  —  or  would,  if  I  had  not 
begun  to  see  that  in  an  hour  like  this, 
pride  is  a  sorry  guest.  I,  too,  supposed 
that  we  were  already  doing  all  that 
could  be  expected  of  us,  and  found  that 
we  had  shamefully  betrayed  our  trust. 
And  it  stabbed  me  as  shrewdly  as  it 
will  stab  you,  if  your  consciences  are 
what  I  think  they  are.  For  I  am  one 
of  you.  Your  children  have  been  my 
playmates,  and  your  young  men  have 
been  my  loyal  friends.  I  have  buried 
my  beloved  dead  with  you,  and  with 
you  I  ask  no  greater  honor  than  to  be 
thought  worthy  to  lie  down  to  sleep 
when  my  work  is  done.  I  speak  as  a 
friend  to  friends,  so  let  it  be  with  the 
frankness  which  is  the  privilege  of 
friendship. 


A  MESSAGE  TO  THE  MIDDLE  CLASS 


ii 

Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  realize 
the  jeopardy  of  your  position?  If  your 
diplomats,  under  the  flimsy  pretext  of 
national  honor,  are  beguiled  by  wily 
financiers  into  a  war  for  the  pawing 
of  investment  chestnuts  out  of  a  for- 
eign fire,  you  are  the  ones  who  must 
do  their  fighting, — and  pay  the  taxes 
afterwards.  If  there  is  a  panic,  you 
pay  the  bills.  Let  an  internal  revolu- 
tion come,  and  you  are  the  ones  who, 
unless  you  have  the  wit  to  see  that  your 
cause  is  one  with  the  revolutionists', 
will  be  called  out  to  'put  it  down.' 
You  are,  and  you  always  have  been 
—  all  honor  to  you  for  it  —  the  burden- 
bearers.  And  in  your  ignorance  you  are 
needlessly  making  them  heavier. 

Heavier  they  will  be,  too,  before  they 
are  lighter.  The  store  that  once  kept 
your  family  in  comfort  is  being  elbow- 
ed by  price-manipulation,  restricted 
credit,  and  favoritism  to  the  chains  of 
big  establishments.  Your  snug  prac- 
tice, legal  or  medical,  is  challenged 
by  the  hordes  of  fledgling  profession- 
als crowded  out  of  the  academic  nest 
each  June  by  the  popular  delusion 
that  a  laity  can  support  a  swarm  of 
practitioners  on  its  bodies  and  estates 
by  whom  it  is  well-nigh  outnumbered. 

The  frontier  has  vanished.  To  'go 
west'  to-day  is  to  exchange  a  battle- 
field where  you  can  fight  among 
friends  for  a  battlefield  exactly  like  it 
except  that  you  must  fight  among 
strangers.  The  schooling  which  once 
equipped  your  children  for  their  grap- 
ple with  life  now  delivers  them  over  to 
the  mercy  of  any  employer  whom  the 
fierce  necessities  of  competition  force 
to  coin  their  youth  and  their  ambition 
into  his  narrow  margins  of  profit.  Your 
reddest  blood  is  steadily  draining  into 
the  cities.  There,  if  it  escapes  defile- 
ment, it  is  thinned  by  artificial  stand- 
ards of  living  which  are  fast  reducing 


wives  and  children  to  the  position  of 
luxuries  for  the  few.  Your  city  children 
marry  late,  if  at  all ;  and  the  children 
they  think  they  can  afford  are  half  the 
number  they  would  normally  desire. 

Meanwhile,  the  manufacturers  are 
bracing  open  the  gates  to  Southern 
European  immigration,  partly  because 
it  is  cheaper  to  produce  wares  with 
low-priced  human  machines  than  with 
higher-priced  patented  machines,  — 
in  many  cases  invented  but  uninstalled 
until  an  alarmed  middle  class,  scenting 
the  danger,  shuts  off  the  supply,  — 
and  partly  in  terror  of  the  truth,  that 
once  this  influx  ceases,  the  now  fluid 
racial  and  class  alignments  will  solid- 
ify and  gripe  our  national  vitals  with 
a  class-struggle,  within  a  generation. 
Rather  than  face  the  gale  and  live  it 
out,  they  are  willing  to  run  before  it  at 
the  cost  of  shattering  the  vessel  on  a 
lee  shore. 

The  competitive  tide  of  this  lower 
standard  of  living  is  pitilessly  creeping 
up  your  own  shins.  You  feel  the  chill, 
mock  yourselves  witH  the  vain  assur- 
ance that  it  will  crawl  no  higher,  and 
protest  desperately  against  a  thing 
known  to  you  as  the  high  cost  of  living. 
And  you  lend  a  credulous  ear  to  any 
politician  with  contempt  enough  for 
your  intelligence  to  assure  you  that  it 
can  be  mended  by  tariff-revision,  cur- 
rency reform,  restriction  of  immigra- 
tion, control  of  trusts,  or  any  or  all  of 
these,  including  an  underdone  hash  of 
economic  compromises  styled  Progres- 
sivism. 

Now  it  happens  that  the  procession 
is  already  moving  at  a  rate  which 
leaves  none  too  much  time  for  a  middle 
class  to  put  itself  at  the  head  of  it. 
Those  who  were  complaining  six  years 
ago  that  it  was  moving  at  glacier  speed 
are  now  complaining  that  it  is  moving 
like  an  avalanche.  For  every  great 
revolution  is  preceded  by  a  period  of 
unrest  which  generates  its  own  momen- 


6 


A  MESSAGE  TO  THE  MIDDLE  CLASS 


turn.  The  symptoms  of  these  birth- 
throes  are  always  the  same:  challenge 
of  betrayed  stewardships  and  a  pitch- 
ing of  traditions  into  the  dust-bin. 
Cromwell  was  a  child  of  revolution, 
not  a  father.  The  skeptic  philosophers 
had  leveled  the  Bastille  years  before 
*  wine-merchant  Cholat  turned  im- 
promptu cannoneer';  an  academic  dis- 
cussion of  the  rights  of  man  primed 
those  muskets  at  Lexington;  yet  in 
this  hour  which  makes  the  most  su- 
preme demand  on  your  patriotism  since 
those  decades  of  anti-slavery  agitation 
which  kindled  the  fires  of  the  sixties, 
you  are  braying  yourselves  hoarse  over 
professional  baseball. 

It  is  cold  comfort  to  be  told  by  his- 
torians that  '  the  middle  class  defied 
the  Pope  in  the  fifteenth  century  and 
won  the  greatest  revolution  in  history; 
it  cut  off  the  head  of  Charles  I  in  1649 
and  of  Louis  XVI  in  1793;  it  won  the 
American  War  of  Independence;  fin- 
ally, only  a  generation  ago,  it  fought 
the  Civil  War';  for  this  may  mean 
merely  that  disputes  which  might  have 
been  settled  by  your  brains  had  to  be 
settled  by  your  blood;  that  an  alert 
social  conscience  might  have  avoided 
that  ghastly  river  of  slaughter  through 
which  we  have  always  been  wading  to 
justice  and  *  peace/  But  even  if  no 
watching  and  working  and  praying  in 
1850  could  have  averted  that  crushing 
sacrifice  of  strong  and  beautiful  young 
men,  is  it  so  certain  that  the  wage- 
slavery  of  1914  is  a  responsibility  less 
freighted  with  tragic  possibilities?  It 
is  fifty  years  since  Lord  Macaulay 
wrote:  — 

'Your  republic  will  be  as  fearfully 
plundered  and  laid  waste  by  barbari- 
ans in  the  twentieth  century  as  the 
Roman  Empire  was  in  the  fifth;  with 
this  difference,  that  the  Huns  and 
Vandals  who  ravaged  the  Roman  Em- 
pire came  from  without,  and  that  your 
Huns  and  Vandals  will  have  been 


engendered  within  your  own  country 
and  by  your  own  institutions.' 

Nor  should  this  be  construed  to  im- 
pugn the  character  and  good  intentions 
of  our  recent  immigrants.  For  what- 
soever vandalism  they  engender,  we 
shall  have  the  neglect  and  oppression 
of  them,  permitted  by  you  under  our 
own  government  in  our  own  mill  cities, 
to  thank.  It  is  twenty  years  since 
William  Clarke  concurred :  - 

'Had  you  predicted  to  a  Roman  sen- 
ator that  the  splendid  Graeco-Roman 
cities  would  be  given  to  the  flames  and 
that  the  Roman  senate  and  legions 
would  be  trampled  down  by  hordes  of 
ignorant  barbarians,  he  would  have 
smiled,  offered  you  another  cup  of 
Falernian  wine,  and  changed  the  sub- 
ject .  .  .  But  are  there  no  barbarians? 
.  .  .  They  are  in  our  midst.' 

Who  that  has  seen  the  streets  of  a 
city  in  strike-time  patrolled  like  an 
armed  camp,  can  rid  his  brain  of  that 
pestering  image  of  society  as  the  fool 
dancing  on  the  crust?  Also,  it  is  one  of 
history's  axioms  that  the  social  order 
which  conceives  change  as  least  likely 
is  the  most  liable  to  change. 

The  poor  know  what  they  want. 
The  rich  know  what  they  do  not  want. 
You  —  hardly  know  that  a  dispute  is 
going  on.  For  while  the  poor,  in  the 
stress  of  a  desperate  strike,  can  rise  to 
an  incredible  pitch  of  heroism  for  what 
they  regard  as  a  principle,  and  while 
the  rich,  stung  by  conscience,  will  do 
what  they  can  under  the  circumstances 
of  their  false  position,  you  have  never 
even  dreamed  of  the  abysmal  unim- 
portance of  practically  everything  that 
is  thought  about  and  talked  about  in 
the  middle-class  society  to  which  you 
belong. 

I  know:  it  is  not  so  long  since  you 
pulled  your  own  feet  out  of  that  dead- 
ly mire  of  poverty.  There  it  lurks, 
still,  too  close  for  comfort.  The  day's 
routine  fags  you,  soul  and  body.  You 


A  MESSAGE  TO  THE  MIDDLE  CLASS 


come  home,  as  I  do  or  as  anybody  does, 
with  a  furrow  between  your  eyebrows, 
asking  nothing  but  to  be  allowed  to 
forget  for  a  few  hours.  But,  —  by  the 
Eternal,  brother!  —  I  say  to  you  that 
the  way  to  escape  your  troubles  is  not 
to  forget  but  to  consider  the  troubles 
of  the  other  fellow. 

You  who  live  in  the  small  towns  and 
in  the  country,  -  -  yes,  even  you  of  the 
city  suburbs,  reply:  'How  can  we  be 
expected  to  understand  these  things? 
We  cannot  understand  what  we  do  not 
see.' 

From  the  windows  of  a  train  rolling 
through  the  steel-mill  district  of  a 
Great  Lakes  port,  you  look  on  gaunt 
chimneys  belching  flame,  a  smoke- 
stained  heaven  and  befouled  tenements 
where  the  workers  snatch  their  brief 
rest  before  hurrying  back  to  the  inferno 
which  burns  their  lives  away.  The 
man  in  the  seat  ahead  pulled  down  his 
window-shade.  On  an  impulse,  he  was 
asked,  'Why  did  you  pull  down  your 
shade?'  'To  shut  out  that  dreadful 
sight,'  said  he,  quite  simply,  'it  is  too 
horrible  to  think  of.'  'Too  horrible  for 
you  to  think  of;  yet  not  too  horrible  for 
some  one  else  to  live  in?'  'But  what 
can  a  man  like  me  do?' 

You  can  stop  pulling  down  the  shade. 


in 

But  do  not  suppose  that  in  your 
present  uninstructed  state  you  are  any 
more  fit  to  grapple  with  these  duties 
than  a  flat-chested  stripling  is  fit  for 
a  college  football  game.  Mere  good  in- 
tentions will  not  suffice.  The  brabbles 
of  these  last  six  years  have  at  least 
proved  that  society  is  in  a  predicament 
where  the  private  conscience  of  the  in- 
dividual, which  served  well  enough  for 
half  a  generation  ago,  cannot  under- 
take duties  which  must  be  discharged 
by  a  public  conscience  of  the  commun- 
ity which  is  yet  to  be  created.  In 


Elmport,  where  there  was  religious 
conscience  enough  to  float  off  a  revival 
in  sinners'  tears,  there  was  not  enough 
social  conscience  to  wet  an  eyelash. 
This  elder  conscience  imagines  that  to 
avert  revolution  the  one  thing  needful 
is  to  sit  on  the  safety-valve.  To  ease 
an  acute  crisis  it  will  cheerfully  abro- 
gate every  civil  right  for  which  Anglo- 
Saxons  have  struggled  since  Magna 
Charta  was  wrested  from  slippery 
King  John,  all  on  the  serene  supposi- 
tion that  it  is  'master  of  the  situation.' 
Ministers,  in  moments  of  candor,  have 
confessed  their  distress  at  having  to  re- 
cognize that  parishioners  who  conform 
to  every  traditional  test  of  righteous- 
ness, 'people  you  can't  help  loving,' 
nevertheless  stand  in  some  public  rela- 
tion to  the  community  in  which  they 
are  not  only  obstructionists  but  active- 
ly mischievous.  No  amount  of  willing- 
ness to  do  the  right  thing  will  get  the 
right  thing  done,  so  long  as  the  huge 
mass  of  these  well-intentioned  people 
is  conscientiously  bent  on  the  wrong 
thing.  You  must  first  chew  up  the 
facts  very  fine — a  tough  mouthful;  and 
you  must  next  digest  them  well;  it  will 
need  a  strong  stomach. 

You  protest  that  the  gentlemen, 
who,  to  preserve  incomes  of  five  figures, 
persist  in  steering  us  into  these  deadly 
perils,  are  good  husbands  and  kind 
fathers.  I  am  forced  to  remind  you 
that  the  political  refugees  in  the  Ply- 
mouth Colony,  to  whom  you  owe  what- 
soever free  institutions  have  been 
spared  to  you  by  nineteenth-century 
industrialism,  warmly  applauded  their 
English  brethren  for  beheading  a  mon- 
arch on  whose  behalf  a  large  slice  of 
horrified  middle  class  —  your  own  pro- 
totypes —  urged  that  identical  plea. 
If  a  Stuart  king's  was  an  acute  case 
requiring  a  desperate  remedy,  what 
assurance  have  we  that  a  powerful 
monarch,  who  had  achieved  the  wed- 
lock of  the  domestic  virtues  and  the 


8 


A  MESSAGE  TO  THE  MIDDLE  CLASS 


public  vices,  was  any  more  menacing  to 
the  common  weal  in  the  seventeenth 
century  than  a  powerful  owning  (and 
therefore  governing)  class,  which  has 
achieved  the  union  of  personal  irre- 
proachability  and  industrial  tyranny, 
is  in  the  twentieth?  So  shrewdly  has 
this  dual  standard  been  thrust  home  to 
us  that  we  are  daily  outfaced  by  the 
spectacle  of  men  whose  'fine  personal 
characters'  we  would  all  but  gladly 
barter  for  a  man  who,  though  he  might 
be  a  knave  in  his  private  life,  would 
yet  shape  his  public  life  to  some  sense 
of  social  decency  —  and  those  who 
ask  why  corrupt  politicians  are  con- 
tinually elected  and  make,  on  the 
whole,  fairly  acceptable  administra- 
tors, are  directed  to  re-peruse  the  first 
half  of  this  sentence. 

To  particularize:  a  venerable  physi- 
cian, chairman  of  the  board  of  health, 
had  been,  in  the  days  when  registra- 
tion of  contagious  disease  was  a  new 
idea,  a  valuable  officer.  In  an  age  of 
preventive  medicine  he  is  an  anachron- 
ism. But  his  salary  is  his  sole  income. 
As  a  good  husband  and  kind  father,  his 
duty  to  his  family  forbids  him  to  re- 
sign. His  tenure  of  office  postpones 
sanitary  and  housing  reforms  for  the 
want  of  which  scores  of  babies  are,  as 
a  matter  of  record,  annually  dying. 
This  innocent  slaughterer  of  innocents 
would  be  outraged  at  a  charge  of  mur- 
der. Yet,  as  between  this  good  hus- 
band and  kind  father  of  unimpeachably 
'fine  personal  character/  and  an  officer 
of  possibly  loose  morals  who  would 
scientifically  attack  infant  mortality, 
could  any  sane  public  policy  pause  a 
minute  to  choose? 

I  do  not  say  that  the  domestic  vir- 
tues on  which  a  middle  class  in  every 
age  has  justly  prided  itself  are  the  less 
important  (though  I  can  see  on  every 
hand  situations  in  which  they  are 
wholly  irrelevant,  not  to  say  inade- 
quate) ;  what  I  do  say  is  that  they  are 


not  enough.  And  my  protest  rebounds 
from  a  besotted  self-esteem  (not  in- 
compatible with  countenancing  wages 
insufficient  for  decent  living  while 
practicing  the  domestic  virtue  of  mono- 
gamy itself)  which  keeps  shrieking  that 
they  are  enough.  Which  has  led  an 
eminent  sociologist  to  declare  that  we 
are  in  a  situation  where  'the  judg- 
ment of  the  conventionally  "good" 
citizen  may  be  unwittingly  as  evil  as 
that  of  the  worst  criminal.'  What  is 
more,  the  head-in-sand  policy  now  in 
force  is  the  very  worst  preparation  for, 
as  well  as  the  surest  guarantee  of,  a  day 
of  wrath  to  come.  Your  militia  would 
not  save  you,  not  even  if  they  mowed 
down  strikers  with  Gatling  guns,  as 
they  have  done.  Nor  need  you  look  to 
be  rescued  by  your  rich  relations.  And 
since  you  are  the  ones  who  must  settle 
this  muddle,  if  you  are  to  save  your 
institutions  and  your  ideals,  to  say 
nothing  of  yourselves,  why  not  be 
about  it?  Grow  a  new  species  of  so- 
cial responsibility  on  the  healthy  old 
stalk  of  your  personal  characters.  For 
if  we  cannot  shoulder  new  duties,  life 
has  a  way  of  jostling  us  aside  to  make 
room  for  those  who  can. 

But  if  your  ignorance  is  more  peril- 
ous to  society  than  the  righteous  dis- 
content of  an  idealistic  working  class, 
you  have  at  least  the  excuse  that  the 
machinery  which,  if  it  is  to  go  on,  must 
keep  you  in  the  dark,  has  well-nigh 
perfected  a  process  whereby  you  are 
automatically  misinformed,  or  not  in- 
formed at  all.  I  use  these  impersonal 
terms  to  describe  it  because  it  is  not, 
as  syndicalists  and  other  radicals  be- 
lieve, the  conscious  invention  of  knaves. 
That  were  too  sweet  a  flattery.  It 
grew,  It  was  the  line  of  least  resist- 
ance. It  was  nourished  by  a  cowards' 
truce  which  offered  every  reward  for 
compromise  and  every  penalty  for  tell- 
ing the  truth.  Thus  it  is  that  you  are 
the  victims  of  a  vast  social  conspiracy 


A  MESSAGE  TO  THE  MIDDLE  CLASS 


of  silence,  quite  as  universal  and  far 
more  effective  than  the  conspiracy  of 
silence  which  you  delude  yourselves 
into  believing  has  concealed  the  facts  of 
sex  from  your  children.  This  conspir- 
acy is  involuntary.  The  minister  who 
declares  that  he  has  always  felt  free  to 
utter  anything  from  his  pulpit  which 
he  felt  impelled  to  say  has  simply 
never  been  impelled  to  say  anything 
which  he  did  not  feel  free  to  utter. 


IV 

You  would  not  expect  the  ticket- 
seller  at  a  baseball  field  to  volunteer 
the  private  information  to  the  crowd 
at  his  window  that  a  thunderstorm 
was  coming,  even  if  he  knew  and  had 
it  on  the  authority  of  the  weather  bu- 
reau. In  the  first  place,  as  the  manager 
would  point  out  as  he  kicked  him  off 
the  field,  the  weather  bureau  might 
be  wrong  —  as  well  it  might.  Besides, 
both  ticket-seller  and  manager  might, 
in  the  face  of  overwhelming  evidence 
to  the  contrary,  be  able  to  persuade 
themselves  that  the  storm  would  blow 
over.  Do  not  suppose,  therefore,  that 
it  will  be  easy  to  obtain  the  kind  of 
information  you  need  from  the  three 
great  organs  of  public  instruction  — 
the  colleges,  the  churches,  and  the 
newspapers.  They  are  only  vaguely 
aware  that  anything  is  afoot,  and 
what  they  do  know  they  call  by  false 
names,  in  the  desperate  superstition 
that  the  sun  of  that  red  dawn  can  be 
cheated  out  of  rising  by  a  common 
agreement  to  call  it  the  moon.  Do  not 
be  deceived  by  their  vehement  denials 
into  believing  that  these  charges  are 
untrue  in  the  main  because  they  can, 
here  and  there,  by  the  case-system  of 
'I-know-of-an-instance*  disprove  them 
in  a  few  particulars.  They  are  the 
ticket-sellers,  and  their  every  mental 
process  is  so  colored  by  subserviency  to 
a  class  view  of  affairs  that  they  are 


honestly  not  aware  of  any  constraint 
on  their  tongues, — which  is  quite  the 
most  hopeless  part  of  it.  A  convenient 
formula  for  this  fact  is  that  people  are 
not  cussed:  they  are  only  blind. 

When  I  speak  of  the  churches,  I 
speak  not  of  the  clergymen  but  of  their 
congregations,  —  of  you,  to  be  explicit. 
In  a  time  when  prophets  and  righteous 
men  have  discovered  that,  rich  and 
poor,  scholar  and  deck-hand,  we  are  all 
lost  or  all  saved  together,  and  that  the 
surest  path  to  salvation  is  to  forget  that 
you  have  a  soul  in  making  the  lot  of 
your  fellow  man  such  that  he  can  seek 
salvation, — by  the  same  path,  —  your 
doctrine  is  still  insisting  that  the  all- 
important  is  to  save  your  own  souls. 
That  we  must  all  succeed  or  all  fail  to- 
gether; that  the  boulevard  is  never 
safe  until  the  slum  is  safe;  that  'an  in- 
jury to  one  is  an  injury  to  all,'  is  a  new 
kind  of  gospel  which  you  have  hither- 
to supposed  applied  only  to  the  party 
necessarily  in  the  wrong  of  industrial 
squabbles,  never  guessing  that  it  may 
be  a  perfectly  obvious  first  axiom  of 
our  social  order  in  which  we  are  all  so 
indissolubly  knit  together  that  a  wound 
in  any  part  bleeds  the  whole. 

The  ministers,  poor  fellows,  are 
bursting  with  this  message  —  if  you 
would  only  untie  the  gag.  To  their 
everlasting  honor  be  it  acknowledged 
that  they  are,  as  it  is,  blowing  up  in 
their  pulpits  and  resigning  at  the  rate 
of  about  one  a  week.  They  see  that 
the  church  has,  in  the  moral  life  of  the 
community,  only  a  veto  power.  It  can 
no  longer  enact,  or  enforce.  As  with  the 
doctor,  we  have  made  the  minister  a 
tradesman.  We  hire  the  doctor  to  save 
our  bodies  by  a  particular  method  of 
homoeopathy,  allopathy,  osteopathy. 
We  hire  the  minister  to  save  our  souls 
on  the  same  principle.  The  doctors 
have  discovered  that  the  way  to  eradi- 
cate disease  is  not  to  cure  but  to  pre- 
vent it.  The  ministers  have  begun  to 


10 


A  MESSAGE  TO  THE  MIDDLE  CLASS 


take  the  hint  from  medicine.  They 
have  begun  to  suspect  that  the  way  to 
eradicate  sin  and  suffering  is  not  to 
wash  souls  for  the  next  world  but  to 
provide  tubs  for  the  taking  of  a  daily 
bath  in  this.  Yet  when  our  tradesman 
minister  tries  to  substitute  sin-preven- 
tion for  the  sin-cure  which  was  gen- 
erally fashionable  at  the  end  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  we  quite  naturally 
complain  that  this  is  not  the  article  we 
bargained  for,  and  buy  our  wares  of 
another  tradesman  who  keeps  the  kind 
we  use.  The  formula  for  this  transac- 
tion is:  *  Stick  to  the  gospel  and  let 
business  alone/  The  pinch  is  that  the 
extra  bathtubs  for  souls  in  this  world 
would  have  to  be  paid  for  out  of  the 
dividend  checks  of  the  congregation. 
In  Elmport,  you  recall,  it  was  the 
church  people  who  defeated  the  hous- 
ing ordinance.  Besides,  a  congrega- 
tion, well  knowing  that  a  business  run 
on  strictly  Christian  principles  would, 
as  things  are,  last  about  fifteen  min- 
utes, so  resents  the  exposure  of  this 
connived-at  imposture  that  a  minister 
courageous  enough  to  proclaim  practi- 
cal Christianity  does  so  fully  realizing 
that  the  consequence  may  be  dismissal. 
The  one  thing  middle-class  Christians 
most  resent  is  Christianity. 

Nor  need  you  expect  to  be  told  of  the 
thunderstorm  by  your  colleges.  To 
expect  them  to  assume  a  moral  leader- 
ship which  would  instantly  pitch  them 
into  conflict  with  the  rich  testator 
whose  favor  they  are  obliged  to  woo  is 
to  expect  fire  to  be  wet.  For  them  to 
plan  on  building  them  more  stately 
mansions  —  dormitories,  chapels,  lec- 
ture halls  —  by  attacking  the  methods 
whereby  their  donors  accumulated  the 
funds  would  be  to  suppose  a  testatorial 
magnanimity  which  the  history  of  will- 
making  does  not  bear  out.  It  is  shrewd 
comment  that  the  radical  clubs  in  the 
colleges  were  started,  not  by  the  faculty, 
but  by  the  students;  which  is  to  say, 


not  by  the  employees  of  these  know- 
ledge factories,  but  by  their  customers, 
who  created  a  demand  for  goods  which 
had  not  been  on  sale.  Within  the  year, 
the  professors  of  political  economy 
have  taken  steps  to  protect  their  free- 
dom of  speech  —  the  first  academic 
trade-union.  Waste  no  reproaches  on 
the  presidents  and  faculties  for  hav- 
ing betrayed  a  stewardship.  No  more 
than  you  or  I  can  they  afford  to  quar- 
rel with  their  bread-and-butter. 

The  greatest  engine  of  all  is  the  sor- 
riest out  of  gear.  It  is  not  so  much  that 
the  newspapers  are  edited  from  their 
business  offices :  it  is  not  so  much  that 
they  are  directly  edited  by  their  adver- 
tisers. They  are  edited  out  of  the 
timidities  and  prejudices  of  you,  their 
middle-class  readers.  If  your  paper 
ventured  to  tell  you  the  obvious  truths, 
that  for  any  able-bodied  man  or  wo- 
man to  live  without  working  is  a  crime 
against  society  more  grave  than  most 
of  the  offences  which  your  judges  pun- 
ish with  outrageously  disproportionate 
sentences;  that  every  penny  of  wealth 
is  created  by  the  community  and 
rightly  belongs  to  it;  and  that  to  take 
interest  for  money  is  probably  wrong, 
you  would  stop  a  paper  which  printed 
such  seditious  blasphemies  and  buy 
one  which  told  you  what  you  wished  to 
hear.  A  newspaper-owner  is  an  ordi- 
nary man,  counseled  by  the  peculiarly 
public  nature  of  his  business  to  be  ex- 
traordinarily cautious.  It  is  easy  for 
him  to  keep  friendly  with  his  advertis- 
ers since  both  realize  in  a  tacit  cordial- 
ity that  their  bread  is  buttered  on  the 
same  side.  The  reporters  are  over- 
worked, underpaid,  and  too  blase  with 
the  eternal  excitements  of  their  trade 
to  consider  what  it  all  means,  even  if 
they  had  the  wit  to  guess.  The  prophet 
Isaiah  might  speak  to  them  with  the 
tongues  of  men  and  of  angels,  and 
the  morning  papers  would  record  that 
'the  prophet  Isaiah  also  spoke.' 


A  MESSAGE  TO  THE  MIDDLE  CLASS 


11 


Those  editors  who  do  guess  what  it 
all  means  are  so  embittered  by  the 
quantities  of  political  and  commercial 
scandal  which  they  know  ought  to  be 
printed  and  will  not  be,  that  disillu- 
sionment and  cynicism  have  put  them 
into  moral  bankruptcy,  —  I  speak  of 
those  who  have  the  intelligence  to 
realize  their  humiliating  position.  The 
others  are  not  even  aware  of  the  fun- 
damental fallacy,  —  that  whereas  we 
assume  the  newspaper — this  tremend- 
ous organ  of  public  thought  -  -  to  be 
a  public  institution  operated  in  the 
public  interest,  it  is  privately  owned 
and  operated  for  private  profit.  When 
the  interests  of  the  public  clash  with 
the  interests  of  the  owners,  as  they  do 
hundreds  of  times  a  day,  to  suppose  that 
the  proprietors  will  espouse  the  public 
cause  to  the  detriment  of  their  own  is 
to  suppose  that  they  will  behave  differ- 
ently from  all  the  other  tradesmen  into 
whose  class  we  have  thrust  them. 

The  only  two  parties  who  know 
that  the  newspapers  are  not  to  be 
trusted  are  the  radicals  who  maintain 
a  none-too-trustworthy  press  of  their 
own,  and  a  small  group  of  financiers 
who  pay  a  statistician  a  high  price  for 
a  weekly  news-service  on  the  under- 
standing that  they  alone  are  to  have 
the  advantage  of  acting  on  the  infor- 
mation it  contains.  Naturally,  both 
these  news-services,  the  radical  press 
and  the  confidential  letters,  contain 
the  same  material  —  what  is  left  out  of 
the  daily  papers.  You  have  yourselves 
to  thank.  Your  editors,  as  tradesmen, 
do  not  keep  goods  for  which  they  see 
no  demand.  They  see  no  demand  for 
news  of  the  rumblings  of  industrial 
revolution;  therefore  it  is  not  for  sale. 
Yet  it  is  not  quite  so  innocent  as  that. 
The  remark  of  the  journalist  in  Ibsen's 
Rosmersholm  pretty  well  formulates 
the  science  of  American  journalism:  'I 
shall  omit  nothing  that  the  public  need 
know.' 


It  is  not  that  the  press  is  a  liar.  The 
editor  does  not  print  it  because  you  read- 
ers do  not  want  it :  you  readers  do  not 
want  it  because  the  editor  does  not  print 
it.  The  colleges  do  not  teach  it  because 
educated  people  do  not  demand  it :  ed- 
ucated people  do  not  demand  it  because 
the  colleges  have  never  taught  them 
its  importance.  The  clergymen  do  not 
preach  it  because  their  polite  congrega- 
tions dislike  having  their  sensibilities 
harrowed  —  the  wheel  comes  full  cir- 
cle. And  so  the  vicious  spiral  winds 
snake-like,  poisoning  our  free  institu- 
tions with  this  vast  unofficial  censor- 
ship, infinitely  more  effective  than  any 
official  censorship  —  the  universal  and 
truth- killing  gospel  of  Hush ! 

From  all  of  which  this  much  is  cer- 
tain: you  are  not  getting  the  news. 

And  justice  requires  that  your  ex- 
cuse be  added :  you  are  not  getting  the 
news  because  you  are  not  sufficiently 
aroused  to  demand  it;  and  you  are  not 
sufficiently  aroused  to  demand  it  be- 
cause you  are  not  getting  the  news. 


Even  if  your  schools  and  colleges, 
however,  could  afford  to  be  honest 
tradesmen,  the  wares  they  are  selling 
are  rapidly  becoming  not  worth  your 
purchase.  They  belong  to  a  time  when 
education  was  for  the  few.  When  edu- 
cated men  were  scarce  they  could  sell 
their  disciplined  brains  in  a  virgin  mar- 
ket. Then  the  news  went  out  that 
higher  education  meant  good  pay,  and 
the  past  three  decades  have  so  glutted 
the  market  for  these  disciplined  brains 
that  we  are  now  confronted  with  the 
incongruity  of  the  trade-union-pro- 
tected plumber  in  greasy  overalls  com- 
manding better  pay  than  the  *  profes- 
sional '  in  a  white  collar  whose  training 
involved  an  outlay  of  five  thousand 
dollars.  The  spread  of  higher  educa- 
tion has  spoiled  the  market;  and  your 


A  MESSAGE  TO  THE  MIDDLE  CLASS 


mere  college  graduate,  untrained  to 
any  special  profession,  is  even  more  at 
the  mercy  of  the  employer,  and  lucky 
if  the  white  collar  which  is  his  badge  of 
respectability  is  not  also  the  badge  of 
his  life-servitude.  You  have  not  heard 
the  news,  which  is  that  the  money  is 
no  longer  in  the  white-collar  job;  it  is  in 
the  greasy-overalls  job.  So,  while  the 
skilled  artisan  has  a  commodity  always 
in  demand  and  for  which  his  union  will 
enable  him  to  exact  a  pretty  good  price, 
you  are  still  pathetically  forcing  your 
sons'  necks  into  this  yoke  of  respecta- 
bility. 

And  what  is  this  respectability  for 
which  you  have  always  been  such 
sticklers? 

A  hasty  review  of  his  personal  ac- 
quaintance will  satisfy  any  candid  per- 
son that  it  is  quite  possible  for  a  man  to 
lie,  cheat,  steal,  slander,  and  commit 
wholesale  industrial  murder,  provided 
he  does  so  respectably.  This  does  not 
mean  that  he  must  not  get  caught.  It 
means  merely  that  he  must  not  com- 
promise himself  legally.  Respectability 
is  the  act  of  keeping  friendly  with  the 
police.  It  might  be  forgiven  the  offense 
of  putting  crime  on  a  genteel  footing 
had  it  not  also  put  all  the  mighty  pas- 
sions of  generous  enthusiasm  under  the 
social  taboo  of  *  bad  taste.'  Mrs.  Pank- 
hurst,  of  whom  a  modern  poet  has 
written, 

And  Jesus  Christ  has  come  again  with  whips,  — 

you  respectables  consider  a  wicked 
notoriety-seeker  whose  financial  trans- 
actions, you  would  like  to  suspect, 
would  not  bear  scrutiny.  Tolstoi,  if 
you  knew  more  of  him  than  that  you 
have  been  told  that  he  wrote  indecent 
stories,  you  would  consider  a  crank 
who  made  himself  and  everybody 
around  him  uncomfortable  over  the 
wrongs  of  the  poor  when  he  had  enough 
himself.  In  short,  a  reformer  (which  is 
to  say,  a  Christian)  is,  with  you,  a  dan- 


gerous person  who  upsets  families,  — 
the  tranquillity  of  your  own  being  the 
supremest  social  millenium  your  im- 
agination can  envisage. 

But  is  that  domestic  security  of 
yours  so  certain?  I  speak  now  not  of 
possible  revolution,  but  of  probable 
extinction.  Brusquely  as  you  are  being 
elbowed  out  of  business,  you  are  being 
elbowed  more  brusquely  still  out  of 
your  very  existence.  The  most  deadly 
process  of  extermination  known  to  his- 
tory is  at  work  decimating  your  num- 
bers, —  the  voluntary  restriction  of 
birthrate  under  economic  pressure.  It 
is  no  mere  coincidence  that  the  only 
two  classes  which  maintain  their  nor- 
mal birthrate  are  those  too  ignorant 
to  know  the  means  and  the  economic 
advantages  of  reducing  the  fruitfulness 
of  marriage,  and  those  directly  under 
the  intimidation  of  the  Roman  priest- 
hood, which  combats  this  practice  with 
the  powerful  instrument  of  the  con- 
fessional. It  is  enough  merely  to  name 
this  grinning  spectre  which  makes  an 
unbidden  third  at  the  bridal  breakfast, 
which  stalks  through  silent  rooms 
where  troops  of  children  should  be 
romping  at  their  play,  which  stands  at 
the  bedside  even  in  the  holy  hour  of 
childbirth.  The  suffering  this  has  cost 
you  would  make  my  dwelling  on  it  a 
needless  cruelty  except  to  ask  whether 
you  can  now  see  whither  this  iniquitous 
social  and  economic  system  is  forcing 
you  —  this  system  whereby  the  many 
work  and  the  few  batten  on  the  profits. 
You  probably  know  that  your  Anglo- 
Saxon  blood  has  already  ceased  to  pre- 
dominate in  this  country.  It  is  not 
alone  that  the  oligarchy  of  money  is 
fast  reducing  you  industrially;  but  that 
this  property-worship  and  dividendol- 
atry  are  sucking  the  very  blood  from 
the  veins  of  the  nation,  penalizing  mar- 
riage, killing  your  children  unborn,  kill- 
ing your  very  race. 

Do  not  suppose  that  these  words 


A  MESSAGE  TO  THE  MIDDLE  CLASS 


13 


spring  from  hatred  of  the  rich.  And 
do  not  make  the  blunder  of  hating 
the  rich.  Lift  not  your  hands  to  them 
for  help,  nor  in  hatred,  for  they  as  im- 
potently  move  as  you  or  I.  Hate  the 
order  which  made  them  rich  to  their 
poverty,  and  help  them  to  make  an  end 
of  it. 

You  have  one  refuge:  to  cast  in  your 
lot  with  the  under-dog.  Unless  you 
accept  the  leadership,  it  will  pass  from 
you,  as  it  has  done  before,  to  another 
class  who  are  the  idealists.  Their  need 
has  made  them  so.  They  stretch  hands 
to  you  for  help. 

Make  no  mistake  about  this.  You 
will  have  to  think  hard  and  think  twice. 
All  your  traditions,  all  your  teaching, 
all  your  ambitions  have  bidden  you 
aspire  to  the  estate  just  above  you. 
The  only  refuge  from  capitalism  which 
the  capitalist  has  offered  you  is  to  be- 
come a  capitalist.  The  prize  which  has 
been  dangled  just  beyond  your  fist  is 
the  contemptible  existence  of  living 
without  working.  You  have  always 
been  taught  that  once  you  had  scram- 
bled through  the  doorway  to  the  em- 
ploying and  owning  class  you  would  be 
safe.  You  have  seen  that  doorway  con- 
tract. You  have  seen  it  grow  harder 
and  harder  for  your  sons  to  fight  their 
way  in;  you  have  seen  the  sons  of  those 
already  in  thrust  out.  You  have  seen 
the  struggle  turn  murderous. 

They  are  still  telling  you  that  your 
only  refuge  from  the  mire  of  poverty 
lies  in  getting  in.  Does  it  ever  occur  to 
you  that  your  only  hope  lies  in  exactly 
the  opposite  direction  —  in  keeping 
out,  in  persuading  others  to  keep  out, 
and  in  joining  forces  with  the  plun- 
dered and  the  outcast?  Does  it  ever 
occur  to  you  that  if  your  pity  drew  you 
to  take  sides  with  the  oppressed,  your 
unlooked-for  reward  would  be  a  sudden 
and  overwhelming  power  to  end  op- 
pression? Does  it  ever  occur  to  you 
that,  once  you  joined  forces  with  the 


poor  (who,  you  have  been  told,  cannot 
help  you),  together  you  would  be  sud- 
denly invincible  and  need  no  longer 
dread  each  other,  —  nor  the  rich,  nor 
poverty? 

VI 

Golden  pour  of  summer  sunshine 
over  Elmport:  churchbells  booming 
their  solemn  noonday  jubilation;  sun- 
light and  shadows  of  foliage  flickering 
on  the  white  walls  of  the  ancient  houses ; 
blue-coated  veterans  marching  with 
faces  stern  and  set;  *  Lawrence  Police* 
on  the  badges  of  the  constabulary; 
and,  over  the  empty,  silent  mill,  flow- 
ing gallantly  to  the  noon  breeze,  in 
bitter  mockery,  —  the  national  colors. 

I  had  journeyed  to  Elmport  to  see  an 
old  New  England  town  celebrate  its 
great  national  holiday  of  political  lib- 
erty during  a  struggle  for  industrial 
liberty.  I  had  seen  the  foreign  immi- 
grants eager,  interested,  and  respect- 
ful,—  if  a  bit  puzzled, — watching  the 
American  middle-class  protest  against 
syndicalism. 

That  protest  was  a  bit  absurd.  But 
there  was  in  it  a  deeper  pang,  an  ache 
of  pathos  which  struck  to  the  heart. 
It  was  so  well  meant.  It  was  so  utterly 
beside  the  point.  A  town  piteously 
bewildered.  It  knew  that  a  justice  of 
the  superior  court  and  a  saintly  bishop 
were  stockholders  in  the  Elmport  mill, 
and  that  therefore  the  strikers  must  be 
in  the  wrong.  The  townspeople  were 
saying  to  the  I.W.W.  (which  had  ac- 
cepted the  leadership  which  they  them- 
selves had  rejected) :  *  You  challenge  our 
institutions.  We  answer  your  chal- 
lenge by  pointing  to  our  flag, — the  flag 
for  which,  in  tears  and  agony,  we  gave 
our  young  sons  to  death  in  battle  half  a 
century  ago.  Our  eyes  are  full  of  angry 
tears,  and  our  hearts  are  full  of  bitter- 
ness at  your  insult.  For  the  future, 
affront  this  flag  at  your  peril!' 

Such  was  the  reply  at  Elmport.  Such 


14 


A  REPLY 


is  the  reply  of  that  old  New  England  of 
which  this  little  town  of  Elmport  is  but 
the  magnifying  lens.  Such  is  the  reply 
of  the  American  middle  class  from 
ocean  to  ocean.  It  does  not  understand. 
It  will  not  sympathize.  It  can  only 
intensely  resent. 

And  now  let  me  tell  you  the  answer 
of  radicalism  to  the  middle  class. 

It  is  the  basement  of  the  Belgian  hall 
in  Lawrence.  Overhead,  a  strike  meet- 
ing is  in  progress.  Except  for  its  occa- 
sional thunders,  down  here  all  is  order 
and  quiet.  At  a  long  table,  thirty  chil- 
dren are  eating  their  evening  meal. 
They  are  saying  nothing  because  most 
of  them  are  too  little  to  talk,  and  if  they 
could,  there  are  hardly  any  two  who 
cculd  understand  each  other's  tongues. 
Every  morsel  they  are  tucking  into 
their  tiny  mouths  is  the  gift  of  a  family 


in  some  other  New  England  mill  city 
which  has  gone  without  in  order  to  be 
able  to  send  it. 

A  strike-leader,  who  had  been  har- 
anguing the  meeting,  came  downstairs 
from  the  hall  above,  flushed  with  de- 
nunciation. Something  in  the  com- 
munal aspect  of  the  table,  some  strange 
hush  of  sacramental  quietude  as  these 
children  sat  in  the  deepening  dusk  eat- 
ing the  bread  of  sacrifice,  brought  a 
quick  gush  of  tears  to  his  eyelids.  He 
turned  away  murmuring,  'Is  this  as 
near  to  the  brotherhood  of  man  as  we 
can  come?' 

Dear  friends,  would  it  not  be  better 
to  stop  calling  this  radicalism?  Would 
it  not  be  better  to  call  it  the  good  news 
of  that  kind  elder  brother  of  us  all,  the 
carpenter  of  Nazareth? 


A  REPLY 


MY  FRIEND,  — 

Your  words  sink  deep.  They  voice  a 
human  passion  enduring  through  the 
generations,  never  absent  but  seldom 
articulate.  They  conjure  up  the  an- 
cient vision  of  comfort  shared  equally 
among  all  men,  —  an  infinite  inheri- 
tance, infinitely  divided,  a  world  where 
there  shall  be  no  more  elder  brothers 
sitting  in  the  sun.  You  who  write  them 
reason  from  your  longing  and  argue 
from  your  desire,  and  you  ask  an  an- 
swer not  from  the  head  but  from  the 
heart.  Argument  will  not  give  you 
peace,  nor  will  logic  curb  your  aspira- 
tion. You  touch  the  hidden  springs  of 
feeling  and  loose  emotions  too  dumbly 


held  in  check.  Your  letter,  read  and 
pondered,  should  make  us  better  men 
and  women,  not  from  fear  but  from 
understanding  and  from  love.  And  yet 
it  is  of  fear  that  you  bid  us  take  coun- 
sel. Revolution,  you  say,  presses  at 
our  heels;  we  cannot  save  ourselves. 
Then  let  us  turn,  as  you  have  turned, 
and  fling  ourselves  upon  the  mercy  of 
those  who  pursue. 

Who  are  these  pursuers,  these  close- 
locked  ranks  of  toilers  who,  you  would 
have  us  believe,  form  the  army  of 
human  brotherhood?  As  I  look  back 
and  watch  them,  I  see,  not  one  crusad- 
ing army  of  the  masses  advancing 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  step  for  step,  but 
host  after  host  of  classes  sundered  by 
gulfs  deep  as  those  which  divide  the 


A  REPLY 


15 


middle  class  from  the  plutocracy.  I  see 
the  trade-unions  in  their  rigid  ranks  and 
the  marauding  bands  of  syndicalists 
hating  them  with  a  bitter  hate.    I  see 
the  socialists  plotting  a  new  world-des- 
potism, the  anarchists  a  new  world- 
chaos,  and  behind  them  a  multitude 
greater  far  than  all  of  these,  a  mass 
of  stragglers,  the  inefficient,  the  unfort- 
unate, those  who  can  be  helped  and 
those  who  must  go  down,  each  bound 
to  his  neighbor  by  no  belief,  no  thought 
in  common  except  the  single  hope  of 
crawling  up  into  the  air  and  light;  no 
outer  union  among  them  except  the 
common  support  of  the  overwhelming 
burden  of  life.    Is  this  the  army  you 
ask  me  to  join?  Will  it  profit  these  men 
if  I  eat  their  bread?  Those  who  have 
will  not  welcome  me.  Those  who  have 
not  will  tear  from  me  what  little  I  still 
have.    No;  I  reject  your  eloquent  ap- 
peal. I  will  not  trust  my  fears.  Wheth- 
er safety  exists,  I  do  not  know.    One 
thing  I  know:  it  cannot  lie  behind. 

Watch  more  closely  still  and  see  the 
discord  among  those  who  follow.  See 
how  the  rank  and  file  of  socialists  mis- 
trust and  hate  and  use  the  'intellec- 
tuals' who  sit  at  ease  and  spin  their 
theoretic  webs.  Look  at  your  practical 
leaders,  your  Haywoods,  your  Ettors, 
your  Tannenbaums,  and  at  those  near- 
er friends  of  yours  who  affrighted  the 
good  citizens  of  Elmport.  It  is  not  new 
order  they  desire,  but  present  disorder ; 
not  evolution,  but  flux.  That  was  an 
instructive  congress  the  other  day  in 
New  York.  The  socialists  were  in  con- 
clave debating  the  'reorganization'  of 
society  with  completest  forms  of  par- 
liamentary procedure,  when  in  trooped 
two-score  sturdy  representatives  of 
Direct  Action.  In  a  trice  the  debate 
became  a  dispute,  the  dispute  a  strug- 
gle, the  struggle  a  riot.  Chairs  were 
splintered,  heads  broken,  before  the 
police  pacified  as  spirited  a  fracas  as 
capital  and  labor  can  boast  of  on  the 


most  apposite  occasion.  The  incident 
is  typical.  Discipline  and  order  are  not 
easily  born  among  men. 


ii 

Discipline  and  order!  Think  what 
they  mean.  This  human  race  which 
you  and  your  easy  thinkers  expect  to 
remould  in  a  generation  has  been  to 
school  for  a  thousand  thousand  years 
learning  their  rudiments.  Think  of  the 
seons  which  elapsed  from  the  time  man 
first  stood  upright  in  the  twilight  of  the 
woods  to  the  age  when  he  first  struck 
fire  and  came  dully  to  see  in  that  kin- 
dled blaze  the  fixed  centre  of  a  little 
world  made  by  the  woman  and  their 
children.  And  then  think  of  the  ages 
which  followed  as  the  tiny  groups  be- 
gan to  cling  to  one  another  for  protec- 
tion and  to  buy  order  at  the  cost  of 
restraint  and  self-denial.  And  so  to  the 
dawn  of  history,  on  and  on,  through 
the  centuries  when  order  is  called  by 
its  historic  name  —  civilization  —  and 
the  wise  learn  to  know  that,  in  spite  of 
all  the  sin  and  crimes  it  has  answer- 
ed for,  order  alone  can  give  them  the 
peace,  the  security,  the  happiness  they 
crave. 

You  sappers  and  miners  of  the  or- 
der we  have  built  cry  out  against 
marriage  and  the  hostages  it  gives  to 
fortune.  Without  those  hostages  life 
itself  is  of  little  worth;  yet  who  would 
wish  for  children  left  behind  to  chance 
it  in  a  rocking  world?  Yours  is  a 
gambler's  stake,  and,  like  the  gam- 
bler, you  would  spin  the  earth  round 
and  round  till  it  stops  at  your  own 
number.  We  toil  and  skimp  and  save, 
buying  with  our  own  lives  some  leisure 
for  our  children,  drawing  hope  from  the 
past,  living  for  the  future.  To  you, 
those  Elmporters  who  raised  the  flag  in 
sign  of  discipline,  of  order,  and  of  coun- 
try were  contemptible  fools.  Fools  they 
may  have  been,  but  not  contemptible. 


16 


A  REPLY 


Startled  from  the  sleep  of  security, 
frightened,  bursting  with  passionate 
thoughts  they  could  not  utter,  they 
turned  to  the  flag  which  to  them  meant 
all  the  glorious  words  they  longed  to 
say  and  all  the  splendid  deeds  they 
longed  to  do.  Poor,  incompetent  peo- 
ple, brought  face  to  face  with  a  fearful 
crisis,  holding  up  their  starry  symbol 
like  priests  holding  a  cross  to  shield 
them  from  a  conflagration.  Preposter- 
ous it  was  and  futile  and  touching  as 
human  nature  is  apt  to  be,  but  it  had 
in  it  something  at  least  of  that  sym- 
bolic consecration  in  which  men  kneel 
before  the  wafer  and  the  wine. 

Of  the  predicament  of  the  middle 
class  you  speak  full  truth.  We  are 
brayed  as  in  a  mortar.  Wages  are  sub- 
merging salaries.  The  clergyman  must 
employ  a  plumber  at  twice  his  own 
salary.  The  clerk  is  helpless  in  the 
clutches  of  the  carpenter.  Our  present 
is  dark  and  our  future  dim  enough,  but 
we  must  remember  that  hitherto  we 
have  struggled  unorganized  against  an 
organized  world.  The  huge  lever  of 
collective  bargaining  has  never  even 
been  set  up  for  middle-class  use,  and  it 
is  quite  possible  that  once  in  working 
order,  this  machine  may  be  used  as  a 
powerful  auxiliary  in  battling  against 
extortion  from  below  as  well  as  against 
exaction  from  above.  But  —  and  this 
is  a  lesson  neither  you  nor  yours 
have  ever  learned  — social  machinery, 
though  it  may  make  the  world  a  fairer 
place  to  live  in,  will  never  create  new 
wealth.  The  prime  reason  that  the  cost 
of  living  mounts  so  inexorably  is  writ- 
ten in  our  statute  books.  Every  law 
to  help  the  poor,  most  laws  to  curb 
the  rich,  cost  money.  Better  housing 
conditions,  grade-crossings,  municipal 
improvements,  cost  money.  Sounder 
health,  easier  communication,  happier 
environment,  bring  dividends  in  the 
end,  but  improvement  spells  expense, 
and  I,  for  one,  thank  God  that  this  is 


so.  Things  are  precious  as  they  are 
costly.  When  we  make  gifts  we  must 
pay  for  them  and  feel  the  pinching  of 
our  wallets.  Straitened  as  it  is,  the  mid- 
dle class,  by  virtue  of  that  very  book- 
education  which  you  deplore,  holds  the 
balance  of  power.  It  still  makes  pub- 
lic opinion,  and  at  its  command  are  in- 
scribed upon  the  statute  books  laws 
which  make  the  world  a  more  equitable 
but  a  more  expensive  place.  Let  us 
recognize  the  full  extent  of  this  truth. 
These  gifts  freely  given  are  costly  to 
the  givers.  Sacrifice  made  them  possi- 
ble, and  it  is  sacrifice  which  gives  them 
worth. 

History  is  already  recording  that 
this  is  the  age  of  uniformity.  There  is 
but  one  general  standard  of  a  life  well 
lived,  and  that  is  success.  The  stand- 
ard is  base  enough,  but  it  is  not  so  base 
as  the  interpretation  which,  in  this 
country  at  least,  gives  its  significance  a 
money  value.  We  capitalize  talent  and 
ambition  much  as  we  capitalize  pig- 
iron.  No  real  aristocracy  exists  which 
recognizes  either  responsibility  or  at- 
tainment as  essential  to  its  character. 
The  riband  and  the  laurel  are  prizes 
for  boys  but  not  for  men.  The  rich  and 
the  well-to-do  have  set  out  for  a  single 
goal  and  the  poor  have  locked  step 
behind  them,  marching  all  of  us  to 
the  devil's  tattoo  of  the  dollars'  chink. 
Those  who  have  money  and  those  who 
have  more  seem  to  block  the  whole 
wide  road,  and  every  man  behind  in  the 
race  strains  forward  in  anger  and  in 
desperation  to  clutch  the  single  prize. 

Give  us  neither  poverty  nor  riches. 
Few  there  are  who  have  uttered  that 
wise  petition,  but  those  to  whom  it 
has  been  granted  belong  to  the  middle 
class.  They  it  is  whose  lives  have 
chiefly  branched  into  many-sided  use- 
fulness and  who  have  enriched  the 
common  store  of  beauty,  of  wisdom, 
and  of  knowledge.  They  it  is  who,  like 
successful  adventurers  in  the  animal 


A  REPLY 


17 


kingdom,  differentiate  the  species  and 
lead  the  march  of  life  up  the  long  spiral 
of  evolution.  And  this  variety,  which 
is  indeed  the  life-principle  of  progress, 
you  ask  us  to  relinquish.  Your  leaders 
hate  it.  Your  masses  fear  it.  They 
would  destroy  it  root  and  branch,  and 
at  the  price  of  its  destruction  you  offer 
us  safety. 

in 

You  who  ask  us  to  give  up  our  birth- 
right, what  do  you  know  of  our  history  ? 
It  was  we,  the  middle  class,  who  made 
Rome,  pumping  our  redder  blood  into 
the  slackened  arteries  of  the  aristo- 
cracy and  refilling  our  emptying  veins 
from  the  best  that  ran  below.  It  was 
we  who  brought  light  to  the  Dark 
Ages;  we  who  curbed  first  the  nobles 
and  then  the  kings  of  Europe.  Spain 
despised  us  and  lost  the  primacy  of 
nations.  Russia  shut  us  out,  and  her 
penalty  has  been  two  hundred  years  of 
bitterness  and  blood.  You  cannot  take 
our  heroes  from  us.  Cromwell,  you 
say,  was  the  child  of  Revolution,  and 
academic  discussion  primed  the  mus- 
kets at  Lexington.  Yes;  but  it  is  Oli- 
ver's glory  that  he  turned  rebellion 
into  the  law  of  democracy,  and  the  Lex- 
ington minute-men  rammed  into  their 
middle-class  muskets  the  theories  that 
middle-class  genius  gave  them.  We 
too,  it  is,  who  have  brought  education 
and  industry  into  the  modern  world; 
and,  please  God,  we  shall  bring  peace. 

And  what  have  they  brought,  these 
friends  of  yours  to  whom  you  bid  us 
turn?  Theirs  are  the  gifts  which  the 
hordes  of  Alaric  brought  to  Rome,  the 
Anabaptists  to  Germany,  the  Jacobins 
to  France.  Whatever  their  idealism, 
whatever  their  aspirations,  they  have 
never  won  a  victory  unmarked  by  stu- 
pidity and  cruelty.  The  men  whom 
they  have  chosen  as  leaders  have  ever 
guided  them  deeper  into  the  morass. 
Cleon  and  Jack  Cade  and  Marat  have 

VOL.  114- NO.  1 


led  them  as  Debs  and  Jim  Larkin  and 
Moyer  are  leading  them  now.  Once,  and 
once  only,  in  modern  times,  have  they 
been  triumphant:  the  hideous  excess, 
the  ruinous  reaction  of  the  French  Re- 
volution are  their  enduring  monument. 
I  have  said  that  theirs  have  been  the 
gifts  of  death,  but  they  have  brought 
us  one  gift  of  strength  and  life  —  their 
need.  Their  necessities  have  been  our 
salvation.  Their  suffering  has  saved 
us  from  ourselves.  Heaven  knows  we 
have  not  been  unselfish.  We  have  been 
hard  enough  and  grinding  enough  and 
buried  deep  enough  in  plans  for  money 
and  for  comfort,  but  the  sense  that  the 
poor  are  with  us  has  never  quite  gone 
from  our  minds.  We  have  trimmed  the 
lamp  of  charity  and  kept  it  burning. 
Little  by  little,  the  flame  has  grown 
brighter  and  clearer  until,  in  this  cen- 
tury we  have  passed,  we  have  begun 
to  see  how  it  may  light  the  world.  Here 
in  America  we  have  made  education  free 
to  all.  We  have  given  homes  to  thirty 
million  people.  In  countless  ways  we 
have  alleviated  suffering  and  extended 
opportunity.  There 's  a  century's  work 
for  you!  And  now  we  are  creating 
parks  and  playgrounds,  revolutionizing 
the  living  conditions  of  the  poor  in  cit- 
ies, banishing  disease,  organizing  from 
the  moneys  of  the  rich,  huge  unselfish 
companies  to  aid  in  the  emancipation 
of  the  poor,  and  gradually  introduc- 
ing into  business  life  the  honest  prin- 
ciple of  dividing  profits  with  the  work- 
ers. To  the  trite  platitude  that  the 
world  was  never  advancing  so  fast  in 
material  prosperity  as  it  does  to-day,  it 
may  truthfully  be  added  that  the  vast 
increment  in  life's  satisfactions  goes,  in 
the  main,  not  to  the  rich,  or  the  mid- 
dle class,  but  to  the  poor. 


IV 

You  who   labor  with  your  hands, 
these  things  are  yours  —  yours  in  in- 


18 


A  REPLY 


creasing  measure,  largely  through  our 
efforts.  Let  us  press  the  work  on 
through  another  century  and  we  will 
multiply  them  fourfold.  Stand  aside 
and  let  us  keep  our  shoulders  to  the 
wheel.  We  do  not  ask  your  gratitude. 
We  do  not  want  it.  But  the  justice 
which  is  ever  on  your  lips  and  on  your 
banners,  that  we  ask  in  our  turn.  You 
do  part  of  the  work;  you  claim  all  the 
profit.  You  wish  to  direct  our  business; 
you  decline  to  be  responsible  for  our 
losses.  You  hate  us  because  we  are 
wiser  and  more  prudent  than  you.  We 
recognize  merit  and  promote  it  from 
your  ranks.  The  more  successful  of  you 
slam  the  door  of  opportunity  in  the 
faces  of  those  who  follow.  In  spite  of 
our  own  greed,  we  still  think  of  others. 
You  think  only  of  yourselves.  We  are 
all  of  us  the  materialized  children  of 
a  century  of  industrialism,  but  in  you 
that  materialism  grows  most  rank. 
When  you  have  bread,  you  cry  for 
meat;  when  you  have  water,  you  cry 
for  wine.  Shorter  hours,  more  money, 
better  food,  less  work  —  these  are  ever 
your  demands;  never  more  learning, 
more  beauty,  more  service. 

It  is  hard,  I  know,  to  thirst  for  love- 
ly things  when  the  body's  needs  press 
relentlessly  upon  you  —  yet  the  saints 
have  bloomed  from  poverty  as  blos- 
soms from  the  dirt.  And  if,  as  perhaps 
you  believe,  high  desires  are  the  fruits 
of  leisure,  I  ask  you  to  look  at  those 
front  ranks  of  labor  which,  as  your 
spokesman  truly  says,  are  passing  us 
in  comfort.  Can  you  see  spirituality  in 
their  sleek  content?  Is  there  idealism 
there?  Is  there  aspiration  unmeasured 
by  the  yard-stick  and  the  dollar?  I  tell 
you  that  the  very  priest  in  his  pulpit, 
who  prays  for  things  eternal,  is  distrust- 
ed by  laboring  men  because  his  sermon 
is  not  for  their  physical  comfort,  nor 
his  prayer  for  their  advancement  in 
the  world. 


And  now  we  come  to  the  pith  and 
marrow  of  the  matter.  The  age  of  faith 
is  past.  The  manna  which  has  fed  the 
human  spirit  so  long  has  been  aban- 
doned for  grosser  food.   No  longer  do 
men  seek  re-creation  and  refreshment 
at    those    exhaustless    springs    whose 
waters  heal  with  the  gifts  of  patience, 
of  confidence,  and  of  love.    Have  you 
not  seen  how  the  socialists  regard  that 
starveling   band   of   'sentimentalists' 
who  call  themselves  Christian  Social- 
ists?  Verily,  the  Science  of  Marx  has 
lost  its  science,  but  has  not  found  its 
God.    Have  you  not  heard  Giovan- 
nitti  plead  for  the  '  law '  of  beasts,  as 
though  heart  and  mind  and  spirit  could 
batten  at  a  trough?     There  is  little 
enough  religion  in  the  world  to-day,  but 
among  the  forces  which  organize  social 
discontent  its  absence  is  most  utter. 
The  heavy-laden  turn  from  Him  who 
alone  has  peace  to  offer,  and  seek  to 
find  it  in  sharing  the  loot  of  the  world. 
By  bread  alone  we  cannot  live.    In 
the  dim  haze  of  the  future  this  truth 
stands  boldly  out.  Either  human  soci- 
ety will  fly  apart  in  a  myriad  atoms, 
each  impotently  seeking  its  own  safety 
and  going  singly  to  destruction  as  sparks 
go  out  in  the  dark;  or  else  the  cleavage 
between  class  and  class,  the  gaps  be- 
tween man  and  man,  will  dwindle  to 
insignificance  in  the  faith  that  life  is 
patterned  on  one  limitless  design  whose 
tiniest  figure  soars  beyond  our  know- 
ledge and  in  whose  ancient  web  our  lives 
are  stitches,  false  or  true,  marring  or 
making  the  universal  work.  Only  thus 
can  man  never   be  alien  from   man. 
Only   thus   can   we  enter   upon   that 
infinite  inheritance  of  joy  craved  by 
every  one  alike.   For  as  the  saint  saith, 
Never  will  you  enjoy  the  world  'till 
you  can  sing  and  rejoice  and  delight  in 
God  as  misers  do  in  gold  and  kings  in 
sceptres.' 

K.  <S. 


UNION   PORTRAITS 


I.     JOSEPH  HOOKER 


BY   GAMALIEL   BRADFORD 


To  say  that  the  outer  man  was  the 
best  part  of  Hooker  would  be  mani- 
festly unjust.  But  all  agree  that  the 
outer  man  was  magnificent.  He  was 
tall,  thoroughly  martial  in  bearing, 
with  blonde  hair,  finely  cut  features, 
an  expressive  mouth,  and  large  gray 
eyes  full  of  fire  and  sympathy.  The 
rich  glow  of  his  complexion  character- 
ized him  from  boyhood,  so  that  an 
enthusiastic  female  admirer  declared 
when  he  left  West  Point,  that  with  his 
ruddy  cheeks,  blue  coat,  and  white 
trousers,  he  was  a  perfect  epitome  of 
the  American  flag.  Villard  thought 
only  one  other  man  in  the  whole  army, 
Hancock,  approached  Hooker  in  the 
splendor  of  his  exterior.  But  General 
Walker  observes  shrewdly,  'He  was 
handsome  and  picturesque  in  the  ex- 
treme, but  with  a  fatally  weak  chin/ 
Turn  to  almost  any  of  the  portraits 
and  you  will  see  what  General  Walker 
means.  Bear  it  in  mind  in  our  further 
study. 

Hooker  was  a  Massachusetts  man, 
born  in  Hadley  in  1814.  His  father 
seems  to  have  had  no  great  force  of 
character,  but  his  mother  was  high-prin- 
cipled, energetic,  and  had  much  influ- 
ence over  her  children.  It  is  said  that 
she  intended  her  son  for  the  church. 
Failing  this,  she  doubtless  supplement- 
ed the  education  given  him  at  the  local 
academy,  and  sent  him  to  West  Point 


with  the  average  mental  equipment  of 
a  cadet  of  that  day. 

At  West  Point  he  did  not  stand  very 
high.  But  there  is  a  notable  legend 
that  he  would  have  stood  much  higher 
than  twenty-eighth  in  his  class,  if  his 
decided  combative  tendencies  had  not 
injured  him  with  the  faculty.  Whether 
this  be  true  or  not,  straight-out  fighting 
was  his  line  in  life.  Where  he  could 
fight,  he  succeeded.  Where  he  could 
not,  his  success  was  much  less  marked. 
And  he  sometimes  fought  those  who 
should  not  have  been  his  enemies. 

In  the  Mexican  War  he  won  distinc- 
tion and  deserved  it.  He  showed  per- 
sonal bravery  and  the  rarer  gift  of 
inspiring  bravery  in  others.  Thrice 
he  was  bre vetted,  a  distinction  which 
fell  to  few  others,  if  to  any.  He  served 
on  the  staff  of  General  Pillow,  and  his 
enthusiastic  biographer  asserts  that  he 
furnished  'all  the  brains  and  most  of 
the  energy  and  industry  to  be  found  at 
the  headquarters  of  that  division/  Per- 
haps this  is  slightly  exaggerated. 

Everybody  knows  that  Hooker  was 
called  *  Fighting  Joe.'  Not  everybody 
knows  that  the  name  was  not  given  by 
the  troops  but  in  pure  accident  by  a 
newspaper  compositor,  who,  having  to 
interpret  the  telegraphic  abbreviation 
*  fighting  —  Joe  Hooker,'  dropped  the 
dash  and  created  a  world-known  so- 
briquet. Hooker  did  not  like  the  name, 
or  said  he  did  not;  thought  that  it  made 
him  seem  like  a  highwayman  or  bandit. 

19 


JOSEPH  HOOKER 


And  perhaps  it  has  hurt  him  as  much  as 
it  has  helped  him. 

When  the  Civil  War  began,  Hooker 
was  entirely  suited.  He  did  not  receive 
a  commission  till  after  Bull  Run,  but  in 
the  Peninsula  battles  nobody  did  bet- 
ter fighting  than  he.  At  Williamsburg 
his  division  distinguished  itself  highly. 
'In  every  engagement/  says  General 
Rusling,  'he  always  seemed  to  know 
what  to  do  and  when  to  do  it.'  Mc- 
Clellan,  indeed,  depreciated  his  subordi- 
nate and  there  was  not  much  kindliness 
between  them.  But  in  this  instance  his- 
tory justifies  Hooker.  And  his  own  re- 
ported comment  on  his  commander's 
coldness  is  a  pleasant  example  of  the 
frank  humor  which  must  have  been  an 
element  of  his  social  charm.  'I  say, 
Mott,  it  seems  to  me  you  and  I,  and 
your  Jersey  Blues,  and  the  Excelsior 
Brigade,  were  not  at  Williamsburg  at 
all.  Hancock  did  the  business.' 

This  social  charm  was  felt  by  all  who 
came  closely  into  contact  with  the 
general,  and  for  this  and  other  things  he 
was  unquestionably  much  beloved  by 
his  troops.  He  talked  with  them  as 
man  to  man,  took  a  personal  interest  in 
their  doings,  did  not  let  great  affairs 
thrust  out  little  kindnesses.  General 
Rusling  once  went  to  his  division  com- 
mander to  get  leave  for  an  invalid,  and 
was  refused  even  attention.  Then  he 
made  his  way  to  Hooker,  at  that  time 
commander-in-chief.  'Let  me  have 
the  paper,'  Hooker  said.  'I'll  show 

General a  "  leave"  can  be  granted 

without  his  approval  in  a  case  like 
this.'  When  Berry  was  killed,  Hooker 
'with  tears  in  his  eyes  kissed  his  fore- 
head and  said,  "  My  God,  Berry,  why 
was  the  man  on  whom  I  relied  so  much 
to  be  taken  away  in  this  manner?" 
These  things  touch  the  soldier's  heart, 
touck  any  man's.  Hooker  was  just, 
too,  and  fair  in  dealing  with  his  subor- 
dinates. General  Reynolds  writes  me: 
'I  was  with  him  every  day  for  eight 


months,  and  I  say  without  hesitancy,  I 
never  knew  a  man  who  tried  to  be  fair- 
er and  treat  every  one  more  justly  than 
he  did.  He  would  treat  the  lowest  in 
rank  with  the  same  courtesy  as  the 
highest,  and  no  commander  was  more 
beloved  by  his  troops  than  was  he  by 
the  20th  Corps.' 

The  fighting  reputation  that  Hooker 
had  won  on  the  Peninsula  continued 
and  increased  through  the  second  Bull 
Run  campaign  and  at  Antietam,  where 
he  was  wounded  after  doing  great 
damage  to  the  Confederate  left.  His 
energy  and  vigor  showed,  not  only  in 
bare  fighting,  but  in  strenuous  effort 
to  keep  his  troops  responsive  and  his 
officers  efficient.  With  what  force  does 
he  express  himself  against  an  attempt 
to  deprive  him  of  one  of  the  best  of 
them.  'I  have  just  been  shown  an 
order  relieving  Brigadier-General  Rey- 
nolds from  the  command  of  a  division 
in  my  corps.  I  request  that  the  major- 
general  commanding  will  not  heed  this 
order;  a  scared  governor  ought  not  to 
be  permitted  to  destroy  the  usefulness 
of  an  entire  division  of  the  army  on  the 
eve  of  important  operations.5 

But  his  most  attractive  mood  is  un- 
doubtedly that  in  which  he  feels  the 
thrill  and  enthusiasm  of  actual  battle. 
*The  whole  morning  had  been  one  of 
unusual  animation  to  me  and  fraught 
with  the  grandest  events.  The  conduct 
of  the  troops  was  sublime,  and  the  occa- 
sion almost  lifted  me  to  the  skies,  and 
its  memories  will  ever  remain  with  me.' 

This  was  at  Antietam,  where  there 
was  triumph.  Even  finer,  from  a  moral 
point  of  view,  was  the  general's  atti- 
tude at  Fredericksburg,  where  there 
was  defeat.  Though  he  would  expose 
his  men  regardlessly  in  battle,  he  was 
always  thoughtful  of  their  welfare,  so 
far  as  was  compatible  with  duty. 
When  some  neglect  was  shown  in  the 
handling  of  ambulances,  his  rebuke 
was  severe.  'I  regret  more  than  all  to 


JOSEPH  HOOKER 


find  two  officers  of  my  command,  hold- 
ing high  and  responsible  positions, 
showing  so  little  concern  for  the  welfare 
and  efficiency  of  the  command  to  which 
they  are  assigned  as  to  seek  by  artifice 
and  unfairness  to  destroy  one  and  dis- 
regard the  other.'  Hence  it  was  that 
this  fighter,  this  man  who  would  face 
anything  and  was  lifted  almost  to  the 
skies  by  the  exhilaration  of  combat, 
would  not  fling  his  soldiers  against  the 
impossible  without  a  protest.  When 
Burnside  ordered  the  charge,  'I  sent 
my  aide  to  General  Burnside  to  say 
that  I  advised  him  not  to  attack  at 
that  place.  He  returned  saying  that  the 
attack  must  be  made.  I  had  the  mat- 
ter so  much  at  heart  that  I  put  spurs 
to  my  horse  and  rode  over  here  myself 
and  tried  to  persuade  General  Burn- 
side  to  desist  from  the  attack.  He  in- 
sisted on  its  being  made.'  It  was 
made,  magnificently,  and  failed  mag- 
nificently. Said  Hooker  of  it  later,  with 
caustic  frankness:  'Finding  that  I  had 
lost  as  many  men  as  my  orders  required 
me  to  lose,  I  suspended  the  attack.' 

Thus  the  country  generally  saw 
Hooker,  on  the  eve  of  the  battle  of 
Chancellorsville,  in  April,  1863,  a  splen- 
did, vigorous,  successful  soldier  and 
corps-commander,  full  of  fight,  yet  not 
without  prudence,  widely  popular  and 
fairly  trusted.  The  germs  of  his  defects 
had  been  manifest  long  before,  how- 
ever, and  we  must  look  into  them 
closely  in  preparation  for  our  study  of 
the  great  climax  of  his  life. 

All  generalizations  are  dangerous,  and 
all  the  adjectives  we  apply  to  character 
are  generalizations.  The  Southern  offi- 
cer, Magruder,  an  honest  and  straight- 
forward soldier,  who  had  served  in  the 
same  regiment  with  Hooker  in  former 
days,  told  Fremantle  that  Hooker  was 
*  essentially  a  mean  man  and  a  liar.' 
Hooker  did  mean  things  and  made  false 
statements.  So  have  you.  So  have  I. 
But  it  is  not  just,  I  hope,  to  call  you  a 


liar,  or  me,  or  Hooker.  Again,  Palfrey, 
who  knew  him  well,  says  that  he  was 
'Brave,  handsome,  vain,  insubordinate, 
plausible,  untrustworthy.'  These  are 
strong  words.  Some  of  them  may  be 
justified,  not  all. 

But  let  us  leave  the  generalizations. 
Concretely,  it  has  always  been  said  that 
Hooker  drank  too  much.  The  testi- 
mony as  to  this  is  conflicting.  When 
he  left  West  Point,  he  was  a  total 
abstainer,  yet  the  florid  complexion, 
which  later  was  attributed  to  alcohol, 
was  just  as  marked  in  the  cadet  as  in 
the  major-general.  Wearied  with  the 
piping  times  of  peace,  Hooker  went  to 
California,  in  the  wild  gold  days.  There 
he  farmed  with  small  success,  and  no 
doubt  he  lived  as  many  about  him  were 
living, — unprofitably,  to  say  the  least. 
There  is  a  story  that  he  borrowed  mon- 
ey from  Halleck  and  Sherman,  that  he 
came  to  San  Francisco  on  Saturday  to 
make  payment,  after  closing  hours, 
and  that  by  Monday  morning  the  mon- 
ey was  gone.  This,  with  similar  inci- 
dents, is  said  to  have  been  the  origin 
of  Halleck's  and  Sherman's  prejudice 
against  him.  The  anecdote  does  not, 
however,  seem  quite  compatible  with  a 
sentence  in  a  confidential  letter  from 
Halleck  to  Sherman,  September  16, 
1864.  'He  [Hooker]  is  aware  that  I 
know  something  about  his  character 
and  conduct  in  California,  and  fearing 
that  I  may  use  it  against  him,  he  seeks 
to  ward  off  its  effects  by  making  it  ap- 
pear that  I  am  his  personal  enemy.' 

Another  curious  (if  true)  detail  about 
this  California  life  is  furnished  by  Stone- 
man.  Hooker,  he  says,  'could  play  the 
best  game  of  poker  I  ever  saw  until  it 
came  to  the  point  when  he  should  go 
a  thousand  better,  and  then  he  would 
flunk.'  This  may  have  been  colored  by 
recollections  of  Chancellorsville.  Still, 
when  I  read  it,  I  am  reminded  of  that 
weak  chin. 

Whatever  the  dissipations  of  the 


22 


JOSEPH  HOOKER 


California  life,  they  cannot  have  been 
damning,  since  he  afterwards  came  to 
fill  positions  of  honor  and  trust  in  the 
great  western  state,  and  his  friends 
there  subscribed  to  pay  his  expenses 
on  to  Washington  when  the  war  began. 

As  with  Halleck  and  Sherman  thus 
early,  however,  he  had  the  serious 
defect  of  offending  wantonly  those 
whom  he  should  not  have  offended.  In 
Mexico,  for  instance,  he  had  been  at- 
tached to  the  staff  of  Pillow.  When 
Pillow  was  arraigned  and  his  conduct 
investigated  on  the  charges  of  Scott, 
Hooker  spoke  his  mind  with  entire 
freedom  in  defense  of  his  chief  and 
gained  the  hostility  of  the  senior  gen- 
eral. As  a  consequence  of  this,  the 
California  recruit  waited  for  some  time 
vainly  before  he  could  enter  the  Army 
of  the  Potomac. 

In  this  case  it  was  Hooker's  tongue 
that  damaged  him,  and  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  all  his  life  that  insignificant 
member  caused  him  a  great  deal  of 
trouble.  It  was  a  splendidly  vivid  and 
energetic  tongue,  could  stir  an  army  to 
a  charge,  could  cheer  and  stimulate  a 
friend  and  smite  an  enemy.  With  what 
a  keen  flash  does  it  lighten  the  metal- 
lic brevity  of  a  dispatch.  'The  enemy 
may  number  4000,  or  5000,  those  half 
starved  and  badly  wounded.  The  num- 
ber of  major-generals  and  brigadier- 
generals  they  have  along  is  of  no  con- 
sequence; they  are  flesh  and  blood.' 

But  this  same  tongue  could  work 
astonishing  havoc  with  reputations, 
most  of  all  its  owner's.  It  could  brand 
individuals  with  a  hot  iron.  'If  Gen- 
eral Sumner  had  advanced  the  rebellion 
would  have  been  buried  there.  He  did 
not  advance  at  all.'  Do  you  think 
General  Sumner  loved  that  tongue? 
It  could  blight,  if  unintentionally,  a 
whole  arm  of  the  service.  'Who  ever 
saw  a  dead  cavalryman?'  At  the  very 
outset  of  the  war  it  achieved  one  of  its 
most  remarkable  feats,  unsurpassed,  if 


equaled,  later.  Tired  of  seeking  em- 
ployment from  direct  military  author- 
ity and  ready  to  return  to  California, 
Hooker  called  on  the  President  to  ex- 
plain his  position.  After  explaining  it, 
he  concluded  with  the  casual  comment, 
'I  was  at  Bull  Run  the  other  day,  Mr. 
President,  and  it  is  no  vanity  in  me  to 
say  I  am  a  damned  sight  better  general 
than  you  had  on  that  field.'  Must  it  not 
have  been,  indeed,  a  man  of  power  who 
could  utter  such  words  as  that  and 
actually  make  Lincoln  believe  them? 

Well,  the  tongue  went  on  its  way, 
along  with  the  hand  and  sword, 
through  the  Peninsula,  through  Antie- 
tam  and  Fredericksburg.  McClellan! 
Hooker  had  no  use  for  McClellan  and 
said  so.  McClellan  was  a  baby.  Mc- 
Clellan dared  not  fight.  If  McClellan 
had  done  as  Hooker  urged  and  wished, 
Richmond  would  have  been  ours  in  the 
spring  of  1862.  The  subordinate  testi- 
fied formally  before  the  Committee  on 
the  Conduct  of  the  War  that  the  failure 
of  the  Peninsula  campaign  was  '  to  be 
attributed  to  the  want  of  generalship 
on  the  part  of  the  commander.' 

When  Burnside  succeeded  McClel- 
lan, it  was  the  same  with  Burnside. 
Villard,  as  a  newspaper  man,  met 
Hooker  for  the  first  time  and  had 
scarcely  introduced  himself  when  the 
general  burst  into  unsparing  criticism 
of  the  government,  of  Halleck,  of  Mc- 
Clellan, and  especially  of  his  immediate 
superior.  To  his  fellow  soldiers  he 
naturally  did  not  hesitate  to  express 
the  same  opinion;  and  when  he  was 
himself  in  supreme  command,  he  wrote 
about  his  predecessor  words  of  almost 
incredible  violence.  Hooker  'cannot 
bear  to  go  into  battle  with  the  slanders 
of  this  wretch  uncontradicted  and  the 
author  of  them  unchastised.  He  must 
swallow  his  words  as  soon  as  I  am  in  a 
condition  to  address  him,  or  I  will  hunt 
him  to  the  ends  of  the  earth/  By  the 
way,  I  am  not  aware  that  the  wretch 


JOSEPH  HOOKER 


ever  did  swallow  his  words,  or  ever  was 
hunted. 

A  dangerous  tongue,  indeed,  you 
see,  and  perhaps  there  was  a  little  trou- 
ble back  of  the  tongue,  perhaps  the 
thinking  brain  was  not  quite  so  perfect 
an  instrument  as  the  acting  hand. 
When  that  bluff  Confederate,  Whiting, 
writes  to  Beauregard,  'Hooker  is  a 
fool,  and  always  was,  and  that 's  a  com- 
fort,' the  exaggerated  estimate  de- 
serves notice  chiefly  because  it  is  cer- 
tain to  have  been  common  Confederate 
property  and  so  to  have  made  its  way 
to  Lee  and  to  have  been  his  best  excuse 
for  Jackson's  apparently  most  hazar- 
dous movement  at  Chancellor sville. 
But  when  Chase,  Hooker's  warm  sup- 
porter, after  a  confidential  talk  with 
the  general,  remarks  that  he  '  impress- 
ed me  favorably  as  a  frank,  manly, 
brave,  and  energetic  soldier,  of  some- 
what less  breadth  of  intellect  than  I 
had  expected,'  the  thoughtful  observer 
is  prepared  for  a  career  which  shall 
blend  its  triumph  with  failure,  if  not 
disaster. 

ii 

To  this  man,  then,  such  as  we  have 
seen  him,  Lincoln,  in  January,  1863, 
confided  the  splendid  Army  of  the  Po- 
tomac and  the  salvation  of  the  Union. 
The  President  had  his  serious  misgiv- 
ings and  expressed  them  in  a  well- 
known  letter,  surely  one  of  the  most 
singular  ever  received  by  a  great  gen- 
eral on  undertaking  an  important  com- 
mand. Lincoln  warns  his  subordinate 
against  ambition,  warns  him  against 
over-confidence,  warns  him  not  to  talk 
about  a  dictatorship  until  he  has  done 
things  worthy  of  it,  warns  him  to  fear 
the  spirit  of  insubordination  in  the 
army  which  Hooker  himself  has  been 
the  most  forward  to  cultivate.  One 
can  easily  imagine  the  impatient  con- 
tempt with  which  McClellan  would 
have  received  such  a  letter.  Well,  all 


that  is  really  fine  and  winning  and  lov- 
able in  Hooker  shines  out  in  his  simple 
comment  to  his  officers  on  receiving  it. 
'He  talks  to  me  like  a  father.  I  shall 
not  answer  this  letter  until  I  have  won 
him  a  great  victory.' 

But,  alas,  the  general  entered  upon 
his  important  duties  without  the  real 
confidence  of  the  higher  officers  under 
him.  'He  had  wounded  some  by 
openly  ^criticizing  them,'  says  De  Tro- 
briand,  'he  had  alienated  others  by 
putting  himself  forward  at  their  ex- 
pense.' And  again  that  fatal  tongue 
intervened,  with  trouble  at  its  tip. 
Grand  reviews,  riding  in  gold  and  glit- 
ter, on  equal  footing  with  presidents 
and  ministers,  that  splendid  army  in 
the  spring  sunshine  set  over  against 
those  starved  and  ragged  rebels,  en- 
gendered a  confidence  which  would 
burst  from  lips  not  tutored  to  keep 
still.  'The  finest  army  on  the  planet.' 
'The  operations  of  the  last  three  days 
have  determined  that  our  enemy  must 
either  ingloriously  fly,  or  give  us  battle 
on  our  own  ground  where  certain  de- 
struction awaits  him.'  'My  plans  are 
perfect,  and  when  I  start  to  carry  them 
out,  may  God  have  mercy  on  General 
Lee,  for  I  will  have  none.'  '  The  enemy 
is  in  my  power,  and  God  Almighty  can- 
not deprive  me  of  them.'  Such  words 
as  these  suggest  the  Nemesis  of  Greek 
tragedy  and  give  an  enthralling  inter- 
est to  the  dramatic  story  of  the  man 
who  uttered  them. 

At  first  all  went  well.  Through  the 
spring  months  the  general  reorganized 
the  demoralized  army,  and  did  it  ad- 
mirably. Here  is  another  of  the  delight- 
ful psychological  contradictions  in  this 
extraordinary  man.  You  think  he  was 
an  impetuous  firebrand.  Yet  he  dis- 
tinguished himself  most  of  all  in  the 
slow,  fretful  labor  of  systematizing  and 
perfecting  the  instrument  he  was  to  use. 

Then,  with  the  warm  April  days, 
came  the  preparations  for  action.  The 


JOSEPH  HOOKER 


plan  finally  adopted  is  said  to  have 
originated,  to  some  extent,  with  War- 
ren. With  whomsoever  it  originated, 
all  admit  that  it  was  an  able  strategic 
design.  From  the  point  of  view  of 
Hooker's  character,  we  note  again,  in 
this  regard,  a  singular  contradiction. 
Here  was  a  man  who  always  talked  too 
freely,  who  was  notorious  for  saying 
things  he  should  not  have  said;  yet,  the 
minute  the  full  burden  rested  on  his 
shoulders,  he  kept  still.  Even  to  his 
nearest  subordinates  he  whispered  no 
word  of  his  intention,  except  so  far  as 
necessary  orders  required. 

The  general  plan  of  campaign  was 
simple.  Hooker's  army  was  massed  on 
the  north  side  of  the  Rappahannock, 
Lee's  on  the  south,  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Fredericksburg.  Hooker  proposed 
first  crossing  his  cavalry  well  up  the 
river,  to  threaten  or  break  the  com- 
munications of  Lee.  Then  the  bulk  of 
the  army  was  to  cross  above  the  enemy, 
sweep  round  with  a  great  turning  move- 
ment and  drive  him  toward  the  east, 
while  another  force,  under  Sedgwick, 
crossing  at  Fredericksburg,  was  to  bar 
retreat  in  that  direction  and  crush  the 
small  army  of  the  Confederates  be- 
tween the  two. 

From  the  beginning,  the  weak  point 
of  the  scheme  was  the  combined  action 
with  Sedgwick.  Still,  the  first  steps 
went  admirably.  The  great  crossing, 
by  the  upper  fords,  was  made  before 
the  enemy  divined  it,  with  entire  suc- 
cess. Corps  after  corps  swept  forward 
triumphantly  into  the  Wilderness  and 
it  seemed  as  if  Lee  would  really  be 
crushed,  as  his  enemy  had  intended. 
But  Lee  did  not  propose  to  be  crushed. 
He  met  the  advancing  battalions  in  a 
much  more  aggressive  fashion  than 
Hooker  expected.  And  suddenly  this 
check  in  his  plans  seemed  to  chill  the 
buoyant  spirit  of  the  Union  comman- 
der. Instead  of  urging  his  generals, 
on!  on!  he  sent  word  to  them,  With- 


draw, the  woods  are  too  thick,  the 
enemy  too  strong,  let  us  establish  our- 
selves safely  at  Chancellorsville  and 
wait.  It  was  like  a  burst  balloon,  like  a 
great  ship  set  aback  all  at  once  and  left 
shivering  in  a  change  of  wind.  'To 
hear  from  his  own  lips  that  the  advan- 
tages gained  by  the  successful  marches 
of  his  lieutenants  were  to  culminate  in 
fighting  a  defensive  battle  in  that  nest 
of  thickets  was  too  much,  and  I  retired 
from  his  presence  with  the  belief  that 
my  commanding  general  was  a  whipped 
man,'  says  Couch. 

So  thought  Lee  and  Jackson  also. 
The  next  day,  May  2,  Jackson,  with  a 
large  part  of  Lee's  army,  made  his  way 
through  the  woods  across  Hooker's 
front  and  past  his  right.  Then,  toward 
evening,  the  Confederates  fell,  like  a 
whirlwind,  upon  the  Union  right  flank; 
Howard  and  his  Eleventh  Corps,  who 
had  hardly  dreamed  of  such  an  onset 
and  had  done  little  or  nothing  to  pre- 
vent it.  It  is  not  necessary  to  apportion 
the  blame  strictly  in  this  matter.  There 
is  enough  for  every  one,  —  Hooker, 
Howard,  the  division  commanders,  and 
the  troops, — enough  and  some  left  over. 
The  disaster  was  as  appalling  as  it  was 
unexpected,  and  it  might  have  been 
much  worse,  if  night,  the  fatigue  of  the 
Confederates,  and  the  wounding  of 
Jackson,  had  not  intervened. 

Where  was  Hooker?  Doing  what  a 
brave  and  energetic  soldier  could  do  to 
repair. immediate  damage,  but  hardly 
grasping  the  general  situation  as  an 
able  commander  should  have  grasped 
it.  The  next  morning  gave  him  his  op- 
portunity, but  instead  of  profiting,  he 
fought  a  slow  defensive  battle,  in  which 
the  energetic  masses  of  Lee  and  Stuart 
had  all  the  advantage. 

Then  the  general  was  severely  in- 
jured by  the  falling  of  a  wooden  pillar, 
and  some  think  the  accident  robbed 
him  of  great  glory,  and  some  that  for 
him  it  was  a  piece  of  rare  good  fortune. 


JOSEPH  HOOKER 


Even  before,  his  subordinates  felt  that 
he  had  lost  his  hold.  It  has  been  said, 
without  sufficient  foundation,  that  he 
was  drinking.  It  has  been  said  that 
he  was  wholly  abstemious  and  missed 
his  drink.  This  would  certainly  be  the 
first  case  in  history  of  a  great  battle 
lost  because  the  general-in-chief  was 
not  intoxicated. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  after  he  was  in- 
jured, he  ceased  to  be  of  any  great 
value  on  the  field  of  Chancellorsville. 
His  admirers  maintain  that  the  injury 
is  amply  sufficient  to  account  for  this. 
They  say  that  his  second  in  command, 
Couch,  should  have  assumed  the  direc- 
tion of  affairs  and  pushed  the  fighting. 
Couch  himself,  however,  absolutely  re- 
fused to  assume  responsibility  when 
he  might  be  interfered  with  at  any  mo- 
ment. And  he  and  many  others  hold 
that  Hooker's  control  was  no  less  effi- 
cient after  the  wound  than  it  was  be- 
fore. *  There  is,  in  fact,  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  his  orders  would  have 
been  wise,  even  if  he  had  not  been 
struck,'  says  the  latest  authority  on  the 
battle,  Colonel  W.  R.  Livermore.  Still, 
still  I  remember  that  weak  chin. 

The  small  Confederate  army  could 
not,  however,  make  any  ruinous  im- 
pression on  the  Union  masses.  What, 
then,  was  to  be  done?  Behold,  the  gen- 
eral who  had  clutched  his  foe  so  tightly 
that  Almighty  God  could  not  extricate 
him,  was  now  for  recrossing  the  river 
and  beginning  all  over  again.  It  seems 
supplies  had  run  short.  *I  think,'  says 
one  authority, '  if  we  can  imagine  Grant 
allowing  his  army  to  be  placed  where 
Hooker's  was  at  noon  on  that  day, 
that  he  would  have  made  his  soldiers 
fry  their  boots,  if  there  was  nothing  else 
to  eat,  before  he  would  have  recrossed 
the  river.'  But  Hooker  was  not  dis- 
posed to  fry  boots.  He  called  his  corps 
commanders  into  council.  A  majority 
of  them  voted  to  remain  where  they 
were,  Meade,  to  be  sure,  alleging  that 


recrossing  might  be  difficult  with  the 
enemy  at  their  heels,  to  which  Hooker 
answered  that  Lee  would  be  delighted 
to  have  them  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Rappahannock.  Is  there  not  a  maxim 
of  Napoleon's  about  never  doing  what 
your  enemy  wishes  you  to  do?  If  so, 
Hooker  had  forgotten  it.  He  overruled 
his  subordinates,  ordered  the  puzzled 
Sedgwick  to  withdraw  also,  and  with 
the  best  speed  he  could  took  back  that 
great,  unconquered  army  to  the  place 
it  had  left  a  week  before  with  banners 
waving  and  all  the  royal  assurance  of 
undoubted  triumph. 

The  army  was  unconquered,  but  the 
general  was  beaten  badly,  and  what 
was  much  worse,  the  cause  had  received 
another  crushing  blow.  It  was  not 
merely  that  so  many  men  had  been 
killed  and  wounded.  It  was  not  mere- 
ly that  Lee,  with  inferior  numbers, 
had  managed  to  sustain  himself  instead 
of  giving  an  inch  of  ground.  It  was 
that  all  the  strength  and  all  the  valor 
of  the  North  had  been  exerted  once 
more  and  had  utterly  failed.  It  was 
that  a  fifth  commander  had  been  al- 
lowed to  work  his  pleasure  with  that 
long-suffering  army  and  still  the  rebel- 
lion was  as  haughty,  as  energetic,  as 
aggressive  as  ever.  So  that  Lincoln 
fell  on  his  knees  and  told  his  God  that 
the  country  could  not  endure  another 
Fredericksburg  or  Chancellorsville. 

But  Hooker?  Did  he  look  at  the 
thing  in  this  way?  Not  the  least  bit  in 
the  world.  In  the  midst  of  the  battle 
his  confidence  seems  to  have  been  for 
a  little  time  shaken.  But  he  quickly 
recovered  himself.  The  tremendous 
moral  effect  of  the  whole  adventure, 
after  all  his  vaunts,  seems  to  have  es- 
caped him  completely.  On  the  very 
day  of  the  recrossing  he  issued  general 
orders,  the  tone  of  which  is  almost  in- 
credible. 'In  fighting  at  a  disadvan- 
tage, we  would  have  been  recreant  to 
our  trust,  to  ourselves,  to  our  cause, 


JOSEPH  HOOKER 


and  our  country.  Profoundly  loyal, 
and  conscious  of  its  strength,  the  Army 
of  the  Potomac  will  give  or  decline 
battle  when  its  interest  or  honor  may 
demand.  It  will  also  be  the  guardian 
of  its  own  history  and  its  own  fame.* 
Alas,  no !  Big  words  will  guard  no  one's 
fame,  when  they  are  not  accompanied 
by  big  deeds.  Even  then,  the  deeds  do 
better  alone.  And  when  later,  sober 
thought  had  had  all  its  opportunity, 
the  general  could  still  write  in  a  confi- 
dential letter  to  a  friend,  'We  lost  no 
honors  at  Chancellors  ville.' 

This  desperate  determination  to  ad- 
mit no  failure  of  course  developed  a 
disposition  to  put  what  blame  there 
was  on  others.  The  tendency  did  not 
appear  immediately  after  the  battle, 
and  Hooker's  omission  to  make  any 
official  report  and  to  turn  in  many  of 
his  records  has  been  taken  by  some  to 
mean  a  desire  to  avoid  condemning  his 
subordinates,  especially  Howard.  If 
so,  his  charity  lessened  with  time. 
When  he  was  anxious  to  appear  before 
the  Committee  on  the  Conduct  of  the 
War,  in  April,  1864,  he  wrote,  'As  it 
seems  determined  that  I  shall  hold  no 
important  command  hereafter,  it  be- 
comes necessary  for  me  to  have  less  care 
for  the  future  than  for  the  past,  so  far 
as  my  professional  character  is  con- 
cerned. In  my  judgment  the  records 
connected  with  my  command  of  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac  had  better  be 
made  up,  no  matter  who  may  suffer 
from  it.' 

He  helped  make  them  up  with  a 
vengeance,  declaring,  in  sober,  sworn 
testimony,  that  'There are  in  all  armies 
officers  [Howard  and  Meade  are  hinted 
at]  more  valiant  after  the  fight  than 
while  it  is  pending,  and  when  a  truthful 
history  of  the  rebellion  shall  be  writ- 
ten, it  will  be  found  that  the  Army  of 
the  Potomac  is  not  an  exception ';  and 
again,  'Some  of  our  corps  commanders, 
and  also  officers  of  other  rank,  appear 


to  be  unwilling  to  go  into  a  fight;  in  my 
judgment,  there  are  not  many  who 
really  like  a  fight.'  This  of  Sedgwick! 
While  as  to  his  own,  Hooker's,  part  in 
the  affair  there  is  not  a  word  of  apology 
or  of  admission  of  error  or  weakness. 

But  all  this  was  later  development. 
For  two  months  after  Chancellorsville, 
Hooker  continued  in  command  of  the 
army.  It  might  be  supposed  experience 
would  have  taught  him  moderation,  if 
not  humility.  Apparently  it  did  not. 
In  predicting  to  Butterfield  a  decisive 
battle,  he  declared  that  he  would  '  have 
every  available  man  in  the  field,  and  if 
Lee  escapes  with  his  army  the  country 
is  entitled  to  and  should  have  my 
head  for  a  football.'  Evidently  this  is 
still  the  same  tongue  that  wagged  so 
joyously  in  the  April  days  on  the  Rap- 
pahannock. 

But  if  Hooker  trusted  himself,  others 
did  not  trust  him.  Halleck's  deep- 
rooted  prejudice  grew  daily  stronger, 
and  spread  to  the  members  of  the  Cabi- 
net, in  some  measure  even  to  Lincoln. 
As  a  result,  the  general  was  hampered 
and  thwarted  in  a  way  which  would 
have  made  success  impossible  to  a 
much  greater  man.  It  is  but  justice 
to  Hooker  to  say  that  in  this  difficult 
situation  he  bore  himself  with  great 
dignity,  and  his  serious  protests  to  the 
President  are  as  modest  as  they  are 
reasonable.  There  should  be  one  com- 
mander with  full  power,  he  says,  and 
adds,  '  I  trust  I  may  not  be  considered 
in  the  way  to  this  arrangement,  as  it  is 
a  position  I  do  not  desire,  and  only  sug- 
gest it,  as  I  feel  the  necessity  for  con- 
certed as  well  as  vigorous  action.'  In 
the  same  spirit  he  finally  asked  to  be 
relieved,  feeling  that  the  good  of  the 
country  demanded  that  some  one  else, 
more  trusted,  should  be  in  his  place. 

When  his  suggestion  was  accepted, 
and  Meade  was  substituted  for  him, 
the  finer  side  of  Hooker's  nature  again 
showed  itself  in  the  cordial  courtesy 


JOSEPH  HOOKER 


with  which  he  greeted  his  successor.  It 
showed  itself  still  more  in  the  request 
that  he  might  be  put  back  in  command 
of  his  old  division  and  so  continue  ser- 
vice with  the  army.  And  when  this 
request  is  disregarded,  perhaps  wisely 
for  all  concerned,  nay,  even  when  he 
is  subjected  to  arrest  for  the  trivial 
offense  of  visiting  Washington  without 
a  pass,  he  simply  writes  to  the  Presi- 
dent, with  all  dignity,  requesting  an 
interview  in  which  he  may  justify  him- 
self and  set  matters  once  more  on  the 
right  footing  between  them. 


in 

In  following  Hooker's  later  career,  in 
which  there  is  undoubtedly  much  to 
criticize,  we  must  always  bear  in  mind 
what  he  went  through  during  those 
first  six  months  of  1863.  For  a  man  of 
his  high  and  imperious  spirit  to  have 
enjoyed  so  long  the  supreme  command 
of  'the  finest  army  on  this  planet/  to 
fail  in  that  command,  and  then  to  be 
reduced  to  abject  submission  to  men 
whom  he  knew  to  be  his  juniors  and 
felt  to  be  his  inferiors,  was  a  bitter  ex- 
perience. Many  who  believe  in  their 
own  genius  never  get  even  one  try  at 
greatness;  but  perhaps  to  get  one  try 
and  fail  and  feel  that  all  hope  has  ut- 
terly slipped  away  is  even  harder  still. 
So  it  was  with  Hooker,  and  who  shall 
blame  him  if  at  times  he  grew  restive? 

Nevertheless,  I  believe  that  he  obey- 
ed his  orders  to  go  west,  with  a  loyal 
and  entire  determination  to  do  his 
duty.  According  to  his  view  he  did  it; 
but  it  is  extraordinarily  interesting  to 
study  his  relations  to  the  various  men 
with  whom  he  came  into  contact. 

His  old  habit  of  criticizing  and  fault- 
finding seems  to  have  increased  rather 
than  lessened.  Thus,  he  condemned 
freely  the  proceedings  of  Rosecrans, 
which  was  not  unnatural.  But  he 
showed  equal  freedom  in  discussing  the 


projects  of  Grant.  'No  doubt  the 
chaos  of  Rosecrans's  administration  is 
as  bad  as  he  describes/  writes  Dana; 
*  but  he  is  quite  as  truculent  toward  the 
plan  he  is  now  to  execute  as  toward 
the  confusion  of  the  old  regime/  The 
truculence  well  appears  in  the  general's 
comment  en  orders  received  from 
Grant  in  the  Chattanooga  campaign. 
'I  am  not  permitted  to  advance  unless 
I  do  so  without  fighting  a  battle.  This 
puts  me  in  the  condition  of  the  boy  who 
was  permitted  to  learn  to  swim  pro- 
vided he  would  not  go  near  the  water/ 

On  the  other  hand,  Grant,  imbibing 
a  prejudice,  whether  from  Halleck  or 
otherwise,  did  not  like  Hooker.  *  Grant 
also  wishes  to  have  both  Hooker  and 
Slocum  removed  from  his  command/ 
writes  Dana  again  .  .  .  'Hooker  has 
behaved  very  badly  ever  since  his  ar- 
rival.' Perhaps  there  was  some  mis- 
understanding as  to  the  bad  behavior. 
In  this  connection  there  is  a  curious 
instance  of  different  points  of  view.  Im- 
mediately on  Grant's  reaching  Chat- 
tanooga, Hooker,  with  all  the  warm 
courtesy  of  his  disposition,  sent  to  in- 
vite his  superior  to  share  his  head- 
quarters. Wilson,  in  his  life  of  Dana, 
assumes  that  this  was  an  impertinence 
and  justifies  the  sharp  snub  with  which 
Grant  replied  to  it.  Howard,  better 
understanding  Hooker,  expresses  sur- 
prise and  regret  at  Grant's  vehemence 
of  expression,  —  '  If  General  Hooker 
wishes  to  see  me,  he  will  find  me  on  this 
train.' 

There  are  plenty  of  other  examples 
of  Grant's  lack  of  consideration  for  his 
distinguished  subordinate.  In  one  in- 
dorsement he  sneers  at  Hooker's  report 
of  the  number  of  prisoners  captured, 
as  being  more  than  that  captured  by 
the  whole  army.  Elsewhere  he  suggests 
that  it  would  be  well  if  Hooker  could 
be  got  rid  of  altogether.  But  perhaps 
his  harshest  criticism  is  his  remark  to 
Young  concerning  the  battle  of  Look- 


JOSEPH  HOOKER 


out  Mountain.  'The  battle  of  Look- 
out Mountain  is  one  of  the  romances 
of  the  war/  he  said.  *  There  was  no 
such  battle,  and  no  action  even  worthy 
to  be  called  a  battle  on  Lookout  Moun- 
tain. It  is  all  poetry.' 

Now  Lookout  Mountain,  *  the  battle 
above  the  clouds,'  is  almost  universally 
regarded  as  one  of  Hooker's  most  sub- 
stantial claims  to  glory.  The  little  pre- 
ceding engagement  of  Wauhatchie  is 
indeed  chiefly  noticeable  because  the 
general  came  near  repeating  there  his 
experience  with  Howard  at  Chancel- 
lorsville.  A  piece  of  careless  neglect 
was  prevented  only  by  supreme  energy 
from  producing  disaster.  But  the  tak- 
ing of  the  mountain  itself  was  not  only 
notable  as  skillful  and  brilliant  fighting 
under  great  difficulties,  but  played  a 
conspicuous  part  in  the  success  of  the 
battle  of  Chattanooga,  though,  to  be 
sure,  a  part  not  contemplated  in  Grant's 
plans  and  therefore,  perhaps,  treated 
by  him  with  scant  commendation. 

It  was  the  same  with  the  Atlanta 
campaign  under  Sherman  as  at  Chat- 
tanooga. Where  there  was  fighting, 
Hooker  was  always  at  his  best.  He 
got  his  men  into  battle  and  kept  them 
there,  either  to  win,  or,  when  winning 
was  a  sheer  impossibility,  to  draw  off 
slowly,  sullenly,  and  with  terrible  loss. 

But  his  defects,  like  evil  angels, 
walked  by  him  everywhere.  Anyone 
who  wishes  to  understand  Hooker 
thoroughly,  all  his  strength  and  all  his 
weakness,  but  the  strength  and  the 
charm  predominating,  should  not  fail 
to  read  his  immensely  long  confidential 
letter  to  Chase,  December  28,  1863, 
printed  in  the  Official  Records,  volume 
55,  page  339.  And  a  similar  letter  to 
Stanton  of  February  25,  1864  (volume 
58,  page  467)  is  equally  illuminating. 
All  the  loyalty  is  there,  all  the  sterling 
patriotism,  all  the  instinct  of  generos- 
ity and  self-sacrifice.  But  there  also,  is 
the  ever-ready  disposition  to  judge 


others  caustically  and  bitterly,  and 
the  fatal  habit  of  expressing  that  judg- 
ment in  hot  and  ill-considered  words. 
And  there,  further,  is  the  most  natural 
but  unfortunate  sensitiveness  spring- 
ing from  the  inevitable  comparison  of 
the  present  and  the  past.  'Many  of 
my  juniors  are  in  the  exercise  of  inde- 
pendent commands,  while  I  am  here 
with  more  rank  piled  on  top  of  me 
than  a  man  can  well  stand  up  under, 
with  a  corporal's  guard,  comparatively, 
for  a  command.' 

In  this  state  of  mind  it  was  hardly 
to  be  expected  that  Hooker  should 
work  in  entire  harmony  with  those 
about  him.  He  had,  indeed,  his  own 
loyal  followers,  like  Butterfield,  who 
were  always  ready  to  support  him  with 
hand  and  pen.  His  relation  with  his 
immediate  chief,  Thomas,  seems  also 
to  have  been  cordial,  and  Thomas 
speaks  of  the  Lookout  battle  in  very 
different  language  from  that  of  Grant. 
Of  Howard,  who  so  long  served  under 
him,  Hooker  writes  with  kindness, 
even  with  enthusiasm,  and  praises  *  his 
zealous  and  devoted  service,  not  only 
on  the  battlefield,  but  everywhere  and 
at  all  times.' 

The  record  is  less  agreeable  in. other 
cases,  however.  It  is  hard  to  say 
whether  Slocum's  abuse  of  Hooker  or 
Hooker's  of  Slocum  is  more  violent. 
Schurz,  whose  later  testimony,  as  to 
Chancellorsville,  is  so  helpful  to  his 
chief,  attacks  him  bitterly,  and  with 
much  apparent  justice,  in  regard  to 
Wauhatchie.  Schofield,  who  is  always 
diplomatic,  implies  that  Hooker's  man- 
oeuvres in  Georgia  were  not  conducted 
with  very  much  reference  to  those  with 
whom  he  should  have  cooperated. 

But  the  chief  figure  in  this  last  act 
of  Hooker's  tragedy  is  Sherman.  Most 
of  us  will  recognize  that,  with  all  Sher- 
man's charm  and  all  his  vivacity,  it 
must  have  been  a  bitter  hard  fate  to 
serve  under  him,  when  you  did  not  like 


JOSEPH  HOOKER 


him  and  he  did  not  like  you.  Now 
Hooker  and  Sherman  resembled  each 
other  in  too  many  points  to  get  along 
happily  together,  at  any  rate  in  an 
official  relation.  From  the  first  there 
was  a  jealousy  between  them  which 
showed  in  curious  little  ways,  as  in  the 
story  of  their  both  coming  under  a  hot 
fire  and  refusing  to  budge,  —  though 
all  their  staff,  and  even  the  stolid 
Thomas,  had  retreated,  —  simply  be- 
cause neither  was  willing  to  stir  a  foot 
before  the  other. 

That  Hooker  was  partially  to  blame 
for  these  relations  cannot  be  doubted. 
But  how  much?  Let  us  consider  first 
the  enthusiastic  evidence  of  Colonel 
Stone.  *  Hooker's  faults  were  suffi- 
ciently apparent;  but  from  the  day  this 
campaign  opened  I  had  daily  inter- 
course with  him,  and  no  more  subordi- 
nate or  obedient  officer  served  in  this 
army.  No  matter  how  unwelcome  an 
order  he  received,  or  the  time  he  re- 
ceived it,  he  was  the  only  one  who  in- 
variably obeyed  it  promptly,  cheer  fully, 
ungrudgingly.  And  I  saw  him  at  all 
hours,  —  day,  dawn,  and  midnight  — 
morning  and  evening,  —  and  never 
when  he  was  not  ready  and  anxious 
to  do  his  whole  duty/ 

This  is  delightful  testimony  as  to 
deeds,  the  hand;  but  words,  the 
tongue,  —  you  remember  what  it  had 
been  a  year  before.  In  the  essential 
letter  to  Chase,  above  referred  to, 
written  before  the  Atlanta  campaign 
began,  Hooker  said,  'Sherman  is  an 
active,  energetic  officer,  but  in  judg- 
ment is  as  infirm  as  Burnside.  He  will 
never  be  successful.  Please  remember 
what  I  tell  you.'  That  he  expressed 
these  opinions,  in  season  and  out  of  sea- 
son, where  they  were  sure  to  do  more 
injury  to  him  than  to  his  commander, 
is  absolutely  proved  by  the  extraor- 
dinary letter  of  warning  written  by 
Hooker's  nearest  friend  and  supporter, 
Butter  field.  No  more  admirable  and 


more  really  friendly  words  were  ever 
addressed  by  inferior  to  superior.  'You 
should  not  speak  in  the  presence  of 
others  as  you  did  in  my  presence  and 
that  of  Colonel  Wood  to-day,  regard- 
ing General  Sherman  and  his  opera- 
tions ...  I  am  talking  as  a  friend  to 
you.  What  I  have  stated  above  is 
substantially  charged  against  you  with 
regard  to  both  McClellan  and  Burn- 
side.  Don't  give  these  accusations  fur- 
ther weight  by  remarks  concerning 
Sherman  ...  I  know  how  hard  it  is 
for  you  to  conceal  your  honest  opin- 
ions .  .  .  These  opinions  travel  as 
;<  Hooker's  opinions."  Your  own  staff 
are  impregnated  with  them,  and  you 
will  be  accused  in  future  by  any  officer 
serving  under  you  who  may  fall  under 
your  censure,  with  verbal  insubordina- 
tion .  .  .  You  never  were,  nor  never 
will  be  a  politic  man,  but  you  must  be 
guarded.  It  will  be  charged  by  evil- 
disposed  persons  that  you  are  ambi- 
tious to  fill  Sherman's  place  —  not  in 
your  hearing  or  mine  —  but  it  is  the 
way  of  the  world  and  will  be  said.' 

Who  of  us  would  not  esteem  himself 
fortunate  to  have  a  friend  who  would 
speak  like  that? 

But  it  did  no  good.  Perhaps  it  never 
does.  Sherman  disliked  the  words  so 
much  that  he  became  very  mistrustful 
of  the  deeds.  He  had  a  tongue  of  his 
own  and  he  lashed  Hooker  with  it,  as  if 
he  were  a  schoolboy,  and  then  naively 
explained  that  he  had  said  less  than 
the  occasion  demanded.  He  had  his 
bitter,  unworthy  sarcasms,  also,  as 
when  Hooker  dilated  on  the  men  he  had 
lost  and  Sherman  sneered,  '  Oh,  they  '11 
turn  up  in  a  day  or  two.'  Finally,  when 
McPherson  was  killed,  Sherman  put 
Howard  over  Hooker's  head  into  the 
vacant  place. 

It  was  too  much  and  Hooker  asked 
to  be  relieved.  Who  can  blame  him?  It 
was  a  mistake,  of  course.  He  was 
thinking  about  his  dignity.  A  man 


30 


WANDER 


always  makes  a  mistake  when  he 
thinks  about  his  dignity.  He  should 
think  about  his  work,  and  let  others  — 
or,  by  thinking  about  his  work,  make 
others  —  think  about  his  dignity.  But 
Hooker  was  no  more  perfect  than  the 
rest  of  us.  And  so  the  great  fighter 
spent  the  last  year  of  the  war  in  the 
safe  west,  where  there  was  no  fighting, 
only  petty  intrigue,  and  newspaper 
riots,  and  police  duty  generally.  But 
he  was  the  same  old  Hooker  still.  Read 
the  huge  letter  in  which  he  foams  and 
rages  to  Stanton  over  a  rumored  change 
of  his  headquarters,  and  Stanton's 
quiet  snub  in  three  lines :  *  No  order  has 
been  made  or  contemplated  transfer- 
ring headquarters  of  Northern  De- 
partment to  Columbus.  Newspapers 
are  not  very  good  authority  for  the  ac- 
tion of  this  Department/ 

So  he  was  a  thoroughly  human  figure, 
delightful  to  study  and  to  live  with 
because  of  the  intense  humanity  in  his 
very  mistakes  and  failures.  He  was 
not  much  besides  a  soldier;  and  even  as 


a  soldier  he  was  not  quite  so  brilliant 
as  he  thought  he  was.  Yet  he  played  a 
not  undistinguished  part  in  the  great- 
est drama  of  American  history,  and 
with  all  his  faults  there  was  something 
about  him  of  the  true  heroic  stamp, 
something  of  the  boyish,  prating,  blus- 
tering, panic-harboring,  death-defying 
heroes  of  the  Iliad.  When  I  gaze  at 
Massachusetts^  splendid  tribute  to 
him,1  I  think  not  of  the  weaknesses, 
but  of  the  great  fighting  at  Williams- 
burg,  and  Antietam,  and  Lookout,  and 
in  Georgia,  and  even  more  of  the  noble 
prayer  to  be  given  his  old  division  back 
again,  of  the  fine  words  about  Howard, 
—  *  his  offense  to  me  was  forgotten 
when  he  acknowledged  it,'  —  best  of 
all,  of  the  frank  admission  to  Double- 
day  as  to  Chancellorsville,  more  heroic 
than  any  fighting,  'Doubleday,  I  was 
not  hurt  by  a  shell,  and  I  was  not 
drunk.  For  once  I  lost  confidence  in 
Hooker,  and  that  is  all  there  was  to  it/ 

1  The  statue  by  French  and  Potter  near  the 
State  House  in  Boston.  —  THE  EDITORS. 


WANDER 


BY   GINO   C.    SPERANZA 


WE  were  beyond  the  region  of  the 
mansions  of  wealth  and  lawns  of  per- 
fection; beyond  sign-posts  that  point 
to  all  sorts  of  dangers  which  lie  in  the 
motorist's  path;  we  were  out  on  the 
winding  road  beyond  Filston  Township 
where  high-speed  conveyances  dare 
not  follow.  The  curving,  sandy  strip 
in  front  of  us,  narrowed  by  invading 
shrubbery  and  wild  flowers,  turns 
sharply  two  miles  from  Filston  Court 


House  and  rises  to  a  steep  knoll.  The 
horses  came  to  a  walk  as  they  pulled 
the  wheels  over  the  sand  and  halted, 
panting,  at  its  top  for  a  minute's  rest. 
The  knoll  had  hidden  the  peaceful 
vale  which  now  opened  before  us,  an 
ever-new  bit  of  an  old  world.  Immedi- 
ately below  us  were  its  houses  in  all 
stages  of  dignified  old  age;  each  with 
its  poorer  but  ever  loyal  brother  —  the 
ample,  rambling,  ageing  barn,  patched 


WANDER 


31 


and  propped  up  for  a  little  comfort  in 
its  last  days.  And  in  and  out  among 
them  ran  that  tiny  stream  which  each 
year  seemed  to  grow  slower  in  motion 
and  quieter  in  song.  Perhaps  its  waters 
now  go  to  make  some  great  river  great- 
er in  the  spirit  of  this  age  of  mighty 
combinations;  who  knows! 

As  we  looked  down  on  the  little  val- 
ley, the  sense  of  late  autumn  was  all 
about  us;  nature  had  lost  the  vibrancy 
of  early  October,  the  high-strung  chord 
was  relaxed  and  hummed  only  deep 
notes.  A  sense  of  foreknowledge  of 
change  and  shadows  was  in  every  rip- 
ened, withering  thing,  in  every  flower 
with  its  faded  tints  of  purple  and  yellow 
and  seared  red,  in  every  bird  that  at 
this  time  gathers  with  its  flock,  stripped 
of  gay  colors  and  all  notes  hushed, 
ready  for  the  southward  journey. 

In  this  bit  of  a  corner  of  the  great 
world  lived  men  and  women  who  only 
on  special  occasions  could  either  hire 
a  horse  or  get  a  'lift'  from  a  kindly 
neighbor  to  go  to  the  nearest  village. 
Yet  by  breaking  the  speed  regulations 
of  sundry  towns,  one  could  easily  mo- 
tor out  from  the  great  metropolis  to 
this  very  knoll  in  less  than  two  hours. 
Here  dwelt  some  of  our  brothers,  not 
necessarily  better  than  their  kin  in  the 
cities,  but  certainly  less  covetous  of 
earthly  goods  and  fame;  not  necessarily 
finer-grained,  but  dwellers  in  old  houses 
of  noble  lines,  with  the  freedom  of  great 
spruces  and  maples  above  them  and 
mysterious  silences  about  them. 

We  had  come  to  see  Wander  — 
Josef  Wander  —  of  whom  I  had  heard 
conflicting  reports,  depending,  no 
doubt,  on  the  point  of  view  from  which 
local  observers  studied  this  alien  in 
their  midst.  No  one,  however,  could 
explain  why  a  Bohemian  should  have 
chosen  this  particular  and  rather  aloof 
spot  to  live  in,  especially  a  Bohemian 
who,  it  was  reported,  could  make  many 
of  those  very  things  which  captains  of 


industry  wax  rich  in  producing  by  the 
million  for  the  millions.  Not  even  the 
village  doctor  could  tell,  though  prob- 
ably he  knew  more  about  silent  Wan- 
der than  any  other  man  in  the  county. 
It  was  admitted  that  he  raised  the 
best  strawberries  within  five  miles, 
although  he  grew  them  in  what  had 
been,  for  his  Anglo-Saxon  predecessor- 
in-ownership,  a  pasture  lot;  it  was  also 
universally  conceded  that  he  had  re- 
habilitated an  apple  orchard  which 
any  Yankee  farmer  would  have  de- 
clared beyond  redemption.  But  the 
strange  thing  about  him,  besides  and 
above  the  fact  that  he  was  an  alien, 
was  that,  being  a  farmer  in  summer,  he 
turned  into  a  skilled  artisan  in  winter. 
His  neighbors  did  not  call  him  that;  if 
they  had  been  compelled  to  describe 
his  winter  labors  by  a  single  word 
they  would  probably  have  called  him 
an  artist,  for  he  drew  designs  on  rather 
strange  paper  marked  with  little 
squares,  and  colored  his  'pictures' 
with  various  hues.  Still,  the  neighbors 
had  two  distinct  reasons  for  not  classi- 
fying him  strictly  as  an  artist :  the  first 
being  that  he  was  such  a  good  farmer, 
and  the  second,  that  in  his  art  he  did 
not  stop  at  drawing  and  painting  but 
went  beyond  these,  transferring  his 
'pictures*  to  rugs  and  carpets.  This, 
in  the  opinion  of  his  neighbors,  reduced 
him  to  the  rank  of  a  practical  factory- 
hand.  But  even  there,  according  to 
the  general  opinion,  he  did  not  fit  very 
well,  for  you  could  not  consider  a  man 
practical  who  spent  two  months  mak- 
ing a  bit  of  carpet  which  lacked  the 
spirited  action  of  the  'stag  hunt*  on 
the  rugs  at  the  general  store.  Really, 
you  could  not  commiserate  a  man  be- 
cause he  could  not  sell  goods  which  he 
offered  at  one  hundred  times  the  mar- 
ket price  of  similar  things.  True,  once 
in  a  while  a  stranger  from  the  city  had 
bought  one  of  them,  and  the  doctor  had 
reported  that  he  had  seen  a  framed 


WANDER 


photograph  of  a  forty-by-fifty  rug 
which  Wander  had  made  for  the  house 
of  a  celebrated  financier  of  the  West. 

The  little  community,  in  short,  while 
it  did  not  dislike  him,  could  not  possi- 
bly make  him  a  fellow  member.  But 
they  respected  him,  which  perhaps 
was  a  good  deal  from  these  natives 
toward  an  outsider  who  to  them  was 
strange  rather  than  superior.  Their 
respect,  however,  was  not  due  to  his 
urbanity  and  courtesy  of  manner,  —  a 
characteristic  which  stamped  him,  ac- 
cording to  their  standards,  most  dis- 
tinctly as  a  foreigner,  —  or  to  his  love 
of  beautiful  things  entirely  beyond  their 
vision,  but  to  the  way  in  which  two 
years  before  he  had  faced  an  obviously 
great  trial. 

There  had  been  a  boy,  a  young  man 
rather,  who,  if  you  had  seen  him  hoeing 
in  the  garden  at  springtime,  would 
have  struck  you  as  no  different  from 
other  farm-hands  except  that  he  work- 
ed harder.  He  was  handy  with  tools, 
and  many  a  neighbor's  gate  had  been 
embellished  by  a  bit  of  carving  which  he 
seemed  to  like  to  make  and  give  away. 
Often  he  was  absent,  sometimes  for 
long  stretches,  and  then  the  neighbors 
in  the  warm  evenings  would  sit  hope- 
fully on  their  porches  awaiting  the  re- 
turn of  the  young  man  with  the  fiddle. 
For  when  at  home  he  played  often,  in- 
deed every  day.  The  music  was  con- 
sidered to  be  very  unorthodox,  except 
some  occasional  slow  movements  which 
probably,  so  they  reasoned,  were  the 
foreign  and  rather  degenerate  forms  of 
our  devotional  hymns;  a  good  deal  was 
faster  than  any  church  organ  could  pos- 
sibly keep  up  with,  and  some  of  it  was 
out-and-out  devilish  the  way  it  seemed 
to  jump  and  rave  and  cry.  There  was 
no  other  way  to  describe  it;  but  some- 
how it  was  pleasant;  it  sort  of  shook 
you,  and  then  —  what  did  Jim  Black 
say  of  it  ?  —  it '  laid  you  down  to  sleep.' 

It  was  only  on  the  occasion  when  the 


village  doctor  had  to  be  called  in, — 
and  in  the  anxious  hours  of  waiting 
and  hoping,  —  that  Wander  told  of  his 
son's  training:  where  and  for  whom 
he  played,  and  how  Kubelik  himself 
had  honored  his  boy  with  his  friend- 
ship and  counsel.  No  one  in  the  neigh- 
borhood would  ever  have  known  that  a 
virtuoso  was  among  them  if  the  reti- 
cent Wander  had  not  talked  in  an  hour 
of  great  emotion  to  the  man  who  he 
hoped  would  save  the  precious  life  now 
stricken. 

But  the  little  valley  was  never  again 
to  hear  the  young  musician's  glorious 
tones,  for  on  a  terrible  winter  day  the 
anxious  faces  pressed  against  the  cold 
window-panes,  watching  for  news,  saw 
the  doctor  driving  away  without  the 
usual  greeting  at  the  door  —  and  they 
knew. 

Days  after,  the  only  one  who  ap- 
peared not  to  know  of  a  great  change 
and  of  a  greater  silence,  had  been  Wan- 
der. No  one  spoke  to  him;  no  one 
could.  He  went  on  with  his  usual  work 
in  the  usual  way;  only  on  close  watch- 
ing would  you  have  noticed  how  tense 
was  the  laborer  at  his  loom. 

Here  we  were  at  his  house,  speckless 
and  snug  and  serviceable  despite  its 
years;  for  it  was  old,  as  you  could  see 
by  the  slope  of  the  roof  and  that  ap- 
pearance of  having  settled  down  cosily 
into  the  land,  which  is  characteristic  of 
old,  well-built  houses.  But  there  was  a 
touch  of  the  new,  here  and  there,  like 
the  concrete  path  from  the  gate  to  the 
house;  and  the  curtains  at  the  windows 
were  such  as  were  never  dreamed  of  by 
Colonial  dames. 

Wander  himself  opened  the  door  and 
ushered  us  in  with  a  simple  greeting 
and  a  formal  bow.  He  was  a  fine-look- 
ing man  past  the  forties,  erect  and  thin, 
but  not  gaunt  as  are  some  of  our  farm- 
ers. A  good  carriage  and  a  fine  head 
gave  him  a  distinction  which  his  Amer- 
ican overalls  and  collarless  shirt  could 


WANDER 


not  disguise.  Conversation  was  not 
very  easy,  as  he  spoke  little  English,  al- 
though the  words  he  used  were  correct. 
But  the  card  of  the  village  doctor 
helped  to  relieve  his  embarrassment 
and  to  set  free  his  little  store  of  our  lan- 
guage. He  soon  understood  that  he 
was  not  being  interviewed,  and  that 
idle  curiosity  was  not  the  moving  force 
behind  our  visit ;  the  way  my  wife  spoke 
of  weaving,  the  interest  in  her  eyes  and 
in  her  hands  as  she  took  up  this  sample 
and  that,  stirred  the  friendly  chord  of 
his  artisanship.  I  perceived  now  that 
Wander  was  not  reticent  by  nature;  he 
had  become  so  by  the  lack,  not  of  lan- 
guage but  of  fellow  feeling.  Soon  it 
was  all  being  painted  before  us,  or, 
rather,  before  her,  sketchily,  choppily 
even,  but  vividly  enough,  —  the  battle 
of  his  life;  not  as  a  story  for  our  admir- 
ation, not  even  as  the  recital  of  a  strug- 
gle, but  the  plain  tale  of  one  whose 
hands  were  finely  trained,  told  to  one 
who  he  felt  knew  what  wonders  manual 
artisanship  could  achieve. 

He  had  come  to  America  twenty 
years  ago,  with  a  little  money,  a  young 
wife,  and  a  capital  of  three  trades — or 
rather  four  —  accumulated  both  tra- 
ditionally and  by  a  decade  of  hard 
training.  He  called  them  trades,  but 
some  at  least  deserved  a  better  name. 
He  was  born  on  a  farm  and  had  lived  a 
farmer  boy's  life;  he  had  learned  the 
practice  of  dyeing,  from  an  interest  in 
the  things  of  nature,  and  had  improved 
his  natural  lore  by  a  study  of  chemical 
dyeing.  He  knew  music  in  its  theory 
and  technique,  knew  its  masters  and 
its  powers.  And  he  could  make  carpets 
and  rugs.  All  he  knew  and  all  he  could 
do,  except  for  some  little  modernizing 
in  chemical  lore,  his  father  had  known 
and  done  before  him;  and  his  grandfa- 
ther. Beyond  that  he  could  not  remem- 
ber; but  he  was  clear  that  whatever  they 
had  done  had  been  done  better  than 
by  himself  whom  they  had  taught. 

VOL.  114- NO.  1 


He  first  invested  his  material  and 
manual  capital  in  the  West.  Farming, 
he  reasoned,  was  the  new  country's  life 
blood.  The  new  environment  was  lone- 
some, but  his  wife  was  a  brave  woman 
and  capable;  'she  could  do  all  the 
things  possible/  as  he  put  it;  and  a 
fine  light  blazed  from  his  eyes  at  this 
mention  of  his  dead  wife.  But  the 
hands  that  had  the  traditional  cunning 
of  the  Continental  peasant  found  them- 
selves at  a  distinct  disadvantage  in  the 
management  of  farm-machinery.  And 
oh,  how  much  it  cost  and  how  easily  it 
broke!  It  was  judgment  not  loss  of 
nerve,  as  I  gauged  it,  that  made  him  sell 
his  farm  for  a  disadvantageous  price. 

Then  a  great  city  of  the  West  tried 
to  utilize  his  knowledge  in  a  huge  es- 
tablishment. The  same  principle  is  at 
work  in  dyeing  a  bit  of  wool  in  a  kettle 
over  a  stone  fireplace,  as  in  coloring 
miles  of  cloth  in  the  fathomless  vats  of 
some  great  dye-works;  the  same  colors 
are  produced  from  roots  and  leaves  ga- 
thered in  bosky  shades  that  are  precipi- 
tated from  chemical  compounds  in  in- 
dustrial laboratories,  though  some  very 
discriminating  persons  make  a  vast  dis- 
tinction between  the  two.  Wander 
could  put  his  hand  to  either  method, 
was  as  expert  in  the  one  as  in  the  other. 
But  the  old  way  was  an  occupation  as 
well  as  a  trade,  the  new  way  a  poison- 
ing as  well  as  a  means  of  earning  a  liv- 
ing. You  must  consider,  however,  that 
a  little  baby  was  growing  into  boyhood, 
and  fathers  cannot  always  choose.  His 
good  sense^and  his  good  wife  made  him 
quit  eventually,  after  an  object-lesson 
of  a1  month  in  bed.  He  moved  East 
and  looked  for  a  farm,  a  different  one 
from  that  of  his  earlier  struggles. 

As  he  stopped  a  moment  to  collect 
his  thoughts,  I  interrupted  him  to  ask 
why  he  had  not  put  his  musical  train- 
ing to  use.  A  smile  just  flickered  and 
passed  into  the  darkness  of  hidden 
thoughts  as  he  said,  *I  did  —  I  taught 


34 


WANDER 


my  boy  to  play.'  But  of  course  mu- 
sic, like  other  arts  in  the  blood  of 
some  peoples,  —  that  native  power  to 
create  loveliness,  disciplined  if  not 
taught  to  them  by  those  who  are  not 
teachers  but  fellow  craftsmen  and  fel- 
low lovers,  —  is  pleasure,  is  joy,  is 
refuge,  and  nothing  else.  Men  like 
Wander  would  seldom  think  of  such  a 
gift  as  a  means  of  making  money,  first 
because  so  many  of  his  kith  and  kin 
possess  it  and  it  comes  so  easily  as  to 
seem  to  have  no  market  value;  and 
then  because  such  craftsmen  have  the 
clear  sight  which  makes  them  perceive 
the  dividing  line  between  themselves 
and  the  great  masters.  Able  as  they 
are,  they  know  that  their  fingering  can 
be  done  infinitely  better;  they  feel 
themselves  homely  fiddlers  unworthy 
of  a  wage,  even  though  they  know  that 
wondrous  bows  draw  melodies  for 
which  thousands  of  dollars  are  paid. 

Now  he  was  spreading  out  before  us 
the  latest  labor  of  his  loom  —  a  great, 
heavy,  almost  massive  rug,  of  close, 
even,  solid  workmanship,  »but  discour- 
aging to  the  eye  that  sought  beauty. 
I  could  see  him  search  in  my  wife's 
face  for  some  praise  —  that  in  truth 
could  not  honestly  be  forthcoming. 
The  workmanship  was  excellent,  the 
taste  was  poor,  both  in  color  and  in  de- 
sign. I  wondered  how  much  of  this  bad 
taste,  so  strangely  in  contrast  with  his 
fine  appreciations  along  other  lines, 
was  native  and  how  much  acquired. 
There  was  undoubtedly  the  *  parlor- 
car*  decorative  influence  apparent  in 
his  design;  but  the  color-scheme  was 
utterly  alien  even  to  the  most  advanced 
exponent  of  the  *  Pullman '  school,  not 
merely  in  its  strong  colors  but  in  a  fun- 
damental lack  of  any  idea  of  blending 
and  tones.  It  seemed  a  striking  example 
of  what  may  happen  to  skill  when  un- 
aided and  undisciplined  by  frequent 
reference  to  and  companionship  with 
finely  suggestive  artistic  precedents 


and  examples.  It  was  almost  tragic - 
certainly  very  sad  —  to  see  so  much 
skill  creating  such  base  product.  Who 
knows  but  that  even  so  little  as  an 
occasional  friendly  call  or  a  little  inter- 
est from  people  who  knew,  might  have 
been  just  the  leaven  to  raise  his  native 
expertness  into  a  noble  artistry! 

We  travel  madly  over  seas  and  across 
mountains  to  see  the  charming  or 
quaint  labor  of  Continental  peasants; 
we  storm  little  shops  in  strange,  dis- 
tant towns  where  deft  artisans  still 
dwell  as  in  the  days  of  the  ancient  and 
honored  guilds;  we  actually  can  make 
ourselves  stand  still  —  thousands  of 
miles  from  home  —  to  listen  to  a 
Sicilian  peasant  playing  his  pipes.  Yet 
there  are  artisans  and  craftsmen,  yes, 
even  flute-players  and  poets,  in  our 
very  midst  or  at  our  very  thresholds, 
full-handed  yet  hungry,  —  worse,  in- 
finitely worse  than  that,  —  ashamed  of 
their  very  skill,  hiding  their  ennobling 
craftsmanship  in  a  country  which,  hav- 
ing waxed  fabulously  rich  in  utilizing 
the  great  forces  of  machinery,  has  glori- 
fied those  forces  and  in  them  sought 
only  the  world's  mastery. 

Ah,  Wander,  has  the  throb  of  our 
great  engines  snapped  the  finer  chords 
upon  which  the  viol  plays  to  the  soul? 
Have  the  factory-whistle  and  the  dan- 
ger-horn deafened  the  ear  that  sought 
low,  sweet  melodies?  Are  we  safe  and 
strong  and  powerful  because  of  our 
steel  battlements,  our  skyward  towers, 
our  coal-mountains  and  coffers  of 
gold?  Tell  me,  after  our  machines  shall 
have  given  every  boy  in  the  land  a  per- 
fectly cast  whistle,  will  there  not  be 
boys  seeking  joy  in  whittling  an  indif- 
ferent one?  After  our  electric  looms 
shall  have  patterned  a  perfect,  ma- 
chined Valenciennes  lace  for  every  girl's 
dress,  shall  no  feminine  hand  seek  its 
own  expression  with  the  needle?  Will 
the  sample-book  of  the  factory  com- 
pensate for  the  loss  of  the  home  samp- 


WANDER 


35 


ler;  will  the  telephone-list  suffice  as  a 
friends'  list  for  the  old  album  wherein 
a  Whittier  and  a  Longfellow  did  not 
disdain  to  pen  a  thought? 

I  looked  at  Wander,  —  an  alien  in  a 
strange  land,-  -physically  and  spiritu- 
ally battle-scarred,  an  artisan  in  his 
own  country,  a  failure  as  a  jack-of-all- 
trades  in  ours.  Here  he  was  more  iso- 
lated than  the  loss  of  his  wife  and  son 
could  possibly  make  him,  because  all 
that  his  being  craved  and  could  achieve 
had  been  hammered  and  beaten  back 
into  his  soul,  isolating  him  in  a  crowd 
that  cared  so  little  only  because  it  did 
not  understand  what  it  all  meant  to 
him.  Here  he  was  on  a  farm  which  he 
had  redeemed  but  which  the  price  of 
unskilled  labor  rendered  useless  as  a 
means  of  material  profit.  His  prede- 
cessor, finding  it  unprofitable,  had 
sold  it  as  best  he  could,  though  it  had 
been  his  home  and  his  father's  home. 
But  this  unpractical  Bohemian  held  to 
it  even  when  the  growing  of  luscious 
berries  had  to  be  abandoned  because 
nowadays  boys  charge  too  much  to  pick 
them.  True,  it  gave  him  enough  to  live 
on  in  a  frugal  way,  enough  to  live  on  — 
and  something  more. 

Something  more!  We  saw  that  as  we 
walked  to  a  knoll  a  little  way  from  the 
house,  which  had  taken  our  eye  as  we 
had  come  in  and  which  we  now  asked 
permission  to  see.  He  led  us,  a  gracious 
host,  to  that  Something  More.  The 
knoll  had  been  made  into  a  little  gar- 
den, with  steps  cut  into  the  green  sod; 
it  was  bright,  fragrant,  quiet;  it  told 
us  something  even  before  he  spoke. 
*  My  wife  is  here.'  He  stood  straight, 
he  spoke  with  dignity  —  he  was  pre- 
senting one  great  lady  to  another. 

Wander,  all  that  your  hands  strove 
to  do-  -  perhaps  chiefly  what  they  tried 
and  failed  at  -  -  has  not  been  useless. 
Out  of  each  plan  and  design  that  you  re- 
joiced over  in  the  making,  as  out  of  each 
broken  bit  of  failed  achievement,  was 


built  for  you  the  endless  peace  and  en- 
during hope  of  that  Something  More. 

And  what  of  your  loom  and  your 
fiddle  —  what  of  your  hoe  and  your 
dye-pot?  yours  and  those  of  a  hundred 
other  men  of  your  kind  —  shall  they  be 
of  no  use  to  us?  Shall  they  be  but  the 
theme  for  an  elegy,  the  adieu  to  a  fine 
thing  doomed?  Have  we  worked  so 
hard,  so  hard  —  for  we  have  done  that 
like  men  —  that  now  as  we  sit  at  noon- 
tide for  a  little  rest  and  a  little  stillness 
we  can  only  sleep,  not  dream?  Or  is  it 
that  our  striving  so  unceasingly  to  per- 
fect this  motor  or  that  drill,  to  make 
a  wheel  do  a  hundred  more  things 
than  it  ever  did,  has  been  in  order  to 
secure  more  time  for  creative  leisure 
for  our  hands  and  our  souls?  leisure  to 
see  and  feel  and  understand,  leisure 
to  hold  out  our  hands  and  snatch  from 
the  eternal  ether  some  other  forces  than 
those  which  turn  great  engines  and 
blast  huge  mountains? 

Can  it  be  that  we  have  already 
turned  our  faces  to  the  sun?  Does  it 
mean  nothing,  Wander,  when  a  people, 
a  busy,  money-making,  comfort-seek- 
ing people,  enlist  to  fight  for  the  pre- 
servation of  great  trees?  when  they  halt 
and  turn  back  the  railroads  that  built 
up  their  country,  that  a  landscape  may 
be  preserved  for  their  children?  when 
dynamos  are  slackened  rather  than  the 
radiance  of  a  tumbling  waterfall  be 
lost?  And  what  of  men  who  solemnly 
decree  a  bill  of  rights  to  birds,  that 
they  may  live  and  sing  and  flash  their 
bright  color  against  the  sun? 

I  looked  at  Wander  as  these  thoughts 
surged  in  my  mind  and  heart.  Was  he 
a  prophet  or  a  sacrifice?  My  wife  was 
holding  out  her  hand  to  him,  over 
which  he  bowed.  *  May  I  send  you  some 
seeds  from  my  garden?'  she  asked  with 
fine,  practical  sympathy.  'Yes,  lady,' 
he  answered ;  and  with  unaffected  plea- 
sure he  added  with  a  smile,  'Next 
spring  they  will  bloom  into  flower!'  , 


THE  JELLY-FISH  AND  EQUAL  SUFFRAGE 


BY   C.   WILLIAM   BEEBE 


IT  is  a  long  cry  from  the  jelly-fish  to 
equal  suffrage.  But  it  is  also  a  long  cry 
from  the  moon  to  the  tides.  And  lack- 
ing the  one,  we  must  forego  the  other. 
Presuppose  moonlight,  and  we  presup- 
pose crested  waves  of  green  and  silver, 
and  the  wash  of  the  sea  along  a  white 
beach,  at  night.  Assume  the  jelly-fish 
—  an  infinitesimal  gray  film  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  ocean  —  and  we  assume 
banners  of  white  and  gold,  and  many 
groups  of  serious-minded  human  beings 
gathered  together,  in  the  cities,  in  the 
lesser  towns,  in  banquet  halls,  in  ob- 
scure dwelling-places,  in  order  that 
suffrage  and  sex-equality  may  be  pro- 
claimed aloud  to  a  harassed  and  some- 
what unobservant  world. 

Together,  these  many  isolated  groups 
have  built  up  a  great  structure  from 
their  ideals,  their  propaganda  —  it  is 
architectural  in  its  proportions,  reach- 
ing to  the  stars.  But  one  of  its  corner- 
stones is  a  little  gelatinous  body,  mod- 
est and  humble,  making  no  pretension 
whatever  to  greatness.  However,  it  is 
not  to  be  dispensed  with;  for  without 
sex  there  would  be  no  demand  for  just- 
ice, since  with  equality  all  would  share 
equally.  To  deny  the  jelly-fish  is  to 
deny  that  great  gulf  between  man  and 
woman.  For  it  is  here  that  we  have  the 
alpha  and  omega  of  sex;  the  jelly-fish 
may  mark  for  us  the  beginning  of  that 
wonderful  distinction  which  through 
all  the  dim  aeons  of  past  time  has  filled 
the  waters  and  the  land  with  joys  and 
sorrows;  has  induced  untold  myriads 


of  battles  and  courtships;  has  brought 
into  existence  the  most  beautiful  colors 
of  the  animal  world,  and  inspired  all 
songs  of  love,  from  the  cricket's  chirp 
and  the  skylark's  minstrelsy  to  the 
very  sonnets  of  a  Browning. 

It  is  not  without  a  somewhat  cata- 
clysmic mental  readjustment  that  one 
is  turned  round  and  about  and  made  to 
consider  this  picture  of  the  universe  bal- 
anced on  the  small,  uncertain,  spine- 
less back  of  this  infant  of  the  sea.  An 
atom  of  an  Atlas,  with  a  preposter- 
ous torso,  with  the  most  shy  and  the 
most  unobtrusive  of  personalities,  who 
is  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  sum 
total  of  everything  that  the  word  sex 
implies,  which  at  this  particular  mo- 
ment of  this  particular  century  is  the 
demand  for  equal  suffrage,  for  equality, 
mental,  spiritual,  and  political  —  chief- 
ly political.  For  some  occult  reason 
this  has  become  the  paramount  issue, 
although  it  may  be  in  the  last  analysis 
little  more  than  a  symbol  —  not  the 
final  goal,  the  ultimate  ideal,  but  a 
gateway  which  when  once  unlocked  will 
disclose  certain  unsuspected  vistas  of 
freedom,  a  new  land  of  sex-democracy. 
But  if  a  democracy  would  survive  there 
must  be  unity  and  cooperation  in  all 
its  parts.  A  false  distribution  of  power 
produces  an  imperfect  cooperation,  •*• 
a  superiority  and  a  corresponding  infe- 
riority which  promote  a  chaotic  divi- 
sion of  interest  and  a  total  and  wide- 
spread inefficiency.  This  is  the  law. 
And  for  this,  too,  we  must  return 
thanks  to  the  jelly-fish.  For  he  stands 
close  to  the  true  centre  which  marks 


THE  JELLY-FISH  AND  EQUAL  SUFFRAGE 


37 


the  divergence  of  the  two  paths  —  one 
for  the  male,  another  for  the  female. 

It  is  true  that  in  the  beginning  this 
sex-differentiation  was  neither  signifi- 
cant nor  profound;  but  in  league  with 
time,  to  which  all  things  are  possible, 
it  brought  forward  that  miracle  of  all 
miracles,  the  mind,  —  introspective, 
self-analytic,  competent  to  understand 
the  process  of  its  own  creation,  eager 
to  know  and  to  fulfill  the  ultimate  pur- 
pose for  which  it  was  destined.  The 
end,  the  fulfillment,  is  not  to  be  esti- 
mated, for  the  two  halves  of  the  sex- 
mind  are  as  yet  neither  unified  nor 
correlated,  save  in  some  of  the  smallest 
matters  of  everyday  life.  And  the  be- 
ginning, itself,  with  all  the  intervening 
steps,  is  clouded  and  obscure. 

Science,  however,  has  traced  the  his- 
tory of  this  divergence  and  subsequent 
development,  painstakingly,  gleaning  it 
piecemeal,  with  infinite  patience,  from 
the  palimpsest  of  evolution.  Aristotle 
in  his  Athenian  study  pondered  upon 
it;  the  mediaeval  seeker  for  truth,  bur- 
dened by  his  poor  and  faulty  micro- 
scope, groped  blindly  after  facts,  finding 
them  only  to  lose  them  in  the  all-per- 
vading fog  of  superstition.  To-day,  in 
our  laboratories  and  on  countless  ex- 
peditions, we  are  gathering  records  of 
a  host  of  strange  phenomena,  full  of 
romance  and  beauty :  of  the  march  up- 
ward from  water  and  slime,  to  earth  and 
air  and  mental  freedom,  of  those  two 
miraculous  beings,  male  and  female. 

But  science  has  written  these  records 
in  a  tongue  of  her  own  devising,  so 
that  the  beauty  and  romance  are  in 
hiding  behind  certain  select  and  ab- 
struse technicalities.  What  universal 
emotion  is  brought  into  being  if  we 
talk  of  syngamy  of  gametes,  or  the 
cytogamy  of  zygotes?  And  the  strange 
histories  of  amphiblastulas  and  paren- 
chymulas  which  are  one  and  yet  differ- 
ent, -  -  are  these  sufficient  in  them- 
selves to  evoke  the  tears  and  laughter 


of  the  multitude?  It  is  better  to  put 
aside  the  technicalities,  since  they  do 
not  serve  our  purpose  but  are  a  burden 
and  an  offense  when  removed  from 
their  rightful  niche  in  the  scientific 
scheme;  it  is  better  to  deal  simply  with 
the  simplicities  of  life.  At  the  begin- 
nings of  sex  there  was  neither  complex- 
ity nor  confusion,  but  an  orderly  and 
fitting  distribution  of  small  cells  to 
form  the  first  double  link  in  the  long 
chain  which  binds  together  this  twen- 
tieth century  and  that  dim  and  quiet 
age  when  the  world  was  young. 

In  reality,  we  might  observe  the  first 
hints  of  sex  far  lower  in  the  scale  of  life 
than  the  jelly-fish,  but  to  do  so  we 
should  have  to  invoke  the  aid  of  the 
microscope  and  the  scientific  tongue, 
and  that  we  have  agreed  not  to  do. 

Nevertheless,  the  jelly-fish  is  well 
worth  the  fullest  and  most  concentrated 
consideration.  He,  with  his  kind,  lives 
a  life  filled  to  overflowing  with  all  man- 
ner of  marvels.  It  is  like  a  fairy  tale; 
but  it  is  a  hundred  times  more  delight- 
ful because  it  is  a  hundred  times  less 
logical.  As  we  look  down  upon  a  host 
of  jelly-fishes  drifting  slowly  along  on 
their  indefinite  path  through  life,  we 
see  that  some  are  almost  a  monochrome 
gray,  a  mere  ghostly  film  of  life,  hard- 
ly separable  from  the  surrounding  wa- 
ter. In  others,  four  conspicuous  rings, 
pale  salmon  pink  and  joined  at  the 
centre,  show  clearly  through  the  trans- 
lucent body.  These  mark  the  females, 
with  their  burden  of  myriads  of  eggs 
which  are  being  sown  as  the  mother 
swims  along  —  living  seed,  of  which 
only  a  tithe  will  survive  to  face  a  haz- 
ardous existence. 

The  character  of  this  survival  is 
unique;  it  is  the  prologue  to  the  fantasy, 
the  fairy  tale.  For  these  children  of  the 
sea  take  it  upon  themselves  to  set  aside 
every  law  of  a  normal  universe.  It  is 
easy  to  believe  from  observation  and 
comparison  with  its  parent,  that  the 


38 


THE  JELLY-FISH  AND  EQUAL  SUFFRAGE 


kitten  will  eventually  become  a  cat, 
that  the  friendly  puppy  on  the  sidewalk 
will  assume  in  due  time  the  parental 
attributes  transmitted  to  him.  But  we 
should  never  guess  who  was  the  imme- 
diate ancestor  of  the  little  jelly-fish. 
This  atom  sinks  straightway  down, 
down  through  the  green  depths  of  the 
sea  and  takes  root  in  the  sand,  in  the 
heart  of  abysmal  darkness.  There  he 
lives,  and  at  the  proper  hour  is  trans- 
formed into  a  slender  stalk  with  a  circle 
of  fingers  at  the  top.  This,  in  turn, 
splits  up  into  many  discs  which  fit  one 
into  the  other  like  saucers  stacked  to- 
gether; and  one  by  one  these  become 
free  and  swim  off,  each  a  perfect  jelly- 
fish. Think  of  a  sedentary  and  some- 
what august  barnyard  hen  laying  eggs 
which  hatch  into  sunflowers  only  to  dis- 
solve into  a  noisy  flock  of  full-grown 
chickens,  and  we  can  better  image  the 
life  of  the  infant  jelly-fish,  who  not  at 
all  resembles  his  mother,  but  is  quite 
like  his  grandmother,  who  is,  in  all  ver- 
ity, his  mother  herself. 

To  continue  with  this  jelly-fish 
group  is  to  enter  into  a  land  where 
Alice  and  her  consummate  credulity 
would  be  taxed  to  the  utmost.  At  the 
very  portals,  we  meet  that  small  crea- 
ture of  the  ponds,  the  hydra.  He  is 
supremely  gifted  and  versatile,  and  he 
is  not  to  be  exterminated.  Cut  him 
lengthwise,  crosswise,  disarm  him  ut- 
terly, and  he  is  discommoded  only  tem- 
porarily, for  in  the  shortest  possible 
time  he  grows  what  is  lacking  and  re- 
sumes the  business  of  life.  Did  one  of 
his  tentacles  offend  him,  he  would  not 
dare  pluck  it  off,  for  straightway  near- 
by there  would  be  regenerated  an  offen- 
sive twin.  He  can  but  lose  himself  to 
find  himself,  once  more.  But  what  is 
portentous,  and  germane  to  the  thesis, 
is  the  uncertainty  of  sex  in  hydra.  If  a 
hydra  falls  upon  pleasant  days  and 
finds  an  abundance  of  food,  all  his  off- 
spring are  females.  When  the  food-sup- 


ply lessens,  his  progeny  are  individu- 
ally half  male  and  half  female  -  -  an 
equality  of  sex  with  a  vengeance.  And 
when  the  wolf  is  at  the  door  only  male 
hydras  are  born.  We  do  not  ask  for  ex- 
planation; like  the  jelly-fish,  he  has  be- 
come a  law  unto  himself.  He  is  the 
anarchist,  the  revolutionary;  and  close 
beside  him,  in  spirit  at  least,  there  is 
one  other.  He  is  a  little  green  bug,  be- 
longing to  the  aphids  or  plant-lice  clan. 
This  clan  gathers  in  clusters  on  the 
stems  of  garden  flowers  and  thrives 
there  in  affluence  and  ease.  Speaking 
comparatively,  the  aphid  is  highly  or- 
ganized, but  his  progeny  are  governed 
by  the  same  obscure  law  that  controls 
the  progeny  of  the  hydra.  Through 
the  summer,  when  the  sap  runs  free,  fe- 
male aphids  are  the  rule;  but  at  the  first 
frost,  when  hunger  pinches,  the  male 
predominates.  Alice,  alone,  is  by  na- 
ture fitted  to  cope  with  this  problem. 


ii 

It  is  obvious,  therefore,  that  in  this 
land  of  uncertainties,  sex  does  not  lend 
itself  to  an  earnest,  philosophical  con- 
sideration. It  exists  indeed,  but  when 
any  given  individual  may  be  of  either 
sex,  or  of  none  whatever,  it  is  difficult 
to  take  the  question  seriously.  But  in 
the  higher  insects,  and  in  the  spiders, 
fishes,  frogs,  birds,  and  mammals,  we 
find  sex  coming  to  the  front  as  one  of 
the  momentous  things  in  life.  These 
creatures  are  governed  by  three  great 
desires:  the  desire  to  avoid  danger,  the 
desire  for  food,  and  the  desire  for  the 
continuance  of  their  race.  The  first 
two  naturally  take  precedence,  but  the 
moment  they  are  successfully  achieved, 
all  else  is  sacrificed  to  the  accomplish- 
ment of  the  third.  In  this  last  field, 
two  objects  are  paramount :  the  male 
must,  in  some  one  of  many  ways,  influ- 
ence the  female  to  accept  him;  then  the 
mother  must  be  supplied  with  means  to 


THE  JELLY-FISH  AND  EQUAL  SUFFRAGE 


39 


care  for  her  offspring.  It  is  impossible 
to  consider  any  creature  of  forest  or 
field,  of  the  shore  or  the  sea,  without 
perceiving  the  tremendous  importance 
of  these  two  objects.  In  this  domain, 
when  the  need  for  propagating  the  spe- 
cies is  realized,  there  is  little  more  to 
live  for.  Thousands  of  creatures  die  at 
once;  others  survive  to  a  useless,  hope- 
less existence  for  a  space.  Only  the 
most  highly  developed,  by  an  instinct- 
ive realization  of  other  duties  and  inter- 
ests, live  on  in  full  enjoyment  of  life. 

At  this  stage  of  development,  where 
sex  is  no  longer  an  uncertainty,  the 
law  of  propagation  and  the  law  of  ex- 
termination seem  to  go  hand  in  hand. 
Considering  the  species,  nature  is 
blinded  to  the  fate  of  the  individual.  It 
is  difficult  to  differentiate  the  units 
which  compose  the  whole,  the  devia- 
tions are  at  once  so  subtle  and  so  mi- 
nute. We  know  that  every  man  in  the 
world,  in  greater  or  less  degree,  differs 
from  every  other  man.  Rameses,  the 
Pharaoh,  doubtless  wooed  his  queen  in 
a  manner  dictated  by  his  own  heart 
and  his  own  desires,  and  this  manner 
was  as  individual  and  as  inimitable  as 
his  own  personality  —  unlike  that  of 
any  being  who  preceded  or  followed 
him.  But  we  see  twenty  robins  court- 
ing their  mates,  —  twenty  robins  with 
fluttering  wings  and  bursting  throats, 
—  and  to  our  purblind  vision  they  are 
one  and  the  same.  Nevertheless,  to  the 
discriminating  eyes  of  the  female  rob- 
in, each  one  is  known  for  better  or  for 
worse,  and  so  it  comes  about  that  her 
ultimate  decision  is  no  such  accidental 
or  casual  matter  as  it  appears  to  be. 

It  is  not  here,  however,  that  mating 
and  death  are  inseparable,  although  it 
does  not  follow  that  this  law  operates 
only  upon  the  water  and  the  earth. 
There  are  dire  hours  when  it  fashions 
wings  for  itself  and  makes  its  way 
through  the  tall  flowers  and  the  tree- 
tops;  and  at  such  times  shadow  and 


suffering  follow  in  its  path.  It  searches 
out  the  tiny  door  of  the  beehive  and 
enters  in  —  the  invisible,  but  pitiless, 
guest  at  a  fete  extraordinaire.  For  it  is 
the  day  of  days  when  at  last  the  young 
queen  bees  —  after  the  long  period  of 
special  diet  and  the  equally  long  period 
of  nursing  in  cells  adapted  only  to  the 
royal  grubs  —  shall  leave  their  home 
to  essay  their  one  great  adventure. 

During  all  of  this  time  of  prepara- 
tion, the  drones  and  the  young  prin- 
cesses have  shared  the  same  hive,  even 
the  same  gallery  of  combs,  and  yet  the 
drones  have  made  no  slightest  sign  to 
show  a  recognition  of  their  regal  sis- 
ters. This  is  one  infinitesimal  part  of 
the  careful  scheme  of  nature  to  prevent 
interbreeding.  No  princess  shall  be 
wedded  to  one  of  her  own  family :  this 
is  the  law  of  the  bees.  So,  alone,  she 
creeps  out  on  the  ledge  in  the  warm 
sun,  and  after  a  preliminary  whirring  of 
her  iridescent  wings,  she  gathers  her 
feet  together  and  launches  out  into  the 
air.  The  drones  from  all  the  hives  on 
earth  seem  to  have  been  made  aware 
of  this  critical  moment,  whether  or  not 
by  some  mysterious,  evanescent  scent, 
we  do  not  know.  In  her  wake  come 
legions  of  them,  moved  at  last  to  the 
supreme  effort  of  their  lives. 

One  by  one,  the  weaklings  drop  back; 
others  stray  from  the  scent  trail  to  be- 
come the  legitimate  prey  of  any  ene- 
my who  chances  upon  them;  and  at  last 
only  a  small  group  of  the  fit  remain, 
whirring  through  space  faster  and  fast- 
er. The  drone  —  now  become  a  su- 
preme refutation  of  his  name  — who  by 
some  small  measure  of  strength  of  wing, 
or  keenness  of  scent  or  sight,  is  the  first 
to  reach  the  object  of  his  desires,  ful- 
fills not  only  his  own  individual  des- 
tiny, but  the  destiny  of  the  race  of  bees, 
entire.  And  in  this  fulfillment  he  finds 
his  death.  The  culmination  of  his  am- 
bitions is  neither  more  nor  less  than  an 
expression  of  the  racial  will  to  survive; 


40 


THE  JELLY-FISH  AND  EQUAL  SUFFRAGE 


but  this  culmination  is  at  the  same  time 
the  blotting  out  of  his  own  life.  His 
tiny  body  falls  by  the  roadside,  or  is 
lost  in  a  veritable  forest  of  grass-blades, 
where  it  is  the  rightful  quarry  of  any 
passing  ant.  It  is,  perhaps,  ignomini- 
ous, but  any  death,  eventually,  is  this. 

But  this  atom,  with  its  crushed  and 
helpless  wings  and  its  useless  coat  of 
black  and  gold,  is  a  symbol — a  symbol 
of  payment  to  the  utmost.  He  has  paid 
in  full  for  all  the  care  lavished  upon 
him  by  the  slaves  of  his  hive  —  those 
workers  who  for  so  long  a  time  tended 
and  served  him  ceaselessly  that  he 
might  be  fitted  to  run  the  race  he  has 
run  so  well.  And  he  has  paid,  also,  for 
this  same  faithful  and  untiring  service 
which  was  wasted  upon  thousands  of 
brother  drones  who  shared  the  good 
fortune  of  the  hive,  but  who  were  not 
so  well  fashioned  as  he  to  survive  in  the 
pursuit  for  which  they  were  created. 
Thousands  must  perish  that  one  may 
be  exalted.  When  we  consider  this,  and 
the  energy  expended  in  the  long  prepa- 
ration, we  can  discover  in  it  nothing 
but  a  great  waste.  We  have  not  the 
large  vision  of  nature  which  sees  that  it 
is  well  and  just  to  sacrifice  individuals 
for  the  good  of  the  race.  Civilization 
preserves  the  unfit,  victimizing  the  fit 
to  further  this  end.  This  is  a  strange 
new  fact  for  human  beings  to  have 
discovered  in  life  —  a  very  reversal  of 
the  basic  principles  of  evolution.  And 
if  we  persevere  and  achieve  the  fullest 
development,  we  shall  do  so  in  defiance 
of  the  laws  which  have  brought  us  up 
through  all  the  ages  to  an  undisputed 
sovereignty  of  the  earth.  We  shall  work 
not  with  them,  but  against  them. 

However,  in  relegating  to  ourselves 
this  quality  of  mercy,  we  protect  our- 
selves from  the  sight  of  suffering.  It  is 
not  so  with  the  hive.  For  since  the 
thousand  drones  may  not  live,  they 
must  die.  One  becomes  a  king,  but 
many  are  destined  to  perish  in  unknown 


places  —  let  us  think  that,  defeated, 
they  creep  into  some  crevice  or  shadow 
hidden  from  their  kind.  Some  weak- 
lings return  to  the  hive  to  meet  a  dis- 
honorable death.  Their  fate  has  been 
brought  about  by  no  fault  of  their 
own,  since  from  the  beginning  they 
were  handicapped  by  some  physical 
imperfection;  therefore,  they  make  full 
atonement  for  a  sin  not  committed. 
They  hesitate  on  the  landing  ledge, 
afraid  to  enter  where  there  is  no  longer 
a  rightful  place  for  them.  Some  lose 
heart,  and  turning,  fly  out  into  the 
open  to  make  their  losing  fight  against 
an  inexorable  decree;  others,  with  a 
cunning  and  strategy  born  of  despera- 
tion, steal  past  the  guardian  workers 
and  make  their  way  to  the  uttermost 
depths  of  the  combs,  where,  sooner  or 
later,  they  are  hounded  out  and  stung 
to  death  by  the  workers,  who  for  so 
long  a  time  tended  them  with  un- 
swerving loyalty  and  devotion.  This 
is  the  full  expression  of  that  poetic 
justice  which  was  the  keystone  of  Greek 
tragedy. 

It  is  but  one  of  many  —  this  small 
history.  For  the  courtship  of  all  the 
creatures  on  this  particular  rung  of  the 
evolutionary  ladder  comprises  many 
intricacies  and  follows  a  devious  and 
eventful  path.  It  is  potentially  dra- 
matic, rich  in  situations  for  comedy, 
pure  farce,  and  tragedy  —  and  it  does 
not  lose  in  value  because  we  must  meas- 
ure it  by  a  miniature  and  not  a  heroic 
scale.  There  are  the  spiders,  who  live 
and  die  in  the  shadow  of  a  unique  law 
which  declares  that  the  female  shall  be 
in  all  things  stronger  and  wiser  than 
the  male.  It  is  impossible  to  find  else- 
where in  nature  such  an  astounding 
sex-relation,  for  it  is  the  chief  object  of 
the  male  spider  to  escape  being  de- 
voured by  the  lady  spider  to  whom  he 
has  elected  to  surrender  his  heart.  His 
whole  structure  is  designed  to  aid  and 
abet  him  in  this  perilous  undertaking. 


THE  JELLY-FISH  AND  EQUAL  SUFFRAGE 


41 


He  is  small,  —  indeed  sometimes  mi- 
nute, —  strong  of  limb,  agile,  wary  to 
an  extreme.  As  a  natural  result,  his 
personality  is  not  prepossessing.  He  is 
no  expert  spinner.  He  goes  his  way 
through  life,  now  and  then  weaving  an 
inadequate  web  —  a  poor,  lop-sided 
affair  —  to  snare  the  one  or  two  gnats 
which  are  all  he  needs  as  sustenance 
for  his  diminutive  body. 

At  length,  at  the  proper  hour,  he 
discovers  the  silken  castle  of  a  female, 
and  observing  it,  hesitates,  profoundly 
meditative.  In  this  he  is  not  alone;  for 
others,  too,  have  obeyed  her  silent  sum- 
mons —  have  come  from  far  places  to 
group  themselves  discreetly  near  her. 
There  is  one  suitor,  perhaps,  possessed 
of  great  valor  —  even  so,  for  days  his 
courage  fails  him;  but  at  last,  valiantly, 
this  troubadour  advances  and  twangs 
one  of  the  strands  of  her  web.  By  this, 
he  strives  to  discover  her  temper,  to 
discern  her  mood.  At  last,  overcome 
by  his  own  temerity,  he  risks  all  and 
goes  up  her  silken  ladder,  stumbling 
over  his  own  multifarious  legs,  so  great 
is  his  haste. 

She  watches  him,  immobile,  a  tiny 
sphinx  made  of  velvet;  then  there  is 
a  sudden  rush,  a  fatal  wrapping  of 
the  entangling  mesh  —  and  an  ogre 
drops  aside  the  body  of  a  gallant 
knight,  sucked  dry.  It  was  not  auspi- 
cious, this  venture;  and  six  more  suit- 
ors may  meet  a  like  fate  before  one 
succeeds  in  soothing  her.  No,  a  spider's 
lot  is  not  a  happy  one.  Imagine,  if 
you  please,  the  courage  needed  to  pay 
suit  to  a  lady,  ferocious,  cannibalistic, 
and  of  most  uncertain  temper,  with  the 
added  advantage  of  being  fully  a  thou- 
sand times  as  large  as  one's  self  as  well 
as  thirteen  hundred  times  one's  weight. 

It  is  a  struggle  for  the  imagination 
to  picture  this  in  humanity:  an  aver- 
age man  offering  his  heart  and  hand  to 
a  buxom  damsel  towering  several  hun- 
dred feet  above  him,  and  with  a  weight 


of  some  two  hundred  thousand  pounds ! 
And  yet  such  are  some  of  the  courtships 
taking  place  among  the  wild  folk,  in  the 
fields  about  us,  along  the  dusty  road- 
side, at  our  very  doors  —  courtships  of 
such  seriousness  and  moment  that  life 
and  death  are  daily  weighed  one  against 
the  other. 

Skoal!  to  the  spider  who  dares  wage 
his  small  battle  in  face  of  such  tremen- 
dous odds;  who  holds  steadfastly  to 
the  ideals  of  his  race,  though  failure  is 
synonymous  with  death,  and  success 
signifies  neither  affection  nor  love,  but, 
at  best,  a  momentary  toleration. 


in 

In  the  life  of  the  spider,  we  have, 
perhaps,  the  most  spectacular  juxta- 
position of  the  sexes.  But  in  most  of 
the  higher  insects,  the  ants,  the  wasps, 
and  the  bees,  the  female  is  the  domi- 
nant sex  in  every  way.  In  the  solitary 
species,  the  male  is  seldom  seen;  often 
he  is  stingless,  worthy  the  name  of 
drone,  and  the  moment  of  mating  is 
the  only  high  light  on  the  drab  and 
monotonous  canvas  of  his  existence. 
The  female,  on  the  contrary,  leads  an 
eventful  life  in  which  all  her  acts  are 
carefully  correlated  to  promote  in  her 
the  greatest  possible  efficiency.  For, 
she  must  eventually  build  a  home,  and 
provide  food  for  her  isolated  offspring 
whom  she  will  never  see;  or  she  must 
establish  a  new  colony  over  which  she 
will  reign  supreme  —  a  thankless  mon- 
archy, however,  for  as  queen,  she  be- 
comes nothing  more  than  a  perpetual 
egg-laying  machine.  In  achieving  aris- 
tocracy, she  achieves  personal  annihi- 
lation —  this  is  the  penalty  of  royalty. 

Nevertheless,  there  is  among  the  in- 
sects a  regal  paradox  —  the  queen  who 
is  free  to  live  and  to  love  in  accordance 
with  her  own  desires.  She  is  the  soli- 
tary wasp,  vigilant,  purposeful,  trained 
to  conserve  and  to  expend  her  energy 


THE  JELLY-FISH  AND  EQUAL  SUFFRAGE 


with  the  utmost  discretion.  She  dis- 
misses her  mate,  evincing  no  concern 
over  the  immediate  death  which  may 
be  meted  out  to  him,  and  turns  without 
a  moment's  delay  to  her  work.  She 
searches  out  hollows  in  fence-rails,  in 
tree-trunks;  or,  not  finding  them,  digs 
suitable  ones,  herself,  in  the  ground, 
and  stores  them  with  insects  — thereby 
providing  a  larder  sufficient  unto  the 
tastes  of  a  gourmet.  These  insects  are 
neither  living  nor  dead,  but  stung  so 
cunningly  that,  paralyzed,  they  will 
remain  in  this  comatose  condition  for 
weeks,  until  the  young  wasp-grub, 
awakened  to  the  needs  of  life,  demands 
sustenance.  This  is  unparallelled  evi- 
dence of  the  economics  of  anaesthesia. 
It  is  a  sociological  phenomenon,  one 
manifestation  of  instinct,  plus,  may  we 
say,  feminine  ingenuity.  Indeed,  so 
completely  is  wasp-life  an  affaire  des 
femmes  that  diverse  rivalries  and  com- 
petitions have  sprung  up  between  the 
females  of  different  species. 

A  black-and-white  wasp  overpowers 
a  small  spider  and  carries  it  to  her  im- 
provised larder  in  a  fence-post,  hiding 
it  there.  Since  she  must  secure  other 
provisions  against  a  needy  day,  she 
does  not  linger  to  keep  guard  over  her 
possessions,  but  straightway  flies  away, 
pursued  by  her  shadow,  which  flits 
over  the  clover  leaves  and  the  petals 
of  the  field  flowers.  This  coming  and 
going  has  not  been  accomplished  in  se- 
cret :  another  wasp,  clad  in  solid  irides- 
cent armor,  has  watched  every  move- 
ment, biding  her  time.  When  there  is 
no  one  to  see,  she  flies  swiftly  to  the 
treasure  trove  and  hovers  above  it,  wait- 
ing for  a  second  to  be  sure  that  all  is 
well.  But  this  delay  is  fatal.  The  black- 
and-white  wasp  appears,  moving  slowly 
above  the  long  grass,  for  she  is  weighed 
down  by  her  trophy  —  a  young  cater- 
pillar, mute  evidence  of  skillful  and  well- 
waged  warfare.  She  sees  her  enemy 
and  darts  forward,  letting  her  prey  fall 


by  the  wayside.  The  Amazons  come 
together  in  mid  air,  clinch,  and  fall  to 
the  ground.  The  brilliant  one  is  known 
at  once  for  what  she  is — an  insect  vam- 
pire, striving  to  foist  her  egg  upon  the 
home  of  the  worker  wasp,  that  her  off- 
spring may  feed  upon  the  worker's  egg 
and  the  hidden  store  of  prey.  In  com- 
mon with  every  such  member  of  society, 
she  is  the  dependent,  the  vampire  in 
all  things,  profiting  always  by  her  nat- 
ural gifts  and  the  weakness  of  others. 
She  makes  no  attempt  to  fight,  but  rely- 
ing upon  her  almost  impenetrable  ar- 
mor, curls  herself  up  tightly  and  allows 
the  worker  wasp  to  roll  her  about,  an- 
grily, searching  for  an  unguarded  crev- 
ice into  which  she  may  stab.  Realizing 
her  helplessness,  the  worker  wasp  be- 
comes frantic  with  rage,  and  seizing  the 
iridescent  wings  of  her  enemy  she  bites 
and  tears  them  beyond  repair.  Then, 
quietly,  she  goes  off  again  on  her  eternal 
quest. 

But  that  one  may  be  victorious,  an- 
other must  be  vanquished.  The  defeat- 
ed wasp,  badly  maimed,  tries  vainly 
to  rise  on  her  tattered  pinions  —  the 
stumps  vibrate  pitifully.  She  is  crip- 
pled in  body  as  well,  but  in  her  desire 
to  fulfill  her  destiny,  she  forgets  all  but 
the  treasure  trove  high  overhead, 
where  her  young  may  find  a  haven.  In 
the  beginning,  she  was  denied  the 
rightful  instincts  which  were  meted 
out  to  her  more  favored  sisters :  she  was 
never  taught  to  track  and  to  over- 
whelm her  lawful  prey,  to  utilize  the 
natural  resources  of  her  small  sphere. 
She  knows  but  one  thing:  that  she 
must  lodge  her  egg  in  another's  nest  or 
her  race  will  come  to  an  end  —  the 
greatest  possible  catastrophe  to  any 
civilization,  however  humble  or  pre- 
tentious. Therefore,  she  climbs  up 
painfully,  inch  by  inch,  to  the  hole  in 
the  post,  lays  her  egg  in  the  nest,  and 
having  in  this  wise,  completed  the 
small  mosaic  of  her  existence,  makes  no 


THE  JELLY-FISH  AND  EQUAL  SUFFRAGE 


further  fight  against  those  great  forces 
which  have  combined  to  destroy  her. 
So  it  comes  about  that  eventually,  al- 
though through  no  conscious  design  of 
her  own,  she  wreaks  vengeance  upon 
her  enemy.  For  sooner  or  later,  the 
worker  wasp  carries  the  last  spider  to 
the  treasure-house,  lays  her  egg,  and 
carefully  closes  the  nest.  But  the  egg  of 
the  intruder  will  hatch  first,  and  after 
the  preliminary  cannibal  feast,  the 
changeling  will  thrive  and  in  due  time 
issue  forth  to  search,  primarily,  for  a 
mate,  then  for  the  homes  she  may  de- 
spoil and  convert  to  her  purposes.  In 
this,  she  is  nothing  more  than  an  instru- 
ment expressing  the  will  of  her  race,  for 
she  lives  by  no  creed  which  differen- 
tiates good  and  evil. 

In  a  society  where  innocence  and 
guilt  are  one  and  the  same,  there  can 
be  no  sin,  either  of  omission  or  commis- 
sion. The  worker  preys  upon  the  cater- 
pillar, and  the  iridescent  wasp  preys 
upon  the  worker.  So  must  life  be  given 
for  life;  so  is  natural  cunning  pitted 
against  industry;  and  so,  it  would  seem, 
is  fate  set  above  both,  to  do  with  them 
as  she  will.  But  we  do  not  know  the 
underlying  truth  and  fitness  of  such 
matters;  the  justice  or  injustice  of  na- 
ture is  not  to  be  determined  by  the 
human  standards  of  right  and  wrong. 
At  best,  we  can  but  observe  and  tabu- 
late the  facts  presented  to  us,  en- 
deavoring to  reveal  the  inner  law  by 
correlating  its  many  outward  mani- 
festations. 

IV 

We  have  considered  the  infancy  of 
sex  and  the  subsequent  stages  of  its 
early  development.  The  second  phase 
of  its  evolution  does  not  follow  such 
broad  and  simple  lines,  for  new  instincts 
arise  to  make  war  against  those  funda- 
mental ones  which  have  sufficed  to  mo- 
tivate the  countless  small  dramas  of 
survival  and  propagation.  Foremost, 


is  the  maternal  instinct  —  that  first, 
faint  foreshadowing  of  emotion.  Of 
course,  when  we  remember  that  a  cod- 
fish mother  may  lay  over  nine  million 
eggs,  we  realize  that  it  is  impossible  for 
her  to  do  her  full  duty  to  each  individ- 
ual member  of  her  family.  Some  of  the 
codfish  children  must  endure  a  bit  of 
neglect,  are  practically  orphaned,  in 
fact.  This,  fortunately,  does  not  influ- 
ence them  in  after  life.  For,  among  the 
fishes,  there  is  little  logic  of  cause  and 
effect ;  indeed,  the  maternal  instinct  usu- 
ally finds  its  fullest  expression  in  the  fa- 
ther of  the  household.  It  is  the  quaint 
sea-horse  who  carries  the  eggs  in  his 
pouch  and  watches  over  them,  with  so- 
licitude, until  the  young  colts  are  of  age; 
and  it  is  the  beautiful  male  paradise  fish 
who  protects  his  children  from  their 
unnatural  mother,  and  who  preserves  a 
stainless  escutcheon  by  a  vigilant  guar- 
dianship of  his  numerous  offspring, 
collecting  them,  if  they  stray,  and  car- 
rying them  home  from  time  to  time  in 
his  mouth. 

Among  reptiles,  the  maternal  instinct 
finds  a  lawful  expression  through  the 
mother,  which  is  as  it  should  be  in  any 
reputable  society.  It  is  the  female 
python  who  wraps  her  coils  about  her 
eggs;  it  is  the  female  alligator  who 
watches  near  her  nest,  ready  to  fight 
for  it,  unless  the  danger  threatens  to 
overpower  her  —  when  her  mother 
instinct  falters  and  fails,  since  it  is,  at 
best,  but  the  tiniest  spark.  Courtship 
among  these  lowly,  backboned  crea- 
tures is  not  beautiful.  With  the  pythons, 
sinister  flowings  of  the  tongue,  hissing, 
and  a  slow,  sinuous  approach  serve  to 
complete  the  momentous  circle;  with 
the  alligators,  reverberating  roars,  tail- 
lashings,  and  uncouth  intimidations, 
are  sufficient  unto  the  day.  They  have 
attained  a  new  instinct,  perhaps;  but 
this  progression  is  not  equable.  It  but 
heralds  a  certain  retrogression,  for  their 
courtship  denotes  neither  preparation 


44 


THE  JELLY-FISH  AND  EQUAL  SUFFRAGE 


nor  a  harmonious  sequence  of  incident. 

It  is  in  the  birds  that  we  find  a  nice 
balancing  of  the  sex-instincts;  it  is  in 
their  life,  too,  that  we  see  the  predomi- 
nance of  the  sesthetic  impulse.  How- 
ever, their  world  is  a  world  of  many 
castes,  so  that  while  one  courtship  may 
be  astonishingly  complex  and  subtle, 
another  is  correspondingly  crude.  At 
one  extreme,  the  bourgeois  house-spar- 
row does  no  more  than  make  a  pretense 
of  display,  which  degenerates  at  once 
into  a  rough-and-tumble  pursuit,  cul- 
minating in  rapine.  But,  elsewhere,  the 
wooing  is  full  of  beauty,  employing 
secret  and  marvelous  talents  for  its  fur- 
therance. There  are  the  song  of  the 
hermit  thrush  and  the  graceful  dance 
of  the  cranes;  and  there  is  that  mys- 
terious genius  in  the  bower  bird  which 
impels  him  to  gather  colored  blossoms 
and  shells  that  he  may  beautify,  some 
chosen  spot  for  the  allurement  of  his 
mate.  And  everywhere  throughout 
the  land,  there  is  that  elaborate  dis- 
play of  ruffs  and  crests  and  brilliant 
tail-feathers,  in  order  that  all  the 
world,  observing,  may  be  enabled  to 
make  a  true  estimate  of  the  individual 
prowess  thus  made  manifest.  For  the 
female  does  not  yield  at  once,  but  must 
be  besieged,  implored,  pleaded  with, 
made  to  know  in  a  thousand  ways  the 
desirability  of  the  suitor  who  would  win 
her.  Therefore,  to  aid  him  in  his  wooing, 
the  male  bird  is  almost  always  larger, 
stronger,  with  brighter  coloring  than 
his  mate,  or  his  song  is  filled  with  a  poe- 
try and  sweetness  wanting  in  her  own. 

But  in  every  department  of  life, 
nature  must  entertain  herself,  upon 
occasion,  with  contradiction  and  par- 
adox. So,  each  year,  on  the  grassy,  half- 
frozen  tundras  of  the  far  north,  on  the 
dry,  reedy  plains  of  central  India,  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  Brazilian  tropical 
forest,  she  sets  in  motion  courtships 
which  are  a  living  refutation  of  her  nor- 
mal laws.  These  secret  and  naive  dra- 


mas owe  their  being  to  the  phalaropes 
or  sandpipers,  the  bustard-quail,  and 
the  tinamou;  but  the  chief  and  fore- 
most of  the  three,  in  quaintness  and 
versatility,  is  the  clan  phalarope. 

It  is  in  the  cool  months  of  early 
spring  that  the  first  of  these  little  swim- 
ming sandpipers  make  their  way  to  the 
northern  tundras,  where  they  scatter 
over  the  new  arctic  moss  and  wade  and 
swim  and  search  for  food  in  the  icy 
pools.  With  their  warm  and  brilliant 
coloring  of  buff  and  rufous,  they  have 
the  appearance  of  a  small  regiment 
come  to  make  war  against  those  insati- 
able, northland  gods  of  eternal  winter. 
But  if  they  came  to  battle,  they  re- 
main to  loiter.  However,  this  idleness 
endures  but  a  few  days,  for  the  serious 
business  of  life  is  taken  up  the  very 
instant  that  a  second  battalion  of  pha- 
laropes appears  against  the  horizon  — 
for  these  are  the  males,  duller  in  hue 
and  smaller  in  size,  come  to  profit  by 
the  reconnoitring  of  the  stronger  sex. 

The  landing  is  a  joyful  and  gala 
hour,  marked  by  fluttering  wings,  and 
the  faint,  confused  sound  of  hundreds 
upon  hundreds  of  tiny,  webbed  feet 
pattering  along  the  water's  edge.  And 
this  is  but  the  beginning  of  a  fete  deli- 
cieuse.  For  each  male  is  assiduously 
courted  by  at  least  two  females,  who 
seldom  leave  him,  but  scurry  about, 
slaves  to  his  slightest  whim;  who  anti- 
cipate the  least  of  his  desires,  and 
bring  him  the  choicest  morsels  from 
land  and  sea;  who  bow  and  hover 
around  him,  watchful,  despising  no 
strategy  which  will  win  his  favor.  It  is 
his  custom  to  exact  this  homage  until 
he  is  forced  to  abandon  his  attitude  of 
indifference  and  to  indicate  his  choice. 
This  fateful  moment  is  attended  by 
no  scene,  however;  for  the  sandpipers 
live  according  to  a  philosophy  denied 
the  more  complicated  human  machine. 
Straightway,  the  defeated  rival  flies 
away  in  search  of  a  male  more  suscep- 


THE  JELLY-FISH  AND  EQUAL  SUFFRAGE 


tible  to  her  charms.  This  economy  of 
effort  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  an 
instinctive  realization  that  the  purpose 
of  the  individual  is  not  to  mourn  but  to 
propagate  his  race.  And  it  is  a  realiza- 
tion in  which  complex  human  emotions 
have  no  place;  hence  the  life  of  the  pha- 
larope  runs  its  course  smoothly,  inevit- 
ably, untrammeled  and  unthwarted. 

The  courtship  over,  the  bridegroom 
is  plunged  at  once  into  a  busy  season 
of  preparation.  He  searches  here  and 
there,  —  followed  everywhere  by  his 
mate,  who  seems  unwilling  to  trust 
him  out  of  her  sight,  —  and  at  last 
chooses  a  sheltered  spot  near  a  bit  of 
overhanging  turf,  where  with  his  dain- 
ty beak  and  toes  he  scratches  out  a 
little  hollow  —  the  tiniest  hollow,  in 
the  very  midst  of  the  great  arctic  plain. 
Lady  phalarope  then  condescends  to 
deposit  therein  four  beautiful  eggs  of 
gray,  touched  with  a  deep,  rich  brown, 
and  feels  that  with  this  aesthetic  con- 
tribution to  the  world,  she  has  done  all 
that  any  one  with  such  ultra  modern 
ideas  could  be  called  upon  to  do.  So 
she  wings  her  way  to  some  neighboring 
quagmire  and  joins  an  assemblage  of 
her  sex,  each  and  every  one  of  whom 
has  eased  her  conscience  of  all  weight 
by  having  left  similar  quartettes  of  lit- 
tle eggs  here  and  there  in  the  growing 
turf. 

The  male,  forsaken,  steps  forward 
and  surveys  his  home  with  due  pride; 
then,  conscious  that  the  weight  of  the 
universe  has  been  transferred  to  his 
small  back,  he  hurries  to  his  nest  and 
there  composes  himself  for  many  days 
of  patient  brooding,  stealing  only  now 
and  then  a  little  time  that  he  may  dine 
in  some  pool,  providently  stocked  with 
mosquito  larvae.  He  even  has  the  ap- 
pearance of  begrudging  these  briefest 
of  intervals,  and  always  hastens  back 
to  assume  his  duties,  until  the  move- 
ment of  life  beneath  him  and  the  first 
faint  pipings  of  the  tiny  nestling  pha- 


laropes  reward  his  care  and  are  a  noisy 
proclamation  that  his  warm  body  has 
fanned  into  existence  four  more  of  his 
kind,  to  go  forth  and  be  of  service  to 
the  world. 

During  the  ensuing  weeks  he  thinks 
neither  of  himself  nor  of  food,  so  great 
is  his  devotion  to  those  long-legged, 
downy  beings,  —  in  reality  more  like 
strange  insects  than  birds,  —  who  fol- 
low him  as  closely  as  his  shadow,  and 
whose  sole  aim  in  life  is  to  obey  his 
slightest  summons  or  warning.  Now 
and  then  a  great  whistling  of  wings 
overhead  sends  them  flat  against  the 
ground,  crouching  among  the  flowers 
of  the  tundra;  but  it  is  only  their  moth- 
er passing  over,  knowing  them  not  for 
her  own,  intent  only  on  reaching  some 
pleasant  roosting-place  or  fertile  pool, 
with  her  gregarious  sisters.  Later, 
when  the  flowers  have  gone  to  seed, 
and  the  low  sun  sends  less  and  less  heat 
to  the  dying  life  of  the  tundra,  all  the 
phalaropes  unite  and  fly  swiftly  south- 
ward, where  —  consistent  in  their  in- 
consistency, defying  to  the  last  the 
laws  of  most  other  birds  —  the  parents 
and  young  together  spend  the  winter 
floating  on  the  ocean  far  from  land, 
challenging  storms,  sharks,  and  all  the 
perils  of  the  deep.  By  some  strange 
chance,  in  obedience  to  some  hidden 
whimsicality  of  nature,  the  females 
have  become  dominant,  have  taken  to 
themselves  strength,  beauty,  and  a 
certain  assertiveness,  so  that  the  males, 
unresisting,  have  fallen  heir  to  the 
modest  mantle  of  domesticity. 

Four  eggs  and  no  more,  are  all  that 
the  little  breast  of  the  cock  phalarope 
can  successfully  warm,  so  that  for  him 
to  have  another  wife  would  cause  an 
economic  waste  not  countenanced  in 
primitive  society.  And  it  appears  that 
the  lady  phalarope  desires  to  make 
but  one  conquest.  But  many  miles  to 
the  south,  in  the  tropical  American 
forests,  there  are  the  tinamous,  of  par- 


46 


THE  JELLY-FISH  AND  EQUAL  SUFFRAGE 


tridge  habit  and  color,  whose  diversion 
from  type  has  not  been  hampered  by 
such  well-defined  limitations.  The  fe- 
male is  aggressive,  courting  and  win- 
ning her  mate  more  roughly  than  the 
little  aristocratic  phalarope,  hustling 
him  and  giving  him  no  peace  until  he 
capitulates.  To  be  sure,  she  lays  for 
him  the  most  wonderful  eggs  in  the 
world,  with  shells  like  burnished  metal, 
save  that  they  are  colored  with  the 
rarest  greens  and  the  most  evanescent 
and  subtle  blues.  But  once  she  has 
thus  built  the  walls  of  his  prison  for 
him,  this  emancipated  tinamou  prompt- 
ly deserts  him,  and  sends  through  the 
forests  her  clear  and  penetrating  call 
—  a  trill  of  poignant  sweetness. 

At  this  moment,  she  may  be  poised  on 
some  fallen  tree-trunk,  or  half  hidden 
in  tall  ferns  close  by  her  first  mate,  who 
has  quietly  and  unobtrusively  assumed 
the  responsibilities  meted  out  to  him. 
He  hears  the  selfsame  call  which  so 
short  a  time  ago  awakened  him,  led 
him  to  undertake  the  perilous  task  of 
hatching  and  rearing  the  brood,  and 
can  one  be  sure  that  he  is  not  stirred  by 
a  passing  wave  of  resentment,  con- 
scious of  a  fleeting  desire  to  be  one  in 
freedom  with  the  males  of  other  species, 
whom  he  can  see  playing  and  singing 
about  him,  while  their  mates,  in  fitting 
subservience  to  law  and  custom,  sit 
upon  the  nests?  But  that  vast,  incom- 
prehensible machinery  of  evolution  is 
not  to  be  disarranged  by  an  atom  hid- 
den in  a  forest;  he  must  live  as  he  must 
live.  He  has  no  word  of  protest;  it  is 
kismet. 

But  if  here,  among  the  phalaropes 
and  the  tinamous,  does  not  exist  that 
equable  division  of  instinct  which  finds 
its  purest  expression  in  the  birds,  such 
harmony  and  balance  are  to  be  found 
notwithstanding,  in  the  life  of  the  wild 
goose;  for,  in  common  with  many  beau- 
tiful things,  it  is  hidden  where  one 
would  search  for  it  last.  We  know 


nothing  of  the  courtship  of  the  wild 
goose,  but  we  feel  assured  that  it  must 
be  a  seemly  and  worthy  affair.  Once 
mated,  there  is  no  further  need  for 
vows  and  protestations,  for  the  birds 
mate  for  life.  Together,  they  unite  in 
building  the  nest,  but  the  goose  alone 
watches  over  the  eggs,  while  day  and 
night,  the  gander  weaves  in  all  direc- 
tions on  water  and  on  land  his  trails  of 
watchfulness.  Neither  man  nor  beast 
may  approach  without  being  fiercely 
and  successfully  assailed,  buffeted,  and 
routed  by  a  relentless  attack  with  beak 
and  wings.  This  guardianship  is  inten- 
sified when  the  new  generation,  help- 
less and  dependent,  voices  its  first  need 
for  protection  from  the  perils  which  en- 
compass and  beset  it.  If,  perchance, 
the  small  family  elects  to  remain  on  the 
shore,  the  parents  will  circle  round 
and  round  the  group  of  golden  gos- 
lings; and  if  danger  threatens  from  any 
one  direction,  the  gander,  by  some 
miracle  of  strategy,  will  succeed  in  plac- 
ing himself  at  the  one  vulnerable  point 
of  his  entrenchment.  His  loyalty, 
astuteness,  and  unselfishness  are  not 
to  be  found  in  those  unobservant  folk 
who  have  presumed  to  slander  him.  In 
swimming,  the  strictest  discipline  is 
maintained.  The  young  form  in  single 
file,  following  the  mother,  while  the 
gander  brings  up  the  rear,  with  eyes 
constantly  sweeping  the  whole  range  of 
vision.  His  vigil  is  ceaseless  and  untir- 
ing. Such  is  the  life  of  these  two  birds 
who  are  mated  in  more  than  sex;  and 
when  death  comes  to  one  or  the  other 
of  them,  we  know  that,  many  times, 
the  one  who  remains  will  seek  no  other 
mate,  but  will  return  each  spring  to  the 
site  of  his  former  nest  which  he  will 
never  renew  again. 

For  these  two,  nature  has  shown  her- 
self just  and  generous,  so  that  their  life 
together,  in  its  simplicity  and  equality, 
is  an  answer  to  many  of  those  questions 
which  men  and  women,  victims  of  a 


SOME  ENTHUSIASMS  I  HAVE  KNOWN 


47 


perhaps  too  complex  civilization,  are 
considering  with  such  profound  and 
impressive  gravity.  The  wild  gander 
and  his  goose  do  not  know  that  at  one 
time  sex  was  a  comparatively  unknown 
quantity;  they  do  not  know  that  subse- 
quently male  and  female  were  differen- 
tiated, and  that  after  many  centuries 
this  differentiation  caused  a  widespread 
divergence  of  individual  duties  and 
interests.  But  they  are  aware  that 
specialization,  which  is  neither  more 
nor  less  than  the  realization  of  one's 
greatest  talent  and  the  judicious  in- 
vestment of  it,  will  produce  what  is 
best  for  the  individual  and  the  race. 

This  talent  may  be  a  modest  one,  or 
it  may  be  so  pretentious  as  to  become 
genius  instead;  but  since  genius  is  a 
natural  endowment  it  must  take  care  of 
itself.  It  is  essential,  only,  that  the 
making  of  bread,  of  houses,  of  streets 
and  sidewalks  and  plays,  shall  continue 
for  just  so  long  a  time  as  there  is  need 


for  them,  and  that  this  work  shall  be 
done  competently  and  well.  This  pre- 
supposes a  division  of  labor  and  of  in- 
clination, as  well  as  certain  potential 
limitations;  but  it  does  not  necessarily 
presuppose  that  one  half  of  the  world 
shall  be  set  to  dusting  furniture  while 
the  other  half  goes  stolidly  marching 
off  to  war.  It  is  evident  that  speciali- 
zation in  itself  is  not  sufficient;  but  spe- 
cialization and  a  thoughtful,  respectful 
cooperation  between  the  sexes  —  this 
is  the  true  sex-equality. 

The  voice  of  the  jelly-fish  is  heard 
throughout  the  land  demanding  equal- 
ity in  all  things.  Time,  of  course,  will 
usurp  the  privilege  of  answering  this 
demand;  but  the  human  being,  for  his 
diversion,  may  determine  the  wisdom 
or  unwisdom  of  such  a  policy  by  con- 
sidering these  logical,  if  seemingly  un- 
related, descendants  of  the  jelly-fish  — 
the  humble  wild  gander  and  his  cap- 
able cooperative  mate,  the  goose. 


SOME  ENTHUSIASMS  I  HAVE  KNOWN 


BY  ROBERT  HAVEN   SCHAUFFLER 


ENTHUSIASM  is  the  thing  that  makes 
the  world  go  round.  The  old  Greeks 
who  gave  it  a  name  knew  that  it  was 
the  god-energy  in  the  human  machine. 
Without  its  driving  power  nothing 
worth  doing  has  ever  been  done.  It  is 
man's  dearest  possession.  Love,  friend- 
ship, religion,  altruism,  devotion  to 
career  or  hobby, — all  these,  and  most 
of  the  other  good  things  in  life,  are 
forms  of  enthusiasm.  A  medicine  for 


the  most  diverse  ills,  it  alleviates  both 
the  pains  of  poverty  and  the  boredom 
of  riches.  Apart  from  it  joy  cannot 
live.  Therefore  it  should  be  husbanded 
with  zeal  and  spent  with  wisdom. 

To  waste  it  is  folly;  to  misuse  it,  dis- 
aster. For  it  is  safe  to  utilize  this  god- 
energy  only  in  its  own  proper  sphere. 
Enthusiasm  moves  the  human  vessel. 
To  let  it  move  the  rudder  too,  is  crim- 
inal negligence.  The  great  composer 
Brahms  once  made  a  remark  somewhat 
to  this  effect :  The  reason  why  there  is 


48 


SOME  ENTHUSIASMS  I  HAVE  KNOWN 


so  much  bad  music  in  the  world  is  that 
composers  are  in  too  much  of  a  hurry. 
When  an  inspiration  comes  to  them, 
what  do  they  do?  Instead  of  taking  it 
out  for  a  long,  cool  walk,  they  sit  down 
at  once  to  work  it  up;  but  instead  they 
let  it  work  them  up  into  an  absolutely 
uncritical  enthusiasm  in  which  every 
splutter  of  the  goose-quill  looks  to  them 
like  part  of  a  swan-song. 

Love  is  blind,  they  say.  This  is  an 
exaggeration.  But  it  is  based  on  the 
fact  that  enthusiasm,  whether  it  ap- 
pears as  love,  or  in  any  other  form, 
always  has  trouble  with  its  eyes.  In  its 
own  place  it  is  incomparably  efficient; 
only  keep  it  away  from  the  pilot-house ! 

Since  this  god-energy  is  the  most 
precious  and  important  thing  we  have, 
why  should  our  word  for  its  possess- 
or have  sunk  almost  to  the  level  of  a 
contemptuous  epithet?  Nine  times  in 
ten  we  apply  it  to  the  man  who  allows 
his  enthusiasm  to  steer  his  vessel.  It 
would  be  quite  as  logical  to  employ  the 
word  *  writer*  for  one  who  misuses  his 
literary  gift  in  writing  dishonest  adver- 
tisements. When  we  speak  of  an 
*  enthusiast'  to-day,  we  usually  mean 
a  person  who  has  all  the  ill-judging 
impulsiveness  of  a  child  without  its 
compensating  charm,  and  is  therefore 
not  to  be  taken  seriously.  This  was 
the  attitude  of  Commodore  Vanderbilt, 
president  of  the  New  York  Central  Rail- 
road, when  George  Westinghouse  sent 
him  a  proposal  to  substitute  air-  for 
hand-brakes.  *  He 's  only  an  enthusiast/ 
remarked  the  Commodore,  and  return- 
ed the  inventor's  letter  politely  in- 
dorsed: *I  have  no  time  to  waste  on 
fools.'  It  might  do  all  such  superficial 
scoffers  good  if  they  were  answered  as 
the  Commodore  was  answered.  Some 
time  after,  when  the  air-brake  had 
been  put  into  brilliant  operation  on  the 
more  progressive  Pennsylvania  Rail- 
road, the  president  of  the  New  York 
Central  wrote  the  inventor  a  benignant 


letter,  appointing  an  interview.  His 
reply  was  a  single  sentence:  'I  have  no 
time  to  waste  on  fools.  —  GEORGE 
WESTINGHOUSE/ 

But  besides  its  poor  sense  of  direc- 
tion, men  have  another  complaint 
against  enthusiasm.  They  think  it  in- 
sincere on  account  of  its  capacity  for 
frequent  and  violent  fluctuation  in 
temperature.  In  his  Creative  Evolution, 
Bergson  shows  how  'our  most  ardent 
enthusiasm,  as  soon  as  it  is  external- 
ized into  action,  is  so  naturally  con- 
gealed into  the  cold  calculation  of  in- 
terest or  vanity,  the  one  so  easily  takes 
the  shape  of  the  other,  that  we  might 
confuse  them  together,  doubt  our  own 
sincerity,  deny  goodness  and  love,  if 
we  did  not  know  that  the  dead  retain 
for  a  time  the  features  of  the  living/ 
The  philosopher  then  goes  on  to  show 
how,  when  we  fall  into  this  confusion, 
we  are  unjust  to  enthusiasm,  which  is 
the  materialization  of  the  invisible 
breath  of  life  itself.  It  is  'the  spirit/ 
The  action  it  induces  is  'the  letter/ 
These  give  rise  to  two  different  and 
often  antagonistic  movements.  The 
letter  kills  the  spirit.  But  when  this 
occurs  we  are  apt  to  mistake  the  slayer 
for  the  slain  and  impute  to  the  ardent 
spirit  all  the  cold  vices  of  its  murderer. 
Hence,  the  taint  of  insincerity  that 
seems  to  hang  about  enthusiasm  is, 
after  all,  nothing  but  illusion.  To  be 
just,  we  should  discount  this  illusion 
in  advance  as  the  wise  man  discounts 
discouragement.  And  the  word  for  the 
man  whose  lungs  are  large  with  the 
breath  of  life  should  cease  to  be  a  term 
of  reproach. 

Enthusiasm  is  the  prevailing  char- 
acteristic of  the  child  and  of  the  man 
who  does  memorable  things.  The  two 
are  near  akin  and  bear  a  family  resem- 
blance. Youth  trails  clouds  of  glory. 
The  eternal  man  is  usually  the  eternal 
boy.  And  it  frequently  follows  that 
the  more  of  a  boy  he  is,  the  more  of  a 


SOME  ENTHUSIASMS  I  HAVE  KNOWN 


49 


man.  The  most  conventional-seeming 
great  men  possess  as  a  rule  a  secret 
vein  of  eternal-boyishness.  Our  idea 
of  Brahms,  for  example,  is  of  a  person 
hopelessly  mature  and  respectable.  But 
we  open  Kalbeck's  new  biography  and 
discover  him  climbing  a  tree  to  conduct 
his  chorus  while  swaying  on  a  branch, 
or,  in  his  fat  forties,  playing  at  frog- 
catching  like  a  five-year-old. 

The  American  celebrity  is  no  less 
youthful.  Not  long  ago  one  of  our 
good  gray  men  of  letters  was  among 
his  children,  awaiting  dinner  and  his 
wife.  Her  footstep  sounded  on  the 
stairs.  'Quick,  children!'  he  exclaim- 
ed. *  Here's  mother.  Let 's  hide  under 
the  table,  and  when  she  comes  in  we'll 
rush  out  on  all-fours  and  pretend  we're 
bears.'  The  manoeuvre  was  executed 
with  spirit.  At  the  agreed  signal  out 
they  all  waddled  and  galumphed  with 
horrid  grunts,  only  to  find  something 
unfamiliar  about  mother's  skirt,  and, 
glancing  up,  to  discover  that  it  hung 
upon  a  strange  and  terrified  guest. 

The  biographers  have  paid  too  little 
attention  to  the  god-energy  of  their 
heroes.  I  think  that  it  should  be  one 
of  the  crowning  achievements  of  bio- 
graphy to  communicate  to  the  reader 
certain  actual  vibrations  of  the  enthu- 
siasm that  filled  the  scientist  or  phil- 
osopher for  truth;  the  patriot  for  his 
country;  the  artist  for  beauty  and  self- 
expression;  the  altruist  for  humanity; 
the  discoverer  for  knowledge;  the  lover 
or  friend  for  a  kindred  soul;  the  pro- 
phet, martyr,  or  saint  for  his  god. 

Every  lover,  according  to  Emerson, 
is  a  poet.  Not  only  is  this  true,  but 
every  one  of  us,  when  in  the  sway  of 
any  enthusiasm,  has  in  him  something 
creative.  Therefore  a  record  of  the 
most  ordinary  person's  enthusiasms 
should  prove  as  well  worth  reading  as 
the  ordinary  record  of  the  extraordin- 
ary person's  life  if  written  with  the 
usual  neglect  of  this  important  subject. 

VOL.  114  -NO.  1 


II 

Now  I  should  like  to  try  the  experi- 
ment of  sketching  in  outline  a  new  kind 
of  biography.  It  would  consist  entirely 
of  the  record  of  an  ordinary  person's 
enthusiasms.  But,  as  I  know  no  other 
life-story  so  well  as  my  own,  perhaps 
the  reader  will  pardon  me  for  abiding  in 
the  first  person  singular.  He  may  the 
more  readily  pardon  me  if  he  realizes 
the  universality  of  this  offense  among 
writers.  For  it  is  a  fact  that  almost  all 
novels,  stories,  poems,  and  essays  are 
nothing  but  more  or  less  cleverly  dis- 
guised autobiography. 

In  looking  back  over  my  life,  a  series 
of  enthusiasms  would  appear  to  stand 
out  as  a  sort  of  spinal  system,  about 
which  are  grouped  as  tributaries  all  the 
dry  bones  and  other  minor  phenomena 
of  existence.  Or,  rather,  enthusiasm  is 
the  deep,  clear,  sparkling  stream  which 
carries  along  and  solves  and  neutral- 
izes, if  not  sweetens,  in  its  impetuous 
flow  life's  rubbish  and  superfluities  of 
all  kinds,  such  as  school,  the  Puritan 
sabbath,  boot-  and  hair-brushing,  po- 
lite and  unpolemic  converse  with  bores, 
prigs,  pedants  and  shorter  catechists 
—  and  so  on,  all  the  way  down  the 
shores  of  age,  to  the  higher  mathema- 
tics, bank  failures,  and  the  occasional 
editor  whose  word  is  not  as  good  as  his 
bond. 

My  first  enthusiasm  was  for  good 
things  to  eat.  It  was  stimulated  by 
that  priceless  asset,  a  virginal  palate. 
But  here  at  once  the  medium  of  expres- 
sion fails.  For  what  may  words  pre- 
sume to  do  with  the  flavor  of  that  first 
dish  of  oatmeal;  with  the  first  pear, 
grape,  watermelon;  with  the  Bohemian 
roll  called  Hooska,  besprinkled  with 
poppy  and  mandragora,  or  the  won- 
drous dishes  which  our  Viennese  cook 
called  Aepfelstrudel  and  Scheiterhaufen? 
The  best  way  for  me  to  express  my 
reaction  to  each  of  these  delicacies 


50 


SOME  ENTHUSIASMS  I  HAVE  KNOWN 


would  be  to  play  it  on  the  'cello.  The 
next  best  would  be  to  say  that  they 
tasted  somewhat  better  than  Eve 
thought  the  apple  was  going  to  taste. 
But  how  absurdly  inadequate  this 
sounds!  I  suppose  the  truth  is  that 
such  enthusiasms  have  become  too 
utterly  congealed  in  our  blase  minds 
when  at  last  these  minds  have  grown 
mature  enough  to  grasp  the  principles 
of  penmanship.  So  that  whatever  has 
been  recorded  about  the  sensations  of 
extreme  youth  is  probably  all  false. 
Why,  even 

'Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy/ 

as  Wordsworth  revealed  in  his  ode 
on  Immortality.  And  though  Tenny- 
son pointed  out  that  we  try  to  revenge 
ourselves  by  lying  about  heaven  in  our 
maturity,  this  does  not  serve  to  correct 
a  single  one  of  crabbed  age's  misappre- 
hensions about  youth. 

Games  next  caught  my  fancy.  From 
the  first  I  seemed  to  prefer  those  de- 
manding dexterity  and  quickness  of 
eye.  More  than  dominoes  or  halma, 
lead  soldiers  appealed  to  me,  and  tops, 
marbles,  and  battledore-and-shuttle- 
cock.  Perhaps  I  should  not  have  cared 
so  much  for  the  last-named  if  I  had 
foreseen  myself  participating  in  this 
sport  for  some  years  in  grim  earnest,  I, 
the  literary  beginner,  being  the  shuttle- 
cock, and  receiving  many  a  shrewd 
rap  as  I  was  bandied  from  one  edito- 
rial battledore  to  another. 

Through  tag,  fire-engine,  hide-and- 
seek,  pom-pom-pull-away,  and  base- 
ball, I  came  to  boxing.  Until  then  I  had 
been  much  bullied  by  the  older  boys  of 
the  neighborhood.  This  was  only  nat- 
ural, for  my  physical  make-up  was  an 
irresistible  invitation  to  the  bully.  Its 
chief  item  was  a  huge,  bulbous  head, 
under  the  weight  of  which  a  wraith  of 
a  body  and  penholder-like  legs  seemed 
to  buckle.  But  my  reach  was  long,  my 
eye  fair.  After  a  few  scientific  hints 


from  a  brother,  I  took  to  the  manly 
art  so  naturally  as  to  win  both  the 
reluctant  respect  of  my  contempora- 
ries, and  admission  to  the  cherished 
society  of  my  elders.  With  delight  I 
found  that  I  could  stand  up  to  the 
latter  on  apparently  equal  terms.  But 
now,  looking  back,  I  am  almost  sure 
that  after  having  broken  my  nose,  the 
big  fellows  must  have  treated  me  as 
indulgently  as  the  Saint  Bernard  treats 
the  snarling  spaniel.  However  that 
may  be,  boxing  gave  me  a  first  taste  of 
the  joys  of  physical  competence. 

But  when,  after  a  few  years,  I  found 
tennis,  I  knew  instinctively  that  here 
was  to  be  my  athletic  grand  passion. 
Perhaps  I  was  first  attracted  by  the 
game's  constant  humor,  which  was  for- 
ever making  the  ball  imitate  or  carica- 
ture humanity,  or  beguiling  the  play- 
ers to  act  like  solemn  automata.  I 
came  to  like  the  game's  variety,  its 
tense  excitement,  its  beauty  of  posture 
and  curve.  From  an  early  date  I  have 
been  a  fascinated  student  of  humanity. 
And  about  this  time  I  must  have 
vaguely  felt  what  I  later  learned  con- 
sciously: that  tennis  is  a  surerevealer 
of  character.  Three  sets  with  a  man 
suffice  to  give  one  a  working  knowledge 
of  his  moral  equipment;  six,  of  his 
chief  mental  traits;  and  a  dozen,  of 
that  most  important  and  usually  veiled 
part  of  him,  his  subconscious  person- 
ality. Young  people  of  opposite  sexes 
are  sometimes  counseled  to  take  a  long 
railway  journey  together  before  decid- 
ing on  a  matrimonial  merger.  But  I 
would  advise  them  to  play  *  singles' 
with  each  other  before  venturing  upon 
a  continuous  game  of  *  doubles.' 

The  collecting  mania  appeared  some 
time  before  tennis.  I  first  collected 
ferns  under  a  crag  in  a  deep  glen.  Mere 
amassing  soon  gave  way  to  discrimina- 
tion, which  led  to  choosing  a  favorite 
fern.  This  was  chosen,  I  now  realize, 
with  a  woeful  lack  of  fine  feeling.  I 


SOME  ENTHUSIASMS  I  HAVE  KNOWN 


51 


called  it  the  Alligator  from  its  fancied 
resemblance  to  my  brother's  alligator- 
skin  traveling  bag.  But  admiration  of 
this  fern  brought  a  dawning  conscious- 
ness that  certain  natural  objects  were 
vastly  preferable  to  others.  This  led, 
in  years,  to  an  enthusiasm  for  collect- 
ing impressions  of  the  beauty,  strength, 
sympathy,  and  significance  of  nature. 
The  Alligator  Fern,  as  I  still  call  it,  has 
become  a  symbolic  thing  to  me;  and 
the  sight  of  it  now  stands  for  my 
supreme  or  best-loved  impression,  not 
alone  in  the  world  of  ferns,  but  also 
in  each  department  of  nature.  Among 
forests  it  symbolizes  the  immemorial 
incense  cedars  and  redwoods  of  the 
Yosemite;  among  shores,  those  of  Capri 
and  Monterey;  among  mountains,  the 
glowing  one  called  Isis  as  seen  at  dawn 
from  the  depths  of  the  Grand  Canyon; 
among  friendly  brooks,  a  stream  that 
chuckles  and  foams  and  swirls  seaward 
under  Massachusetts  oaks  and  beech- 
es and  past  the  log  cabin  where  I  sit 
writing  these  words. 


in 

Next,  I  collected  postage-stamps. 
I  know  that  it  is  customary  for  writers 
to-day  to  sneer  at  this  pursuit.  But 
surely  they  have  forgotten  its  variety 
and  subtlety;  its  demand  on  the  imagi- 
nation; how  it  makes  history  and  geo- 
graphy live,  and  initiates  one  painlessly 
into  the  mysteries  of  the  currency  of 
all  nations.  And  what  a  tonic  it  is  for 
the  memory!  Only  think  of  the  impli- 
cations of  the  annual  price-catalogue! 
Soon  after  the  issue  of  this  work,  every 
collector  worthy  the  name  has  almost 
unconsciously  filed  away  in  his  mind 
the  current  market  values  of  thousands 
of  stamps.  And  he  can  tell  you  off- 
hand, not  only  their  worth  in  the  nor- 
mal perforated  and  canceled  condition, 
but  also  how  their  values  vary  if  they 
are  uncanceled,  embossed,  rouletted, 


unperforated,  surcharged  with  all  man- 
ner of  initials,  printed  by  mistake  with 
the  king  standing  on  his  head,  or  water- 
marked anything  from  a  horn  of  plenty 
to  the  seven  lean  kine  of  Egypt.  This 
feat  of  memory  is,  moreover,  no  hard- 
ship at  all,  for  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
normal  stamp-collector  is  so  potent  that 
its  proprietor  has  only  to  stand  by  and 
let  it  do  all  the  work. 

We  often  hear  that  the  wealthy  do 
not  enjoy  their  possessions.  This  de- 
pends entirely  upon  the  wealthy.  That 
some  of  them  enjoy  their  treasures 
giddily,  madly,  my  own  experience 
proves.  For,  as  youthful  stamp-col- 
lectors went  in  those  days,  I  was  a 
philatelic  magnate.  By  inheritance, 
by  the  ceaseless  and  passionate  trading 
of  duplicates,  by  rummaging  in  every 
available  attic,  by  correspondence  with 
a  wide  circle  of  foreign  missionaries, 
and  by  delivering  up  my  whole  allow- 
ance to  the  dealers,  I  had  amassed  a 
collection  of  several  thousand  varie- 
ties. These  included  such  gems  as  all 
of  the  triangular  Cape  of  Good  Hopes, 
almost  all  of  the  early  Persians,  and 
our  own  spectacular  issue  of  1869  un- 
used, including  the  one  on  which  the 
silk-stockinged  Fathers  are  signing  the 
Declaration  of  Independence.  Such 
possessions  as  these  I  well-nigh  wor- 
shiped. 

Even  to-day,  after  having  collected 
no  stamps  for  a  generation,  the  chance 
sight  of  an  *  approval  sheet',  with  its 
paper-hinged  reminders  of  every  land 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  gives  me  a 
curious  sensation.  There  visit  my 
spine  echoes  of  the  thrills  that  used  to 
course  it  on  similar  occasions  in  boy- 
hood. Those  were  the  days  when  my 
stamps  had  formed  for  me  mental  pic- 
tures, more  or  less  accurate,  of  every 
country  from  Angola  to  Western  Aus- 
tralia, its  history,  climate,  scenery,  in- 
habitants, rulers.  To  possess  its  rarest 
stamp  was  mysteriously  connected  in 


SOME  ENTHUSIASMS  I  HAVE  KNOWN 


my  mind  with  being  given  the  freedom 
of  the  land  itself,  and  introduced  with 
warm  recommendations  to  its  genius 
loci. 

Even  old  circulars  issued  by  dealers 
now  long  gone  to  stampless  climes, 
have  power  still  to  raise  the  ghost  of 
the  vanished  glamour.  I  prefer  those  of 
foreign  dealers  because  their  English 
has  the  quaint,  other-world  atmosphere 
of  what  they  dealt  in.  How  other- 
world  this  English  was  I  did  not  per- 
haps stop  to  appreciate  in  the  rush  of 
youth.  The  other  day  I  found  in  an 
old  scrap-book  a  circular  from  Vienna, 
which  annihilated  a  score  of  years  with 
its  very  first  words:  — 

CLEARING 

OP  A  LARGE  PART  OF  MY  RETAIL  DEPOSITORY 

Being  lately  so  much  engaged  into  my  whole- 
sale business  ...  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to 
sell  out  a  large  post  of  my  retail-stamps  at  under- 
prices.  They  are  rests  of  larger  collections  con- 
taining for  the  most,  only  older  marks  and  not 
thrash  possibly  put  together  purposedly  as  they 
used  to  be  composed  by  the  other  dealers  and 
containing  therefore  mostly  but  worthless  and 
useless  nouveaut6s  of  Central  America. 

Before  continuing  this  persuasive 
flow,  the  dealer  inserts  a  number  of 
testimonials  like  the  following.  He 
calls  them:  — 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Sent  package  having  surpassed  my  experta- 
tions  I  beg  to  remit  by  to  days  post-office-ordres 
Mk.  100.  Kindly  please  send  me  by  return  of 
post  offered  album  wanted  for  retail  sale. 

G.  B-  HANNOVER. 

He  now  comes  to  his  peroration:  — 

I  beg  to  call  the  kind  of  attention  of  every 
buyer  to  the  fact  of  my  selling  all  these  packages 
and  albums  with  my  own  loss  merely  for  clear- 
ings sake  of  my  retail  business  and  in  order  to 
get  rid  of  them  as  much  and  as  soon  as  possible. 
With  25-60%  abatement  I  give  stamps  and 
whole  things  to  societies  against  four  weeks 
calculation. 

All  collectors  are  bound  to  oblige  themselves 
by  writing  contemporaneously  with  sending  in 
the  depository  amount  to  make  calculation 
within  a  week  as  latest  term. 


It  is  enough!  As  I  read,  the  old 
magic  enfolds  me,  and  I  am  seized  with 
longing  to  turn  myself  into  a  society  of 
collectors,  and  to  implore  the  altruistic 
dealer  *  kindly  please'  to  send  me,  at  a 
prodigious  *  abatement,'  'stamps  and 
whole  things  against  four  weeks  calcu- 
lation.' 

IV 

The  youngest  children  of  large  fam- 
ilies are  apt  to  be  lonely  folk,  some- 
what retired  and  individualistic  in  their 
enthusiasms.  I  was  such  a  child,  bless- 
ed by  circumstances  with  few  play- 
fellows and  rather  inclined  to  sedentary 
joys.  Even  when  I  reached  the  bar- 
baric stage  of  evolution  where  youth 
is  gripped  by  enthusiasm  for  the  main 
pursuits  of  his  primitive  ancestors,  I 
was  fain  to  enjoy  these  in  the  more 
sophisticated  forms  natural  to  a  lone- 
ly young  city-dweller. 

When  stamps  had  passed  their  zenith 
I  was  filled  with  a  lust  for  slaughter. 
Fish  were  at  first  the  desired  victims. 
Day  after  day  I  sat  watching  a  hope- 
lessly buoyant  cork  refuse  to  bob  into 
the  depths  of  the  muddy  and  sluggish 
Cuyahoga.  I  was  like  some  fond  par- 
ent, hoping  against  hope  to  see  his  child 
outlive  the  flippant  period  and  dive  be- 
low the  surface  of  things,  into  touch 
with  the  great  living  realities.  And 
when  the  cork  finally  marked  a  historic 
period  by  vanishing,  and  a  small,  inert 
and  intensely  bored  sucker  was  pulled 
in  hand  over  hand,  I  felt  thrills  of  grat- 
ified longing  and  conquest  old  and 
strong  as  the  race. 

But  presently  I  myself  was  drawn, 
like  the  cork,  beneath  the  superficial 
surface  of  the  angler's  art.  For  in  the 
public  library  I  chanced  on  a  shelf  of 
books  that  told  about  fishing  of  a 
nobler,  jollier,  more  seductive  sort.  At 
once  I  was  consumed  with  a  passion 
for  five-ounce  split-bamboo  fly-rods, 
ethereal  leaders,  double-tapered  casting 


SOME  ENTHUSIASMS  I  HAVE  KNOWN 


53 


lines  of  braided  silk,  and  artificial  flies 
more  fair  than  birds  of  Paradise. 
Armed  in  spirit  with  all  these,  I  waded 
the  streams  of  England  with  kindly 
old  Isaak  Walton,  and  ranged  the 
Restigouche  with  the  predecessors  of 
Henry  Van  Dyke. 

These  dreams  brought  with  them  a 
certain  amount  of  satisfaction  —  about 
as  much  satisfaction  as  if  they  had 
come  as  guests  to  a  surprise  party, 
each  equipped  with  a  small  sandwich 
and  a  large  appetite.  The  visions  were 
pleasant,  of  course,  but  they  cried  out, 
and  made  me  cry  out,  for  action.  There 
were  no  trout,  to  be  sure,  within  a  hun- 
dred miles,  and  there  was  no  way  of 
getting  to  any  trouty  realm  of  delight. 
But  I  did  what  I  could  to  be  prepared 
for  the  blessed  day  when  we  should 
meet.  I  secured  five  new  subscriptions 
or  so  to  The  Boys'  Chronicle  (let  us  call 
it)  and  received  in  return  a  fly-rod  so 
flimsy  that  it  would  have  resolved  itself 
into  its  elements  at  sight  of  a  half-pound 
trout.  It  was  destined,  though,  never 
to  meet  with  this  embarrassment. 

My  casting  line  bore  a  family  resem- 
blance to  grocery  string.  My  leader 
was  a  piece  of  gut  from  my  brother's 
'cello;  my  fly-book,  an  old  wallet.  As 
for  flies,  they  seemed  beyond  my 
means;  and  it  was  perplexing  to  know 
what  to  do,  until  I  found  a  book  that 
said  it  was  best  to  tie  your  own  flies. 
With  joyful  relief  I  acted  on  this  coun- 
sel, and  no  one  can  say  that  I  did  not 
throw  myself  into  the  project.  Pluck- 
ing the  feather-duster,  I  tied  two  White 
Millers  with  shoe-thread  upon  cod 
hooks.  One  of  these  I  stained  and 
streaked  with  my  heart's  blood  into  the 
semblance  of  a  Parmacheenee  Belle. 
The  canary  furnished  materials  for  a 
Yellow  May;  a  door-yard  English  spar- 
row for  a  Brown  Hackle.  My  master- 
piece, the  beautiful,  particolored  fly 
known  as  Jock  Scott,  owed  its  being  to 
my  sister's  Easter  bonnet. 


I  covered  the  points  of  the  hooks 
with  pieces  of  cork,  and  fished  on  the 
front  lawn  from  morning  to  night, 
leaning  with  difficulty  against  the 
thrust  of  an  imaginary  torrent.  And  I 
never  ceased  striving  to  make  the  three 
flies  straighten  out  properly  as  the 
books  directed,  and  fall  like  thistle- 
down on  the  strategic  spot  where  the 
empty  tomato  can  was  anchored,  and 
then  jiggle  appetizingly  down  over  the 
four-pounder,  where  he  sulked  in  the 
deep  hole  just  beyond  the  hydrant. 

The  hunting  fever  was  wakened  by 
the  need  for  the  Brown  Hackle  already 
mentioned.  But  as  the  choice  of 
weapons  and  of  victims  culminated  in 
the  air-gun  and  the  sparrow,  respec- 
tively, my  earliest  hunting  was  con- 
fined even  more  closely  than  my  fishing 
to  the  library  and  the  wild  and  teeming 
forests  and  fields  of  the  imagination. 
But  while  somewhat  handicapped  here 
by  the  scarcity  of  ferocious  game,  I  was 
more  fortunate  in  another  enthusiasm 
which  attacked  me  almost  at  the  same 
time.  For  however  unpropitious  the 
hunting  is  on  any  given  part  of  the 
earth's  surface,  there  is  everywhere 
and  always  an  abundance  of  good  hid- 
den-treasure-seeking to  be  had.  The 
garden,  the  attic,  the  tennis  lawn,  all 
suffered.  And  my  enterprise  was  stim- 
ulated by  the  discovery  of  an  incom- 
parable book,  all  about  a  dead  man's 
chest,  and  not  only  digging  for  gold 
in  a  secret  island,  but  finding  it  too,  by 
jingo!  and  fighting  off  the  mutineers. 

These  aspirations  led  naturally  to 
games  of  Pirate,  or  Outlaw,  which  were 
handicapped,  however,  by  the  scarcity 
of  playmates  and  their  curious  hesita- 
tion to  serve  as  victims.  As  pirates  and 
outlaws  are  well  known  to  be  the  most 
superstitious  of  creatures,  inclining  to 
the  primitive  in  their  religious  views, 
we  were  naturally  led  into  a  sort  of 
dread  enthusiasm  for  —  or  enthusiastic 
dread  of — the  whole  pantheon  of 


54 


SOME  ENTHUSIASMS  I  HAVE  KNOWN 


spooks,  sprites,  and  bugaboos  to  which 
savages  and  children,  great  and  small, 
bow  the  knee. 

But  perhaps  it  might  be  more  pos- 
sible to  convey  the  quality  of  these  in- 
terlaced enthusiasms  by  turning  aside 
for  a  moment  from  the  cooler  ways  of 
prose.  I  suppose  that  a  metrical  state- 
ment of  the  ideals  of  this  period  might 
be  called 

PARADISE  REVISED 

Playing  hymn-tunes  day  and  night 

On  a  harp  may  be  all  right 

For  the  grown-ups;  but  for  me, 

I  do  wish  that  heaven  could  be 

Sort  o'  like  a  circus,  run 

So  a  kid  could  have  some  fun! 

There  I  'd  not  play  harps,  but  horns 
When  I  chased  the  unicorns  — 
Magic  tubes  with  pistons  greasy, 
Slides  that  pushed  and  pulled  out  easy, 
Cylinders  of  snaky  brass 
Where  the  fingers  like  to  fuss, 
Polished  like  a  looking-glass, 
Ending  in  a  blunderbuss. 

I  would  ride  a  horse  of  steel 
Wound  up  with  a  ratchet-wheel. 
Every  beast  I  'd  put  to  rout 
Like  the  man  I  read  about. 
I  would  singe  the  leopard's  hair, 
Stalk  the  vampire  and  the  adder, 
Drive  the  werewolf  from  his  lair, 
Make  the  mad  gorilla  madder. 
Needle-guns  my  work  should  do. 
But,  if  beasts  got  closer  to, 
I  would  pierce  them  to  the  marrow 
With  a  barbed  and  poisoned  arrow, 
Or  I  'd  whack  'em  on  the  skull 
Till  my  scimitar  was  dull. 

If  these  weapons  did  n't  work, 

With  a  kris  or  bowie-knife, 

Poniard,  assegai  or  dirk 

I  would  make  them  beg  for  life;  — 

Spare  them,  though,  if  they  'd  be  good 

And  guard  me  from  what  haunts  the  wood  — 

From  those  creepy,  shuddery  sights 

That  come  round  a  fellow  nights: 

Imps  that  squeak  and  trolls  that  prowl, 

Ghouls,  the  slimy  devil-fowl, 

Headless  goblins  with  lassoes, 

Scarlet  witches  worse  than  those, 

Flying  dragon-fish  that  bellow 

So  as  most  to  scare  a  fellow  .  .  . 


There,  as  nearly  as  I  could, 

I  would  live  like  Robin  Hood, 

Taking  down  the  mean  and  haughty. 

Getting  plunder  from  the  naughty 

To  reward  all  honest  men 

Who  should  seek  my  outlaw's  den. 

When  I  'd  wearied  of  these  pleasures 
I'd  go  hunt  for  hidden  treasures  — 
In  no  ordinary  way: 
Pirates'  luggers  I'd  waylay; 
Board  them  from  my  sinking  dory, 
Wade  through  decks  of  gore  and  glory, 
Drive  the  fiends,  with  blazing  matchlock. 
Down  below,  and  snap  the  hatch-lock. 

Next,  I'd  scud  beneath  the  sky-land. 
Sight  the  hills  of  Treasure  Island, 
Prowl  and  peer  and  prod  and  prise, 
Till  there  burst  upon  my  eyes 
Just  the  proper  pirate's  freight: 
Gold  doubloons  and  pieces  of  eight! 

Then  —  the  very  best  of  all  — 
Suddenly  a  stranger  tall 
Would  appear,  and  I  'd  forget 
That  we  had  n't  ever  met. 
And  with  cap  upthrown  I  'd  greet  him 
(Turning  from  the  plunder,  yellow) 
And  I  'd  hurry  fast  to  meet  him, 
For  he'd  be  the  very  fellow 
Who,  I  think,  invented  fun  — 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

The  enthusiasms  of  this  barbaric 
period  never  died.  They  grew  up,  in- 
stead, and  proved  serviceable  friends. 
Fishing  and  hunting  are  now  the  high- 
lights of  vacation  time.  The  crude  call 
of  the  inexplicable  and  the  weird  has 
modulated  into  a  siren  note  from  the 
forgotten  psychic  continents  which  we 
western  peoples  have  only  just  dis- 
covered and  begun  to  explore.  As  for 
the  buried-treasure  craze  —  why,  my 
beloved  life-work  practically  amounts 
to  a  daily  search  for  hidden  gold  in  the 
attics  and  cellars,  the  chimney-pieces 
and  desert  islands  of  the  mind,  and  the 
secret  coining  of  it  into  currency. 

And  so  I  might  go  on  to  tell  of  my 
enthusiasms  for  no  end  of  other  things 
like  modeling,  reading,  philology,  cathe- 
drals, writing,  pictures,  folk-lore,  and 
the  theatre.  Then,  there  is  the  long 
story  of  that  enthusiasm  called  Love, 


SOME  ENTHUSIASMS  I  HAVE  KNOWN 


55 


of  Friendship  its  twin,  and  their  elder 
brother,  Religion,  and  their  younger 
sister,  Altruism.  And  travel  and  ad- 
venture and  so  on.  But  no!  It  is,  I  be- 
lieve, a  misdemeanor  to  obtain  atten- 
tion under  false  pretenses.  If  I  have 
caught  the  reader's  eye  by  promising 
to  sketch  him  the  merest  outline  of  a 
new  method  of  writing  autobiography, 
I  must  not  abuse  his  confidence  by 
putting  that  method  into  practice.  So, 
with  a  regret  almost  equal  to  that  of 
Lewis  Carroll's  famous  Bellman,  *  I  skip 
twenty  years,'  and  close  with  my  lat- 
est enthusiasm. 


Confirmed  wanderers  that  we  were, 
my  wife  and  I  had  rented  a  house  for 
the  winter  in  a  Massachusetts  coast 
village  and  had  fallen  somewhat  under 
the  spell  of  the  place.  Nevertheless 
we  had  decided  to  move  on  soon,  to 
try,  in  fact,  another  trip  through  Italy. 
Our  friendly  neighbors  urged  us  to 
buy  land  up  the  'back  lane'  instead, 
and  build  and  settle  down.  But  we 
knew  nothing  of  this  thoroughfare, 
and  scarcely  heard  them. 

They  were  so  insistent,  however, 
that  one  day  we  ventured  up  the  back 
lane  at  dusk  and  began  to  explore  the 
woods.  It  grew  dark  'and  we  thought 
of  turning  back.  Then  it  began  to  grow 
light  again.  A  full  moon  was  climbing 
up  through  the  maples,  inviting  further 
explorations.  We  pushed  on  in  the 
undergrowth,  and  presently  were  in  a 
grove  of  great  white  pines.  There  was 
a  faint  sound  of  running  water,  and 
suddenly  we  came  upon  an  astonishing 
brook,  wide,  swift,  and  musical.  We 
had  not  suspected  the  existence  of  such 
a  brook  within  a  dozen  leagues.  It  was 
overarched  by  great  oaks  and  elms, 
beeches,  tupelos,  and  maples.  The 
moonbeams  were  dancing  in  the  ripples 
and  on  the  floating  castles  of  foam. 

'What  a  place  for  a  study!' 


'Yes,  a  log  cabin  with  a  big  stone 
fire-place.' 

The  remarks  came  idly,  but  our 
eyes  met  and  held.  Moved  by  one 
impulse  we  turned  our  backs  upon  the 
stream  and  remarked  what  bosh  people 
will  sometimes  talk,  and  discussed  the 
coming  Italian  trip  as  we  moved  cau- 
tiously among  the  briars.  But  when  we 
came  once  more  to  the  veteran  pines 
they  seemed  more  glamorous  than  ever 
in  the  moonlight,  especially  one  that 
stood  near  a  tall  holly,  apart  from  the 
rest,  —  a  lyre-shaped,  musical  fellow, 

—  and  his  opposite,  a  burly,  thickset 
archer,  bending  his  long-bow  into  a 
most  exquisite  curve.    The  fragrant 
pine-needles  whispered.  The  brook  lent 
its  faint  music. 

*  Quick!   We  had  better  get  away!' 

A  forgotten  lumber  road  led  us  safe 
from  briars  up  a  hill.  Out  of  a  dense 
oak  grove  we  emerged  upon  its  more 
open  crest.  Our  feet  sank  deep  in  moss. 

'Look,'  I  said. 

Over  the  heads  of  the  high  forest 
trees  below,  shimmered  a  mile  of  moon- 
lit marshes,  and  beyond  them  a  gleam 

—  perhaps  from  some  vessel  far  at  sea, 
perhaps   even   from   a   Provincetown 
lighthouse. 

'Yes;  but  look!' 

At  a  touch  I  turned  and  beheld, 
crowning  the  hill,  a  stately  band  of 
red  cedars,  lithe  and  comely,  dense  and 
mysterious  as  the  cypresses  of  Tivoli, 
and  gloriously  drenched  in  moonlight. 

'But  what  a  place  for  a  house!' 

'Let's  give  up  Italy,'  was  the  an- 
swer, 'and  make  this  wood  our  home.' 

By  instinct  and  training  we  were  two 
inveterate  wanderers.  Never  had  we 
possessed  so  much  as  a  shingle  or  a 
spoonful  of  earth.  But  the  nest-building 
enthusiasm  had  us  at  last.  Our  hands 
met  in  compact.  And  a  ten  o'clock  din- 
ner was  eaten  to  the  tune  of  deeds  in 
fee  simple,  pneumatic  water-systems, 
and  landscape  architecture. 


MY  LADY 


BY   OLIVE   TILFORD   DARGAN 


A  RED-CAP  sang  in  Bishop's  wood, 

A  lark  o'er  Golder's  lane, 
As  I  the  April  pathway  trod, 

Bound  west  for  Willesden. 

At  foot  each  tiny  blade  grew  big, 

And  taller  stood  to  hear; 
And  every  leaf  on  every  twig 

Was  like  a  little  ear. 

As  I  too  paused,  and  both  ways  tried 
To  catch  the  rippling  rain,  — 

So  still,  a  hare  kept  at  my  side 
His  tussock  of  disdain,  — 

Behind  me  close  I  heard  a  step, 

A  soft  pit-pat  surprise, 
And  looking  round  my  eyes  fell  deep 

Into  sweet  other  eyes; 

The  kind  like  wells,  where  sun  lies  too 
(So  clear  and  trustful  brown), 

Without  a  bubble  warning  you 
That  here's  a  place  to  drown. 

'You  have  come  far?'  Her  broken  shoes 

Made  it  a  thing  to  say. 
She  answered  like  a  dreaming  Muse, 

*I  come  from  Holloway.' 

*  So  long  a  tramp?'  Two  gentle  nods; 

Then  seemed  to  lift  a  wing, 
And  words  fell  soft  as  willow-buds : 
'I  came  to  find  the  Spring.' 


MY  LADY  57 

A  timid  voice,  yet  not  afraid 

In  ways  so  sweet  to  roam, 
As  it  with  honey  bees  had  played 

And  could  no  more  go  home. 


Her  home!  I  saw  the  human  lair, 

I  heard  the  hucksters  bawl, 
I  stifled  with  the  thickened  air 

Of  bickering  mart  and  stall. 

Without  a  tuppence  for  a  ride, 

Her  feet  had  set  her  free. 
Her  rags  that  decency  defied 

Seemed  new  with  liberty. 

But  she  was  frail.  Who  would  might  note 

That  trail  of  hungering 
That  for  an  hour  she  had  forgot 

In  wonder  of  the  Spring. 

So  shriven  by  her  joy  she  glowed 

It  seemed  a  sin  to  chat. 
(A  tea-shop  snuggled  by  the  road; 

Why  did  I  think  of  that?)  ,  ,- 

Oh,  frail,  so  frail !  I  could  have  wept,  — 

But  she  was  passing  on,  — 
And  I  but  muddled,  *  You '11  accept 

A  penny  for  a  bun?' 

Then  up  her  little  throat  a  spray 

Of  rose  climbed,  half  afraid, 
A  wilding  lost,  till  safe  it  lay 

Deep  in  her  curls'  brown  shade. 

And  I  saw  modesties  at  fence 
With  pride  that  bore  no  name; 

So  old  it  was  she  knew  not  whence 
It  sudden  woke  and  came. 


58  MY  LADY 


But  that  which  shone  of  all  most  clear 
Was  startled,  sadder  thought, 

That  I  should  give  her  back  the  fear 
Of  life  she  had  forgot. 

And  I  blushed  for  the  world  we'd  made, 

Putting  God's  hand  aside, 
Till  for  the  want  of  sun  and-  shade 

His  little  children  died. 

And  blushed  that  I  who  every  year 
With  Spring  went  up  and  down, 

Should  greet  a  soul  that  ached  for  her 
With,  *  Penny  for  a  bun!* 

Struck  as  a  thief  in  holy  place, 

Whose  sin  upon  him  cries, 
I  watched  the  flowers  leave  her  face, 

The  song  go  from  her  eyes. 

Then  she,  sweet  heart,  she  saw  my  rout, 

And  of  her  charity 
A  gracious  hand  put  softly  out 

And  took  the  pence  from  me. 

A  red-cap  sang  in  Bishop's  wood, 

A  lark  o'er  Golder's  lane; 
But  I,  alone,  still  glooming  stood, 

And  April  plucked  in  vain; 

Till  living  words  rang  in  my  ears 

And  sudden  music  played: 
Out  of  such  sacred  thirst  as  hers 

The  world  shall  be  remade. 

Afar  she  turned  her  head  and  smiled 
As  might  have  smiled  the  Spring, 

And  humble  as  a  wondering  child 
I  watched  her  vanishing. 


THE   WICKEDNESS  OF   FATHER  VEIERA 


59 


Oh,  might  I  go  as  knights  once  went 
A-through  a  world  of  wrong, 

At  battle,  feast,  and  tournament 
I'd  make  her  blush  my  song. 

Oh,  were  I  knight  of  modern  day, 
(And  some  there  are,  believe!) 

I  'd  wear  mid  every  bout  and  fray 
Her  colors  on  my  sleeve! 

Till  the  mailed  angels  all  had  won, 

And  devils  slunk  away, 
My  lance  should  not  be  broken  down, 

O  lass  of  Holloway! 


THE  WICKEDNESS  OF  FATHER  VEIERA 


BY  WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE 


THE  day  was  perfect,  the  dome  of 
the  sky  flawless  of  any  streak  of  cloud, 
the  sand  flat  and  pale  yellow,  the  sea 
flat  and  pale  blue.  There  had  never 
been  a  summer  when  the  Great  Neck 
Islands  had  been  blessed  (or  cursed) 
with  such  a  multitude  of  perfect  days. 
Out  on  the  glassy  floor  of  the  harbor 
the  schooners  sat  like  pasteboard  ships 
upon  a  stage.  Even  when  one  came  in, 
opening  out  past  Spankin'  Head,  it  did 
not  seem  to  move,  only  waxed  larger 
without  apparent  progress.  The  whole 
visible  world  lay  inert  beneath  this 
spell  of  quietude — quietude  insidious, 
creeping,  ponderable.  And  so  it  had 
lain  for  weeks-on-end  of  perfect  days. 

Father  Veiera  walked  to  the  west- 


ward along  the  narrow,  crazy-corner- 
ed shore  street  of  Great  Neck.  Father 
Veiera  was  a  round  and  rubicund  man 
with  a  placid  face,  —  marred  at  the 
present  moment  by  a  gentle  trouble, 
strange  upon  his  habitually  unfurrow- 
ed  brow,  —  two  soft  and  puffy  hands 
devoted  to  the  comfort  of  his  flock 
and  the  reception  of  an  occasional  side 
of  mackerel  or  bunch  of  sand-grown 
turnips,  and  a  soul  in  perfect  and  tran- 
quil accord  with  God  the  Father. 

Father  Veiera  was  troubled  because 
his  people  were  hungry.  Perhaps  there 
were  more  wrinkles  in  his  own  bulging 
waistcoat  than  there  used  to  be.  Here 
and  there  through  an  open  door  he 
could  see  an  old  woman,  or  a  girl  or 
young  man,  sultry-skinned  and  with 
the  garish  colors  of  a  southern  fancy 


60 


THE  WICKEDNESS   OF   FATHER  VEIERA 


about  them,  sitting  with  hands  open 
and  staring  hopelessly  at  nothing. 

At  every  fresh  spectacle  of  this  kind, 
the  simple  man's  brow  crinkled  more 
distressingly.  What,  he  asked  himself, 
could  he  and  his  people  have  done,  in 
this  alien  land,  that  God  the  Father 
should  visit  them  with  this  dearth  of 
mackerel?  For  was  it  not  the  mackerel 
that  gave  Great  Neck  reason  for  being? 
Was  it  not  because  the  mackerel  came 
to  the  Great  Neck  Islands  in  plenty 
that  he  had  led  his  people  across  the 
Western  Ocean,  ten  years  ago,  from  the 
sweet  green  shores  of  Portugal?  And 
now,  since  the  break  of  spring,  never 
a  mackerel  had  the  schooners  taken 
—  never  a  *  there  'e  plays '  had  a  mast- 
head man  cried  down  to  deck  through 
all  the  length  of  that  weary  summer. 

Fish  come.  Fish  go.  Beyond  that 
no  man  has  ever  read. 

Down  on  the  beach,  in  the  shadow  of 
Peter  Maya's  wharf,  the  priest  saw  a 
group  of  men.  Some  of  them  were  rais- 
ing their  hands  in  wonder.  It  was  a 
strange  enough  thing,  even,  that  there 
should  be  a  crowd  of  men  gathered 
together  in  these  days  —  it  was  long 
now  since  they  had  taken  to  sitting, 
each  with  his  own  family  in  his  own 
house,  staring  at  nothing.  So  Father 
Veiera  hurried  ponderously  down  to  the 
beach. 

The  men  were  gathered  about  an 
object  which  the  tide  had  brought  in 
and  left  stranded  among  the  weeds 
and  broken  bottles  of  the  beach-line. 
They  stared  at  it  and  pointed,  and  one 
of  them  turned  the  object  over  cau- 
tiously with  his  boot.  The  thing  was 
of  the  color  of  flesh,  like  a  tremendous 
handless  arm,  tapering  at  one  end,  and 
hacked  off  raggedly  at  the  other.  Along 
one  side  of  it  were  thousands  of  tiny, 
fleshy  cups,  set  in  sinuous  rows.  It 
was  a  thing  to  make  men  shudder  when 
they  looked  at  it  —  merely  the  look  or 
the  feel  of  it. 


'What  is  it,  Father?"  they  asked  of 
the  priest. 

He  was  a  superstitious  little  fat 
man,  and  unconsciously  his  puffy  hand 
gestured  twice  in  front  of  his  chest. 
Thereupon  all  the  men  but  one  cross- 
ed themselves  and  felt  yet  more  un- 
comfortable. The  one  who  did  not 
cross  himself  was  Josiah  Pinkney,  one 
of  the  two  or  three  native  Yankees  who 
still  clung  to  Great  Neck  after  their 
fellows  had  gone  'west.' 

This  Josiah  left  the  group  and  went 
up  the  beach  to  the  ice-shed  where 
stores  were  kept,  when  there  were  any 
stores  to  keep.  He  came  back  presently 
with  a  squid  in  his  hands.  Sometimes 
Great  Neck  sold  these  little  cousins  of 
the  devil-fish  for  bait  to  trawlers  who 
stopped  there  on  their  way  to  the 
Channel  grounds.  There  had  not  been 
many  squid  this  year.  What  there 
were,  Great  Neck  had  eaten,  there 
being  little  else  to  eat.  Josiah  had  one 
of  the  last  and  it  stank  badly  because 
the  ice  was  all  gone. 

Now  with  his  knife  he  cut  one  of  the 
tentacles  from  the  slimy,  torpedo- 
shaped  body  and  threw  it  down  on 
the  sand  beside  the  strange,  portent- 
ous thing  which  the  sea  had  cast  up. 
All  the  men  saw  then  that  the  two 
were  the  same,  line  for  line,  cup  for 
cup,  one  of  them  perhaps  five  inches 
in  length  and  the  other  near  a  dozen 
feet. 

They  all  crossed  themselves  again. 
Father  Veiera  prayed  to  Sainte  Anne. 
In  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  far,  far  away 
down  where  the  light  of  heaven  never 
comes,  there  are  creatures  which  God 
the  Father  may  or  may  not  have  put 
there,  but  it  is  best  not  to  think  of 
them  in  either  case. 

Josiah  Pinkney  was  the  first  to  speak. 

'My  father  see  one  o'  them  feelers 
up  to  the  Grand  Banks  in  the  sixties,' 
he  said.  'I  reckon  they  'bide  a  thousand 
fathom  down,'  he  added,  after  a  mo- 


THE   WICKEDNESS   OF   FATHER  VEIERA 


61 


ment  of  speculation,  *  them  giant  squid.' 
Later  in  the  day  a  man  named 
Ventura,  and  his  son,  clamming  on  the 
tide-marshes  to  the  eastward,  came 
upon  another  of  those  handless  arms, 
livid  and  sweltering,  washed  in  among 
the  grass-roots.  They  came  running 
back  across  the  sand  hummocks  to 
Great  Neck  without  their  buckets  or 
clam-rakes.  They  would  have  cried 
their  tale  all  through  the  length  of  the 
shore  street,  which  was  red  and  un- 
earthly in  the  horizontal  rays  of  a  half- 
sun,  sinking  in  Back  Water  beyond  the 
Spankin'  Head  ridge.  But  Father 
Veiera  stopped  them  before  they  had 
come  past  Perez's  shipyard,  holding  up 
a  chubby  forefinger  in  front  of  his  lips. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  hunger  and  the 
drought  of  hope.  Great  Neck  was  think- 
ing too  much  upon  the  monstrous 
shadows  that  live  in  the  depths  of  the 
sea  and  the  veiled  chambers  of  the 
night.  Portents  multiplied.  At  noon, 
in  a  shack  at  the  western  end  of  the 
village,  a  woman  had  given  still-birth 
to  a  creature  with  three  arms.  Strange 
and  uncouth  trackings  in  the  sand  had 
been  observed  by  cranberry-pickers 
beyond  the  Snail  Ponds;  and  goosefish, 
horribly  mangled  as  with  an  edged  in- 
strument, had  been  washed  ashore  in 
the  Cove. 

These  things  cast  their  shadow  upon 
the  soul  of  the  simple  priest.  As  dusk 
came  on,  creeping  over  the  edges  of  the 
world,  he  waddled  up  to  the  yellow 
chapel  on  the  dune  and  passed  a  sea- 
son with  the  relics  brought  over  from 
another  yellow  chapel  on  the  hills  of 
Peniche,  to  the  north  of  Lisbon. 

In  the  morning  he  would  bless  the 
fleet  again.  Already,  in  the  summer, 
he  had  blessed  the  fleet  five  times. 
Perhaps  the  sixth  blessing  would  be 
potent.  When  he  went  out  and  down 
the  whispering  sand  it  seemed  that  the 
night  was  full  of  shades  that  made  the 
stars  wink. 


It  was  not  such  a  shameful  thing  for 
a  little,  round,  devout  man  to  gasp 
and  make  a  trifling  leap  to  the  side 
when  a  shade  of  this  sort  came  up  out 
of  the  ground  at  his  very  feet.  No  — 
one  could  not  be  too  careful  —  it  was 
an  evil  night.  Father  Veiera  continued 
to  pout  and  heave  for  a  moment,  and 
finger  the  crucifix  on  his  breast  de- 
sperately, and  peer  fearfully  at  the 
shadow.  Then  he  straightened  up, 
sighed,  smoothed  his  stubbly  hair,  and 
saiu, " 

*  Peter  Maya  —  it 's  you,  then.  What 
are  you  doing  here,  my  son?' 

'Asentado.'   (Sitting.) 
4  What?' 

*  Alembrandome.'    (Thinking.) 
Peter  Maya  was  a  small  man,  no 

taller  than  Father  Veiera  and  not  at 
all  fat.  He  wore  thick  glasses  and 
pulled  the  brim  of  his  hat  far  down,  so 
that  he  had  to  hold  his  chin  in  the  air. 
He  was  a  fierce  little  man,  —  skipper  of 
the  Isabelle,  —  tyrant  over  a  score  of 
men,  every  one  of  them  half  his  weight 
again.  Father  Veiera  was  a  little  afraid 
of  him  on  account  of  his  fierce  face, 
especially  on  a  night  like  this,  and  he 
would  have  liked  to  go  on  his  way. 
But  something  in  the  other's  tone  had 
hinted  that  the  conversation  was  not 
at  an  end.  So  the  priest  asked,  very 
diffidently,  — 

'What  about?' 

'Hmmmf.' 

It  was  indeed  a  bad  night  when  one 
of  his  children  answered  him  only  with 
a  snort  —  a  dangerous  night  for  a  little 
fat  man. 

*I  shall  bestow  the  blessing  in  the 
morning,'  he  quavered. 

'Rrggh  —  no  good.' 

But  he  did  not  tear  Father  Veiera 
limb  from  limb.  Instead,  he  turned 
disdainfully  away  and  faded  in  the 
gloom,  leaving  the  priest  to  paddle  on 
in  haste  to  his  own  dwelling  where  the 
light  burned. 


THE  WICKEDNESS  OF  FATHER  VEIERA 


II 

'  He  went  out  to  the  schooners  the 
following  noon,  puffing  over  the  oars  of 
his  own  green  dory.  One  after  another 
he  visited  the  vessels,  sprawling  his 
way  across  the  water- spaces  like  an 
overgrown  green  spider  with  two  legs, 
and  one  after  another  the  crews  stood 
up  on  deck  with  bared  heads  while  he 
read  the  service  and  lifted  his  hands 
over  them.  After  he  had  finished,  each 
one  raised  his  head  and  looked  around 
the  skyline,  for  this  succession  of 
blank  blue  days  had  become  a  pesti- 
lence, a  painted  smile  that  killed  their 
turnips  and  drove  all  the  mackerel  into 
obscure  and  tempest-ridden  ends  of 
the  sea. 

They  were  hungry;  their  hands  hung 
down  empty  at  their  sides;  it  was  hard 
to  believe.  But  surely,  that  was  the 
shadow  of  a  veil  of  mist  hanging  over 
the  Island  of  the  Angels,  far  out  there 
in  the  straits.  They  pointed  it  out  to 
one  another  with  lean  fingers,  crossed 
themselves  fervently,  and  when  the 
little  round  priest  had  worked  himself, 
puffing  and  groaning,  over  the  side  and 
into  the  green  dory,  fell  to  getting  up 
the  sails  with  something  more  like  hope 
than  Great  Neck  had  known  for  weeks. 

Father  Veiera  stood  on  the  deck  of 
the  Maria  Stella,  mopping  his  white 
forehead  with  a  handkerchief  of  blue 
cotton.  He  had  blessed  the  Maria 
Stella  and  all  her  crew.  The  vapor  over 
the  Island  of  the  Angels  had  become 
quite  plain. 

*I  have  a  little  wine  in  my  locker,' 
said  Man'el  Deutra,  the  skipper. 
*  Would  you  taste  it  with  me,  Father?' 

When  they  had  drunk  together,  fol- 
lowing the  custom,  the  skipper  said  to 
the  priest,  — 

'You  have  blessed  them  all  now.' 

'  No/  Father  Veiera  answered, '  there 
is  still  left  Peter  Maya's  boat,  lying 
out  there  under  the  Head.' 


He  mopped  his  brow  again,  for  the 
day  had  grown  uncommonly  hot  and 
close.  Man'el  Deutra  grunted  and  spat 
over  the  side. 

'Peter  Maya  has  no  belief  in  the 
sacred  blessing.  He  sits  in  his  house 
this  morning,  and  curses.  As  you  may 
see,  there  is  not  a  soul  aboard  the 
schooner.' 

Father  Veiera  looked  shoreward  and 
sighed.  He  was  very  sorry  indeed  that 
Peter  Maya  had  lost  his  faith,  but  it 
would  have  been  a  long  row  out  there 
to  the  'Head  under  this  sun.  He  used 
the  handkerchief  again  and  reflected 
that  it  is  best  to  look  upon  the  pleas- 
anter  sides  of  the  dispensations  of 
Heaven. 

Then,  just  as  he  lowered  his  bulk 
into  the  green  dory,  the  light  which  oc- 
casionally comes  to  prophets  and  saints 
descended  upon  the  spirit  of  Father 
Veiera. 

'I  will  go  out  and  bestow  the  bless- 
ing whether  there  is  any  one  there  or 
not,'  he  announced  with  determina- 
tion. 

A  half-hour  later  he  clambered  over 
the  rail  of  Peter  Maya's  schooner  and 
sank  down  upon  the  deck-house.  The 
long  row  over  the  glaring  mirror  of  the 
water  had  been  almost  too  much  for 
the  little  round  churchman.  He  took 
off  his  flat  hat  and  rubbed  his  head 
with  the  blue  handkerchief,  and  rubbed 
it  again,  but  with  all  his  mopping  could 
not  seem  to  get  it  dry. 

'I'm  getting  to  be  an  old  man,'  he 
said  to  himself.  He  may  have  nodded 
for  a  time. 

The  painter  of  the  dory  was  still  in 
his  hand.  After  a  while  he  got  up, 
made  the  line  fast,  and  waddled  amid- 
ships. There  he  stood  up  and  blessed 
the  ship  of  the  unbeliever,  going  through 
his  simple-minded  ceremony  with  all 
solemnity  and  without  haste. 

He  was  so  taken  up  with  the  thing  he 
was  doing  that  not  until  he  had  lifted 


THE  WICKEDNESS  OF  FATHER  VEIERA 


63 


his  hands  and  eyes  at  the  conclusion 
did  he  mark  the  change  which  had 
come  over  the  face  of  the  sky.  The 
sun,  standing  high,  appeared  like  a  coin 
of  beaten  silver.  It  waned  to  a  ghost, 
even  as  he  looked,  and  diaphanous 
shreds  of  vapor  fingered  at  the  heads 
of  the  masts. 

The  perfect  weather  was  broken. 
Father  Veiera  felt  a  glow  of  gentle  sat- 
isfaction. At  least  he  had  had  a  hand 
in  this. 

He  would  be  getting  back  to  shore 
now.  And  perhaps  it  would  be  best  to 
hurry.  The  sun  was  still  shining  on 
the  shore  line,  but  it  had  lost  all  its 
features,  looming  like  a  golden  belt 
athwart  the  blanket  of  the  mist. 

He  started  off  stoutly,  with  a  choppy 
stroke  because  his  arms  were  so  short 
and  his  figure  not  for  bending  far.  The 
schooner  he  had  left  faded  to  a  gray 
figure  on  the  tapestry,  then  to  a  spirit 
penciling,  then,  after  a  time,  it  was 
gone. 

'That  went  too  fast/  the  good  man 
observed  to  himself.  *I  must  hurry.' 

But  hurry  where  ?  He  turned  to  look. 
He  sat  in  the  middle  of  a  little  round 
room  and  all  the  walls  were  alike. 

*  If  I  keep  straight  ahead/  he  argued 
hopefully,  *  I  '11  come  ashore  somewhere 
—  somewhere/ 

A  moment  after  he  had  spoken  there 
arose  upon  his  right  hand  a  moaning 
clamor  such  as  a  wounded  beast  might 
raise  before  the  death-rattle.  It  might 
have  come  from  near  or  from  far  — 
such  was  the  quality  of  the  cry. 

The  good  priest  left  off  pulling  and 
sat  with  his  ample  mouth  ajar.  The 
thing  had  become  serious  now,  in  good 
truth,  with  the  Spankin'  Head  fog- 
whistle  blowing  to  the  right  instead  of 
to  the  left.  He  was  heading  to  sea. 
The  gravity  of  the  situation  was  not 
lost  upon  Father  Veiera,  whose  days 
had  been  passed  among  a  fishing  people. 

*I'll  make  for  Spankin'  Head/  said 


he,  'and  I'll  get  there  as  quick  as  I 
can/ 

So  he  put  the  dory's  head  to  star- 
board and  set  away  with  all  the  power 
in  his  stubby  arms.  He  had  been  pull- 
ing for  ten  minutes  and  puffing  and 
blowing  like  any  goosefish,  when  the 
wail  of  the  whistle  crept  through  the 
fog  again  —  not  ahead,  but  from  far 
astern,  farther  than  before. 

Seven  times  in  the  course  of  the  next 
two  hours  Father  Veiera  licked  his  dry 
lips,  mopped  his  head,  and  brought  his 
dory  about  to  point  for  that  elusive 
wail.  The  seventh  time  it  had  grown 
so  faint  that  his  ears  only  caught  it  in 
the  quiet  between  two  strokes  —  and 
there  was  a  long  breath  between  the 
fat  man's  strokes  now.  After  that  he 
bundled  his  oars  into  the  boat  and 
flopped  down  in  the  bottom  like  a 
puppy  whose  legs  are  not  strong  enough 
yet. 

He  must  have  lain  there  for  hours. 
He  went  with  the  tide,  for  not  a  breath 
of  air  waved  the  misty  curtains.  Now 
and  then  he  heard  a  moaning,  far  and 
far  away  through  the  smother.  It 
might  have  been  Spankin'  Head  again, 
or  it  might  have  been  some  grizzly 
inhabitant  of  the  depths  looking  for 
his  mate,  or  for  —  and  here  was  a 
chance  to  make  some  one  shiver  —  for 
a  little  fat  man  in  a  green  dory.  Then 
Father  Veiera  would  fall  to  saying  his 
prayers  over  again,  for  he  could  not 
keep  his  mind  from  the  portents  of 
yesterday  —  the  slashed  goosefish,  the 
still-born  creature,  the  two  vast  tenta- 
cles that  the  tide  had  left  upon  the 
beach,  and  the  weird  trackings  beyond 
Snail  Ponds. 

By  and  by  the  gray  light  began  to 
drain  out  of  the  vapory  hangings.  The 
night  was  coming  down. 

'I  am  surely  going  to  die/  Father 
Veiera  murmured.  The  idea  had  the 
effect  of  calming  him. 

'But  I  am  cold:  I  can  hardly  move/ 


64 


THE   WICKEDNESS   OF   FATHER  VEIERA 


he  added.     'I  must    try  and  row  a 
little.' 

With  groaning  and  pain  he  got  his 
bulk  up-ended  on  the  thwart,  the  oars 
between  the  thole-pins,  and  pulled 
stiffly.  A  sluggish  air  was  beginning  to 
heave,  churning  the  fog  in  slow,  rock- 
ing convolutions  that  stripped  off  lean 
fingers  to  reach  out  and  feel  for  the 
green  dory.  It  would  have  been  still 
light  on  a  fair  day,  but  here  under  the 
soft,  heavy  pall  the  night  came  fast  — 
a  horrible  night,  troubled  by  monstrous 
and  invisible  forms  that  shouldered 
silently  here  and  there  through  the 
steaming  blankness. 

Father  Veiera  tugged  harder  at  his 
oars.  Something  touched  the  back  of 
his  neck.  Terrified,  he  dropped  the 
sweeps  and  batted  his  head  with  both 
hands.  Then  he  fell  into  a  gentle  per- 
spiration, for  he  found  that  it  was  only 
his  coat  collar,  turned  up.  But  when 
he  looked  for  the  oars  they  were  out  of 
sight  in  the  mist. 

Now  he  must  sit  with  his  hands 
folded  and  shudder  at  the  disembodied 
creatures  of  the  night.  To  his  ears  it 
seemed  that  the  ocean  whispered,  a 
thin  hissing  whisper,  as  though  in  that 
blanketed  silence  it  was  tormented  by 
a  downpour  of  rain.  Surely  it  whis- 
pered. That  discreet  complaining  of 
the  waters  was  coming  nearer. 

Father  Veiera  got  down  and  kneeled 
in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  clutching 
the  gunwales  till  his  knuckles  showed 
white  in  the  gray  darkness.  The  whis- 
per grew  and  grew  until,  of  a  sudden,  it 
rushed  past  the  dory,  almost  deafen- 
ing, but  yet  a  whisper.  The  little  priest 
shivered  a  fragment  of  prayer,  lifting 
his  eyes  to  the  close  sky.  The  whisper 
was  gone. 

But  listen  again.  Out  of  the  shadows 
came  another.  It  advanced  as  the 
first  one  had,  and  swept  clamorous- 
ly about  the  green  dory.  But  this  time 
the  man's  eyes  were  on  the  surface  of 


the  water.  And  there  he  saw  a  wonder- 
ful thing.  It  had  turned  in  a  wink  from 
leaden  gray  to  white,  —  so  white  that 
it  appeared  to  light  up  the  fog,-  -white 
with  shots  of  black  across  it.  One  of 
the  shots  struck  the  dory's  side  with  a 
soft  impact.  An  instant  later  one  had 
leaped  clear  over  the  gunwale  and 
flickered  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

When  Father  Veiera  could  look  at  it, 
he  saw  that  it  was  a  mackerel,  sleek, 
shimmering,  eighteen  inches  from  end 
to  end.  He  stared  over  the  side  again. 
Mackerel  and  mackerel,  —  thousands, 
hundreds  of  thousands]  of  mackerel, 
driving  through  the  tortured  water. 

'They  have  come  back/  he  said. 
He  would  have  given  thanks  then  had 
he  not  been  suddenly  taken  up  with 
another  wonder.  He  had  seen  mack- 
erel 'playing'  many  and  many  times, 
but  these  mackerel  were  not  '  playing.' 
They  were  driven;  they  were  trying  to 
get  away;  they  were  stark  mad.  When 
he  saw  that,  Father  Veiera  crossed 
himself. 

It  was  well  that  he  crossed  himself 
then.  A  moment  later  he  could  not 
have  moved  his  hand  to  save  his  soul, 
for  a  moment  later  he  saw  it. 

It  broke  water  within  ten  feet  of  the 
dory's  side.  It  came  like  a  monstrous 
torpedo,  screaming  out  of  the  sea,  hor- 
rible, hideous,  belching  forth  a  column 
of  dingy  water  that  shrieked  away  into 
the  fog.  Then  it  was  gone. 

The  man  in  the  dory  stared  with  dry, 
burning  eyes. 

Again  it  broke  water,  from  the  other 
direction.  In  mid-air  the  snout  of  the 
thing  appeared  to  break  open  in  a  blos- 
som of  ghastly,  writhing  arms  —  those 
cupped  arms  of  the  beach,  livid.  And 
then  it  gave  voice  and  was  gone. 

For  a  moment  there  was  quiet,  as 
though  the  immense  ocean  held  its 
breath.  The  slow  wind  came  stronger. 
Here  and  there  it  ripped  the  fog- 
blanket  away,  leaving  water-spaces 


THE   WICKEDNESS  OF   FATHER  VEIERA 


65 


gleaming  black  and  clear.  The  earth, 
with  its  covering  of  water,  seemed  to 
slide  noiselessly  into  the  south  beneath 
the  tumultuous,  draining  fog  and  the 
tide-driven  dory,  and  then  there  came 
a  star,  a  thousand  stars;  a  black  hori- 
zon rimmed  the  black  sea.  The  air 
slackened  to  a  wandering  breath,  and 
the  stars  made  little  placid  streams  of 
fire  over  the  water. 

Away  to  the  east  there  was  another 
whispering.  The  whisper  grew  and 
established  itself.  An  arrow  of  gray 
advanced  over  the  water,  killing  the 
stars'  reflections  nearer  and  nearer  at 
hand. 

And  the  drivers  came  there  —  three 
of  them  —  breaking  water,  one  after 
another,  in  dim,  blue-gray  geysers  — 
aliens  out  of  the  depths. 

Ill 

The  schooner  Isabelle,  captain  Peter 
Maya,  lay  at  anchor  outside,  two  miles 
south  of  Spankin'  Head  and  abreast  of 
Back  Water  Gut,  which  feeds  and  emp- 
ties the  broad  green  tide-flats  of  Back 
Water.  It  was  half- past  one  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  but  no  one  on  board  the 
Isabelle  slept. 

Peter  Maya  sat  on  the  forward 
companion  trunk,  for  the  sake  of  the 
warmth  from  the  galley  stove-pipe, 
and  swore  beneath  his  breath  about  his 
luck.  He  had  come  out  in  the  clear  at 
eleven,  with  southwesterly  airs.  And 
at  one,  with  the  wind  dying  in  the  east 
and  the  mist  on  the  water  again,  he  lay 
becalmed  with  his  anchor  in  bad  bot- 
tom, so  close  inshore  that  he  could  hear 
the  Gut  sucking  at  the  twine  of  Johnnie 
Silva's  weir,  dead  astern.  A  treacher- 
ous gut.  More  than  one  Island  vessel, 
with  a  heavy  tide  and  a  blind  fog,  had 
gone  to  air  her  ribs  on  the  Back  Water 
flats. 

He  swore  for  another  reason  —  be- 
cause he  was  frightened  —  so  fright- 
VOL.  114 -NO.  1 


ened  that  the  galley  stove-pipe  could 
not  keep  him  warm  on  a  September 
night. 

An  oil  torch  burned  on  the  house, 
aft,  the  flame  standing  straight  up  in 
the  heavy  air;  its  illumination,  pale 
and  immobile,  coming  back  from  a 
hundred  planes  of  woodwork  and  soggy 
rigging.  It  picked  out  the  contours  of 
men's  faces,  distorted  with  fear.  One 
man  had  out  his  beads.  Part  of  the 
time  he  fingered  them  and  told  his 
prayers,  crouched  down  by  the  tack  of 
the  main.  Part  of  the  time  he  appeared 
to  forget,  and  stared  away  into  the 
yellowed  dark,  the  beads  hanging  from 
his  quiet  hand,  each  with  its  small,  dis- 
tinct facet  of  light. 

There  came  a  sound  of  slippers  scrap- 
ing on  ladder-rungs  in  the  forward  com- 
panion, and  a  face  appeared,  craning 
over  the  hatch  at  the  skipper.  It  be- 
longed to  'Rod,'  the  black  cook,  and 
glistened  with  galley  sweat. 

'You  'ear  'eem  any  more,  cap'n? 
Tell  me  —  you  'ear  'eem  — ' 

Peter  Maya  picked  up  a  wooden 
bucket  and  struck  the  Negro's  face 
full  with  the  bottom  of  it.  The  sound 
of  his  falling  came  up  muffled  from 
below. 

The  man  beside  the  main  tack  left 
off  staring  into  the  darkness  and  fell  to 
telling  his  beads  in  an  ecstasy  of  energy. 
Away  to  the  east,  under  the  blind 
sheet,  the  ocean  whispered  again.  The 
bucket  dropped  from  the  captain's 
hand  and  rolled  off  in  an  arc,  fetching 
up  in  the  port  scuppers.  One  of  the 
men  aft  put  his  knee  on  the  house  and 
crawled  to  the  torch,  where  he  squat- 
ted on  his  heels,  not  for  the  warmth 
of  it  but  for  the  light.  Below,  Rod 
groaned  and  stirred  on  the  planking. 
Peter  Maya  swore,  his  finger  in  his  shirt 
collar. 

A  prolonged  whistle,  far  and  far 
away,  threaded  the  creeping  whisper; 
rose,  thin  and  nerve- twanging;  fell, 


66 


THE   WICKEDNESS   OF   FATHER  VEIERA 


choked  off  in  a  fearful  clicking;  and 
was  almost  immediately  taken  up  from 
another  quarter,  nearer  at  hand. 

Peter  Maya  got  to  his  feet  stiffly, 
picked  up  a  gaff  that  lay  across  a  coil 
of  line,  and  stood  in  an  attitude  of 
defense.  The  iron  of  the  gaff -head  pro- 
truded into  the  column  of  light  from 
the  companionway,  where  it  described 
tiny,  jerking  circuits,  like  a  planet  pur- 
suing an  infinitesimal  orbit. 

Of  a  sudden,  the  shadows  all  about 
the  schooner  rustled  and  twittered.  It 
was  as  though  the  ghost  of  a  wind 
passed  through  the  dank  air  without 
stirring  the  misty  particles.  But  it  was 
not  this  phantom  passage  that  held 
the  eighteen  on  the  deck  of  the  Isabelle 
frozen  in  strange  postures  of  terror, 
some  with  stiff  arms  raised  over  their 
heads,  some  at  grotesque  angles  of 
equilibrium,  the  yellow  trouser-knees 
of  the  man  by  the  torch  sweating  tiny 
pearls  of  oil  into  the  flame  —  it  was  the 
long,  shrieking  whistle  with  the  metal- 
lic click  at  the  end  of  it  that  came  from 
nowhere,  threading  the  fabric  of  the 
night  with  the  speed  of  uttered  light- 
ning. It  came  and  went,  sinking  to  a 
shrill  rumor  far  off,  shooting  back  into 
full  cry,  circling  the  vessel  with  a  ring 
of  horror.  Once  a  shower  of  fine  drops 
flicked  over  the  starboard  rail,  amid- 
ships, and  a  wave  of  air,  heavy  with  an 
evil  and  nauseating  stench,  broke  over 
the  deck. 

When  it  had  gone  away,  Peter  Maya 
sank  back  on  the  companion  trunk  and 
let  the  gaff  fall  on  the  boards  at  his 
feet.  A  moment  so,  inert,  and  then  he 
was  groping  for  the  gaff  again  and 
staring  at  the  rail  to  his  left,  dim  and 
red  from  the  torch-light  aft. 

Some  object,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
rail,  was  troubling  the  water.  He  could 
hear  a  swishing  and  guttering  there 
in  the  dark,  and  then  a  soft  impact,  as 
of  flesh,  on  the  two  running-boards  on 
the  vessel's  works  which  give  the  clam- 


bering doryman  his  precarious  foot- 
holds, and  then  a  drip,  drip,  drip,  as 
though  the  thing  reared  higher  and 
higher  over  the  surface  of  the  sea. 
After  what  seemed  many  minutes  to 
the  shaking  man  by  the  companion,  he 
saw  the  dim  line  of  the  rail  disturbed 
at  a  point  just  abaft  the  foreshrouds, 
and  there  arose  a  formless  thing  that 
crawled  inboard,  gasping  and  wheezing, 
with  strange  shadows  of  limbs  waver- 
ing obliquely  over  the  deck-planks.  And 
then  Peter  May  clucked  in  his  throat 
and  whipped  out  his  arm. 

As  a  younger  man,  Peter  Maya  had 
ranked  the  best  hand  with  an  'iron* 
that  ever  rocked  a  bowsprit  pulpit  out 
of  Great  Neck.  And  here  was  a  straight 
cast  from  a  solid  deck.  There  was  a 
snick  as  the  spike  of  the  heavy  pole 
bit  into  the  wood  below  the  rail,  and 
then  it  hung  there,  horizontal  and 
thrumming,  with  the  intruder  impaled 
above  it. 

Now  it  was  no  more  nor  less  than  a 
miracle  that  the  driven  head  did  not 
touch  either  of  Father  Veiera's  knees, 
since  the  space  between  them  was 
hardly  wider  than  the  iron  nib.  The 
thought  of  it  made  him  very  dizzy  for 
an  instant,  and  he  sat  back  on  the  rail 
with  his  legs  still  straddling  the  haft 
of  the  gaff,  while  he  wiped  his  forehead 
with  a  dripping  blue  handkerchief.  His 
clothes  were  dripping  too:  a  thread  of 
water  ran  from  either  trouser-leg  and 
trickled  through  the  scupper-holes.  He 
heaved  a  sigh  and  peered  at  the  gaff- 
thrower. 

*  Peter  Maya  —  it's  you  then.'  He 
had  said  the  same  words  the  night 
before. 

'Come,'  he  went  on,  after  he  had 
stuffed  the  blue  handkerchief  away  in 
his  pocket, '  I  want  your  boats  —  quick. 
Is  the  twine  in  them?  Why  don't  you 
speak,  my  son?' 

Peter  Maya  extricated  himself  from 
the  angle  between  the  trunk  and  the 


THE   WICKEDNESS   OF   FATHER  VEIERA 


67 


stove-pipe  and  moved  by  a  cautious 
diagonal  toward  the  other  side  of  the 
deck  and  aft,  always  facing  the  priest. 
His  hands  were  up  before  his  face,  one 
forefinger  crossing  the  other  at  right 
angles. 

Father  Veiera  followed  him,  wonder- 
ing, into  the  brighter  glow. 

'What's  the  matter?'  he  asked, 
staring  from  one  to  another  of  the 
flame-lit  faces  that  stared  at  him  in 
return,  banked  in  behind  the  skipper. 
Peter  Maya  spoke  with  a  trembling 
belligerency. 

'What  do  you  want?' 

'The  boats  and  the  twine  —  to  stop 
up  the  Gut.  Back  Water  is  full  of 
mackerel.' 

Peter  Maya  looked  about  him,  his 
crossed  fingers  still  presented  toward 
the  priest.  Man'el  Duarte  shook  his 
head.  Gerald  Sousa  shook  his  head 
likewise,  spat  into  the  darkness  of  the 
starboard  side  and  then,  as  if  with  a 
sudden  thought,  crossed  his  fingers  on 
his  chest.  Antone  Miguel,  the  oldest 
man  still  fishing  in  Great  Neck,  mut- 
tered between  weasened  lips,  — 

'Never  a  fin  of  mackerel  in  Back 
Water  —  not  as  man  can  remember.' 

'There  — see?' 

Peter  Maya  threw  out  his  hand  in 
challenge,  with  more  confidence  than 
before.  A  change  was  coming  over  the 
other's  face  as  well.  Had  he  not  been 
such  a  placid  little  man,  one  would 
have  taken  it  for  impatience  —  even 
anger.  His  puffy  right  hand  fumbled  in 
the  breast  of  his  coat  and  then  came 
forth. 

'There  —  see! 'he  echoed.  And  all 
the  men  on  the  deck  and  the  house 
stared  open-mouthed  at  the  fish  held 
aloft  before  them,  the  opal  lights  shim- 
mering on  its  white  belly. 

'Where  did  you  get  it?' 

'It  came  to  me.  It  jumped  into  the 
dory.' 

And  now  the  mouths  hung  wider. 


In  the  silence  that  followed,  a  man  far 
over  on  the  dark  starboard  side,  for- 
ward, whispered  to  his  neighbor.  The 
whisper  traveled  swiftly  from  mouth 
to  ear  through  the  crowd  till  Peter 
Maya  bent  his  ear  to  take  it  from 
Gerald  Sousa. 

'  How  did  you  come  here  —  aboard 
the  vessel?'  he  demanded,  turning  to 
the  priest  again.  But  his  challenge 
rang  hollow  now,  and  for  all  he  could 
do  his  eyes  wavered  down  to  the 
other's  dripping  garments. 

'I  came  in  my  dory  —  drifted.' 

'  Haah.' 

It  was  not  one  that  breathed  it,  but 
all  the  men  there,  nodding  at  their 
neighbors  fearfully,  and  yet  with  a 
certain  triumph,  as  much  as  to  say, 
'  He  would  tell  us  so  anyway  —  hav- 
ing sold  his  soul  to  the  Devil.'  But  it 
was  the  first  whisperer,  forward,  who 
now  spoke  aloud. 

'No  —  there's  no  dory  hepe.' 

Father  Veiera  threw  the  fish  on  the 
deck  with  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

'I  forgot  to  make  it  fast.' 

And  again  they  nodded.  He  would 
say  that,  too. 

'  Come.  Hurry.  In  an  hour  the  tide 
changes  —  the  fish  will  follow  the  tide 
—  they  will  go  to  sea  again  —  be  lost. 
Make  haste.' 

He  took  a  step  forward,  appealing 
with  his  hands.  Peter  Maya  retreated 
the  step  and  his  men  moved  back  be- 
hind him.  Some,  less  timid  than  the 
rest,  began  to  mutter.  One  picked  a 
cleaning-knife  off  the  house,  more  gaffs 
appeared  from  under  the  rails. 

'Keep  back,'  did  Miguel  squeaked, 
brandishing  a  bucket. 

But  Father  Veiera  did  not  keep  back. 
Instead,  he  ran  at  them,  and  they 
melted  before  him  like  bait  before  a 
vessel's  stem,  jostling  and  yelling 
across  the  after-deck  and  pelting  for- 
ward again  through  the  narrow  passage 
on  the  other  side  of  the  house. 


68 


THE   WICKEDNESS   OF   FATHER  VEIERA 


Father  Veiera  stopped  and  leaned 
on  the  taffrail,  wheezing  with  the  exer- 
tion and  his  tumbled  emotions.  He 
peered  astern  where  the  two  long  boats 
rode  dim  in  the  drift,  rising  and  falling 
and  tugging  gently  at  their  painters. 
From  beyond,  a  little  on  the  port 
quarter,  came  a  slight  noise  of  scrap- 
ing, as  of  something  bobbing  against 
the  poles  of  Johnnie  Silva's  weir.  The 
priest  reached  out  along  one  of  the 
boat  painters,  hauled  it  inboard,  loosed 
it  and  watched  it  pay  out  again. 

'Tide  running  weaker' already/  he 
muttered. 

There  was  another  sound  astern 
now,  like  the  swish  of  tangled  wire 
dragged  swiftly  through  the  water. 
The  whisper  passed  in  a  breath,  veer- 
ing away  to  the  south. 

*  They 're  breaking  now.' 

For  a  moment  he  stood  motionless, 
the  nails  of  his  fingers  scarring  the 
palms.  Then  he  did  a  strange  thing. 
He  turned  and  ran  forward  along  the 
port  rail. 

The  Isabellas  men  had  been  bunched 
in  the  waist,  watching  him  and  whis- 
pering about  him.  Now,  when  they 
saw  him  coming  straight  at  them,  they 
broke  once  more  and  stampeded,  yell- 
ing, along  the  other  side  of  the  house 
toward  the  precarious  haven  of  the 
after-deck. 

But  Father  Veiera  did  not  molest 
them.  He  ran  straight  on  across  the 
mid-decks,  stopping  only  to  snatch 
up  a  hatchet  from  the  cook's  wood-box 
beside  the  companion,  and  disappeared 
in  the  gloom  forward. 

'What's  he  going  to  do-  now?' 
Miguel  whispered,  searching  the  faces 
near  him. 

But  none  of  them  could  tell.  Peter 
Maya,  with  his  hat-brim  pulled  down 
farther  than  ever  over  his  fierce,  spec- 
tacled eyes,  and  his  long  chin  shaking, 
mumbled,  'I'll  fix  him — I  '11  fix  him/ 
But  he  did  not  move. 


There  came  a  sound  of  hatchet- 
blows,  dealt  vigorously  on  something 
soft,  away  up  in  the  peak. 

'My  God  —  who's  he  got  there?' 

A  youngster  squealed  with  horror. 
Peter  Maya  whirled  and  began  tell- 
ing off  the  men,  keeping  the  count  on 
agitated  fingers,  while  they  watched 
him  out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes 
like  scared  school-children,  the  whites 
gleaming  in  the  torchlight.  He  had 
come  to  twelve  when  he  suddenly 
broke  off,  his  eyes  staring  over  their 
heads. 

'That  devil!' he  gasped.  'Cut!  By 
God,  he's  parted  the  cable!  Look! ' 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  last  word,  there 
came  a  slight  jar  and  a  cracking  and 
splintering  of  wood;  a  shadowy  pole 
came  out  of  the  night  astern,  ground 
on  the  counter  and  fell  away  into  the 
night  again.  Another  came  up  and 
vanished  with  a  groan.  On  all  sides 
there  was  a  singing  and  ripping  of  taut 
twine  as  Johnnie  Silva's  weir  went 
to  pieces  under  the  Isabellas  drifting 
counter.  . 

Another  pole  came  up  and  bent,  but 
this  one  did  not  fall.  The  others  had 
borne  the  brunt.  Now  the  vessel's 
head  fell  away  slowly  to  the  starboard 
hand  and  the  tide,  taking  her  full, 
eased  her  stern  out  of  the  wrecked 
weir.  Another  moment  and  the  Isabelle 
took  the  ground,  broadside  on,  fair  in 
the  centre  of  the  Gut. 

During  all  this  time  no  one  on  the 
after-deck  had  uttered  a  word.  The 
thing  was  beyond  words — beyond  help. 
It  was  even  beyond  belief. 

Gerald  Sousa  was  the  first  to  open 
his  lips. 

'Did  you  see  the  green  dory?' 

Peter  Maya  jerked  about  and 
grasped  his  elbow. 

'Where?  Tell  me/ 

'There  —  at  the  trap  —  slid  clean 
up  into  the  twine.' 

'So  —  so  — '  Relief  and  rage  show- 


THE   WICKEDNESS   OF   FATHER  VEIERA 


69 


ed  on  the  skipper's  face.  'Come  on,' 
he  bawled.  'We'll  get  him.' 

For  the  last  time  that  night  they 
rumbled  forward,  yelling.  But  there 
was  another  note  in  their  yells  now. 
Father  Veiera  was  standing  on  the 
port  side,  the  side  where  Back  Water 
lay,  holding  the  torch  down  in  the 
shelter  of  the  rail.  His  head  was  craned 
outboard  in  an  attitude  of  listening. 

'Look,'  he  cried  to  the  advancing 
crew,  flashing  the  torch  over  the  side. 

As  though  at  a  signal  preconcerted, 
a  thousand  streaks  shot  white  across 
the  gray  film;  the  streaks  turned  black, 
all  together :  a  thousand  little  fountains 
blossomed  where  the  frightened  mack- 
erel had  somersaulted,  and  then  the 
whisper  of  the  school  rushed  away 
over  the  tide  reaches. 

Father  Veiera  wheeled  upon  the 
gaping  crowd  and  bellowed, — 

'Get  out  —  fore  and  aft.  Double 
your  twine  —  and  then  double  it 
again.' 

IV 

i 

Father  Veiera  sat  on  a  small  mound 
of  sand  —  a  nubbin  of  Back  Water 
Ridge  —  while  the  sun  heaved  clear 
of  the  skyline  and  turned  the  world 
yellow.  He  wheezed  and  puffed  with 
his  climb  in  the  heavy  sand  (he  had 


come  from  the  Gut)  and  he  sat  on  the 
nubbin  to  get  his  breath  back. 

He  was  far  from  alone,  however,  in 
the  sun-swept  world.  A  little  way  to 
the  westward  the  ridge  was  alive  with 
a  crawling  train  —  men  and  women 
and  children  and  creaking  wains  and 
horses  and  wheelbarrows;  he  could 
hear  the  faint  shouts  as  they  topped 
the  rise  and  rolled  downward  over  the 
first  lush  grasses  of  the  flats.  Already 
the  receding  tide  had  left  landlocked 
pools  around  the  edges.  There  he  could 
see  young  men,  bare  to  the  thighs,  and 
girls  with  their  skirts  tucked  high, 
lunging  in  the  blue  shadows  with  long- 
handled  nets  and  hallooing  across  the 
reaches  —  a  little  mad,  all  of  them. 

Father  Veiera  passed  a  chubby  hand 
over  the  wrinkles  of  his  waistcoat  and 
smiled  benignantly.  He  had  had  a 
glass  of  Peter  Maya's  wine  and  he  was 
warm.  His  eyes  wandered  to  the  chap- 
el on  the  hill,  far  off. 

'Gabriel,'  he  murmured,  patting  the 
waistcoat.  '  Saints  have  been  made  for 
less  than  — ' 

He  broke  off,  stricken  with, horror  at 
his  own  wickedness. 

'Culpa  mea.  I  must  do  a  penance,' 
he  said,  with  a  gentle  sigh.  He  hoisted 
his  round  person  from  the  sand  and 
trudged  off  down  the  slope. 


THE   GREEK  GENIUS 


BY   JOHN    JAY   CHAPMAN 


THE  teasing  perfection  of  Greek 
Literature  will  perhaps  excite  the 
world  long  after  modern  literature  is 
forgotten.  Shakespeare  may  come  to 
his  end  and  lie  down  among  the  Egyp- 
tians, but  Homer  will  endure  forever. 
We  hate  to  imagine  such  an  outcome 
as  this,  because,  while  we  love  Shake- 
speare, we  regard  the  Greek  classics 
merely  with  an  overwhelmed  astonish- 
ment. But  the  fact  is  that  Homer 
floats  in  the  central  stream  of  History, 
Shakespeare  in  an  eddy.  There  is,  too, 
a  real  difference  between  ancient  and 
modern  art,  and  the  enduring  power 
may  be  on  the  side  of  antiquity. 

The  classics  will  always  be  the  play- 
things of  humanity,  because  they  are 
types  of  perfection,  like  crystals.  They 
are  pure  intellect,  like  demonstrations 
in  geometry.  Within  their  own  limita- 
tions they  are  examples  of  miracle; 
and  the  modern  world  has  nothing  to 
show  that  resembles  them  in  the  least. 
As  no  builder  has  built  like  the  Greeks, 
so  no  writer  has  written  like  the 
Greeks.  In  edge,  in  delicacy,  in  pro- 
portion, in  accuracy  of  effect,  they  are 
as  marble  to  our  sandstone.  The  per- 
fection of  the  Greek  vehicle  is  what 
attacks  the  mind  of  the  modern  man 
and  gives  him  dreams. 

What  relation  these  dreams  bear  to 
Greek  feeling  it  is  impossible  to  say,  — 
probably  a  very  remote  and  grotesque 
relation.  The  scholars  who  devote 

1  Mr.  Chapman's  essay  appears  here  in  a  form 
much  shorter  than  that  which  it  is  intended  to 
assume  when  published  in  a  book.  —  THE  ED- 
ITORS. 

70 


their  enormous  energies  to  a  life-and- 
death  struggle  to  understand  the 
Greeks  always  arrive  at  states  of  mind 
which  are  peculiarly  modern.  The 
same  thing  may  be  said  of  the  severest 
types  of  Biblical  scholar.  J.  B.  Strauss, 
for  instance,  gave  his  life  to  the  study 
of  Christ,  and,  as  a  result,  has  left  an 
admirable  picture  of  the  German  mind 
of  1850.  Goethe,  who  was  on  his  guard 
if  ever  a  man  could  be,  has  still  been 
a  little  deceived  in  thinking  that  the 
classic  spirit  could  be  recovered.  He 
has  left  imitations  of  Greek  literature 
which  are  admirable  in  themselves, 
and  rank  among  his  most  character- 
istic works,  yet  which  bear  small  re- 
semblance to  the  originals.  The  same 
may  be  said  of  Milton  and  of  Racine. 
The  Greeks  seem  to  have  used  their 
material,  their  myths  and  ideas,  with 
such  supernal  intellect  that  they  leave 
this  material  untouched  for  the  next 
comer.  Their  gods  persist,  their  myth- 
ology is  yours  and  mine.  We  accept 
the  toys,  —  the  whole  babyhouse 
which  has  come  down  to  us:  we  walk 
in  and  build  our  own  dramas  with  their 
blocks. 

What  a  man  thinks  of  influences 
him,  though  he  chance  to  know  little 
about  it;  and  the  power  which  the 
ancient  world  has  exerted  over  the 
modern  has  not  been  shown  in  propor- 
tion to  the  knowledge  or  scholarship  of 
the  modern  thinker,  but  in  proportion 
to  his  natural  force.  The  Greek  tradi- 
tion, the  Greek  idea  became  an  element 
in  all  subsequent  life;  and  one  can  no 
more  dig  it  out  and  isolate  it  than  one 


THE  GREEK  GENIUS 


71 


can  dig  out  or  isolate  a  property  of  the 
blood.  We  do  not  know  exactly  how 
much  we  owe  to  the  Greeks.  Keats 
was  inspired  by  the  very  idea  of  them. 
They  were  an  obsession  to  Dante,  who 
knew  not  the  language.  Their  achieve- 
ments have  been  pressing  in  upon  the 
mind  of  Europe,  and  enveloping  it 
with  an  atmospheric  appeal,  ever  since 
the  Dark  Ages. 

Of  late  years  we  have  come  to  think 
of  all  subjects  as  mere  departments  of 
science,  and  we  are  almost  ready  to 
hand  over  Greece  to  the  specialist. 
We  assume  that  scholars  will  work  out 
the  history  of  art.  But  it  is  not  the 
right  of  the  learned  and  scholarly  only, 
to  be  influenced  by  the  Greeks,  but 
also  of  those  persons  who  know  no 
Greek.  Greek  influence  is  too  univer- 
sal an  inheritance  to  be  entrusted  to 
scholars,  and  the  specialist  is  the  very 
last  man  who  can  understand  it.  In 
order  to  obtain  a  diagnosis  on  Greek 
influence  one  would  have  to  seek  out 
a  sort  of  specialist  on  Humanity-at- 
large. 


Since  we  cannot  find  any  inspired 
teacher  to  lay  before  us  the  secrets  of 
Greek  influence,  the  next  best  thing 
would  be  to  go  directly  to  the  Greeks 
themselves,  and  to  study  their  works 
freshly,  almost  innocently.  But  to  do 
this  is  not  easy.  The  very  Greek  texts 
themselves  have  been  established 
through  modern  research,  and  the  foot- 
notes are  the  essence  of  modernity. 

The  rushing  modern  world  passes 
like  an  express  train;  as  it  goes,  it  holds 
up  a  mirror  to  the  classic  world,  —  a 
mirror  ever  changing  and  ever  false. 
For  upon  the  face  of  the  mirror  rests 
the  lens  of  fleeting  fashion.  We  can  no 
more  walk  straight  to  the  Greeks  than 
we  can  walk  straight  to  the  moon.  In 
America  the  natural  road  to  the  class- 
ics lies  through  the  introductions  of 


German  and  English  scholarship.  We 
are  met,  as  it  were,  on  the  threshold  of 
Greece  by  guides  who  address  us  confi- 
dently in  two  very  dissimilar  modern 
idioms,  and  who  overwhelm  us  with 
complacent  and  voluble  instructions. 
According  to  these  men  we  have  noth- 
ing to  do  but  listen  to  them,  if  we  would 
understand  Greece. 

Before  entering  upon  the  subject  of 
Greece,  let  us  cast  a  preliminary  and 
disillusioning  glance  upon  our  two 
guides,  the  German  and  the  Briton. 
Let  us  look  once  at  each  of  them  with 
an  intelligent  curiosity,  so  that  we  may 
understand  what  manner  of  men  they 
are,  and  can  make  allowances  in  re- 
ceiving the  valuable  and  voluble  as- 
sistance which  they  keep  whispering 
into  our  ears  throughout  the  tour.  The 
guides  are  indispensable;  but  this  need 
not  prevent  us  from  studying  their 
temperaments.  If  it  be  true  that  mod- 
ern scholarship  acts  as  a  lens  through 
which  the  classics  are  to  be  viewed, 
we  can  never  hope  to  get  rid  of  all  the 
distortions;  but  we  may  make  scien- 
tific allowances,  and  may  correct  re- 
sults. We  may  consider  certain  social 
laws  of  refraction,  for  example,  specta- 
cles, beer,  sausages.  We  may  regard 
the  variations  of  the  compass  due  to 
certain  local  customs,  namely:  the 
Anglican  communion,  School  honor, 
Pears'  soap.  In  all  this  we  sin  not,  but 
pursue  intellectual  methods. 

The  case  of  Germany  illustrates  the 
laws  of  refraction  very  pleasantly.  The 
extraordinary  lenses  which  were  made 
there  in  the  nineteenth  century  are 
famous  now,  and  will  remain  as  curi- 
osities hereafter.  During  the  last  cen- 
tury, Learning  won  the  day  in  Ger- 
many to  an  extent  never  before  known 
in  history.  It  became  an  unwritten 
law  of  the  land  that  none  but  learned 
men  should  be  allowed  to  play  with 
pebbles.  If  a  man  had  been  through 
the  mill  of  the  Doctorate,  however, 


THE  GREEK  GENIUS 


he  received  a  certificate  as  a  dreamer. 
The  passion  which  mankind  has  for 
using  its  imagination  could  thus  be 
gratified  only  by  men  who  had  been 
brilliant  scholars.  The  result  was  a 
race  of  monsters,  of  whom  Nietzsche  is 
the  greatest. 

The  early  social  life  of  these  men  was 
contracted.  They  learned  all  they 
knew  while  sitting  on  a  bench.  The 
classroom  was  their  road  to  glory. 
They  were  aware  that  they  could  not 
be  allowed  to  go  out  and  play  in  the 
open  until  they  had  learned  their  les- 
sons thoroughly;  they  therefore  became 
prize  boys.  When  the  great  freedom 
was  at  last  conferred  upon  them,  they 
roamed  through  Greek  mythology,  and 
all  other  mythologies,  and  erected  laby- 
rinths in  which  the  passions  of  child- 
hood may  be  seen  gamboling  with  the 
discoveries  of  adult  miseducation.  The 
gravity  with  which  the  pundits  treated 
each  other  extended  to  the  rest  of  the 
world,  because,  in  the  first  place,  they 
were  more  learned  than  any  one  else, 
and  in  the  second,  many  of  them  were 
men  of  genius.  The  *  finds'  of  modern 
archaeology  have  passed  through  the 
hands  of  these  men,  and  have  received 
from  them  the  labels  of  current  class- 
ification. 

After  all,  these  pundits  resemble 
their  predecessors  in  learning.  Scholar- 
ship is  always  a  specialized  matter,  and 
it  must  be  learned  as  we  learn  a  game. 
Scholarship  always  wears  the  parade 
of  finality,  and  yet  suffers  changes  like 
the  moon.  These  particular  scholars 
are  merely  scholars.  Their  errors  are 
only  the  errors  of  scholarship,  due,  for 
the  most  part,  to  extravagance  and 
ambition.  A  new  idea  about  Hellas 
meant  a  new  reputation.  In  default  of 
such  an  idea  a  man's  career  is  manquee; 
he  is  not  an  intellectual.  After  dis- 
counting ambition,  we  have  left  still 
another  cause  for  distrusting  the  labors 
of  the  German  professors.  This  dis- 


trust arises  from  a  peep  into  the  social 
surroundings  of  the  caste.  Here  is  a 
great  authority  on  the  open-air  life  of 
the  Greeks :  he  knows  all  about  Hellenic 
sport.  Here  is  another  who  under- 
stands the  brilliant  social  life  of  Attica : 
he  has  written  the  best  book  upon 
Athenian  conversation  and  the  market- 
place. Here  is  still  a  third:  he  has  re- 
constructed Greek  religion:  at  last  we 
know!  All  these  miracles  of  learning 
have  been  accomplished  in  the  library, 

—  without  athletics,  without  conver- 
sation, without  religion. 

When  I  think  of  Greek  civilization, 
of  the  swarming,  thieving,  clever, 
gleaming-eyed  Greeks,  of  the  Bay  of 
Salamis,  and  of  the  Hermes  of  Praxi- 
teles, —  and  then  cast  my  eyes  on  the 
Greatest  Authority,  my  guide,  my 
Teuton  master,  with  his  barbarian 
babble  and  his  ham-bone  and  his  self- 
importance,  I  begin  to  wonder  whether 
I  cannot  somehow  get  rid  of  the  man 
and  leave  him  behind.  Alas,  we  cannot 
do  that;  we  can  only  remember  his 
traits. 

Our  British  mentors,  who  flank  the 
German  scholars  as  we  move  gently 
forward  toward  Greek  feeling,  form  so 
complete  a  contrast  to  the  Teutons 
that  we  hardly  believe  that  both  kinds 
can  represent  genuine  scholarship.  The 
Britons  are  gentlemen,  afternoon  call- 
ers, who  eat  small  cakes,  row  on  the 
Thames,  and  are  all  for  morality. 
They  are  men  of  letters.  They  write 
in  prose  and  in  verse,  and  belong  to 
the  aesthetic  fraternity.  They,  like  the 
Teutons,  are  attached  to  institutions 
of  learning,  namely,  to  Oxford  and 
Cambridge.  They  resemble  the  Ger- 
mans, however,  in  but  a  single  trait, 

—  the  conviction  that  they  understand 
Greece. 

The  thesis  of  the  British  belle-let- 
trists,  to  which  they  devote  their  en- 
ergies, might  be  stated  thus:  British 
culture  includes  Greek  culture.  They 


THE  GREEK  GENIUS 


73 


are  very  modern,  very  English,  very 
sentimental,  these  British  scholars. 
While  the  German  Doctors  use  Greek 
as  a  stalking-horse  for  Teutonic  psy- 
chology, these  English  gentlemen  use 
it  as  a  dressmaker's  model  upon  which 
they  exhibit  home-made  English  lyrics 
and  British  stock  morality.  The  lesson 
which  Browning  sees  in  Alcestis  is  the 
same  that  he  gave  us  in  James  Lee's 
Wife.  Browning's  appeal  is  always  the 
appeal  to  robust  feeling  as  the  salva- 
tion of  the  world.  Gilbert  Murray,  on 
the  other  hand,  sheds  a  sad,  clinging, 
Tennysonian  morality  over  Dionysus. 
Jowett  is  happy  to  announce  that 
Plato  is  theologically  sound,  and  gives 
him  a  ticket-of-leave  to  walk  anywhere 
in  England.  Swinburne  clings  to  that 
belief  in  sentiment  which  marks  the 
Victorian  era,  but  Swinburne  finds  the 
key  to  life  in  unrestraint  instead  of  in 
restraint. 

There  is  a  whole  school  of  limp  Gre- 
cism  in  England,  which  has  grown  up 
out  of  Keats 's  Grecian  urn,  and  which 
is  now  buttressed  with  philosophy  and 
adorned  with  scholarship;  and  no 
doubt  it  does  bear  some  sort  of  rela- 
tion to  Greece  and  to  Greek  life.  But 
this  Anglican  Grecism  has  the  quality 
which  all  modern  British  art  exhibits, 
: —  the  very  quality  which  the  Greeks 
could  not  abide,  —  it  is  tinged  with 
excess.  The  Briton  likes  strong  flavors. 
He  likes  them  in  his  tea,  in  his  port 
wine,  in  his  concert-hall  songs,  in  his 
pictures  of  home  and  farm  life.  He 
likes  something  unmistakable,  some- 
thing with  a  smack  that  lets  you  know 
that  the  thing  has  arrived.  In  his  lit- 
erature he  is  the  same.  Dickens, 
Carlyle,  Tennyson  lay  it  on  thick  with 
sentiment.  Keats  drips  with  aroma- 
tic poetry,  which  has  a  wonder  and 
a  beauty  of  its  own — and  whose  strik- 
ing quality  is  excess.  The  scented, 
wholesale  sweetness  of  the  modern 
aesthetic  school  in  England  goes  home 


to  its  admirers  because  it  is  easy  art. 
Once  enjoy  a  bit  of  it  and  you  never 
forget  it.  It  is  always  the  same,  the 
'old  reliable/  the  Oxford  brand,  the 
true,  safe,  British,  patriotic,  moral, 
noble  school  of  verse;  which  exhibits 
the  manners  and  feelings  of  a  gentle- 
man, and  has  success  written  in  every 
trait  of  its  physiognomy. 

How  this  school  of  poetry  invaded 
Greece  is  part  of  the  history  of  British 
expansion  in  the  nineteenth  century. 
In  the  Victorian  era  the  Englishman 
brought  cricket  and  morning  prayers 
into  South  Africa.  Robert  Browning 
established  himself  and  his  carpet-bag 
in  comfortable  lodgings  on  the  Acropo- 
lis, —  which  he  spells  with  a  K  to  show 
his  intimate  acquaintance  with  recent 
research.  It  must  be  confessed  that 
Robert  Browning's  view  of  Greece 
never  pleased,  even  in  England.  It 
was  too  obviously  R.  B.  over  again.  It 
was  Pippa  and  Bishop  Blougram  with 
a  few  pomegranate  seeds  and  unex- 
pected orthographies  thrown  in.  The 
Encyclopaedia  Britannica  is  against  it, 
and  suggests,  wittily  enough,  that  one 
can  hardly  agree  with  Browning  that 
Heracles  got  drunk  for  the  purpose  of 
keeping  up  other  people's  spirits. 

So  also  Edward  FitzGerald  was  never 
taken  seriously  by  the  English;  but 
this  was  for  another  reason.  His  trans- 
lations are  the  best  transcriptions  from 
the  Greek  ever  done  by  this  British 
school;  but  Fitzgerald  never  took  him- 
self seriously.  I  believe  that  if  he  had 
only  been  ambitious,  and  had  belonged 
to  the  academic  classes,  —  like  Jowett 
for  instance,  —  he  could  have  got 
Oxford  behind  him,  and  we  should  all 
have  been  obliged  to  regard  him  as  a 
great  apostle  of  Hellenism.  But  he 
was  a  poor-spirited  sort  of  man,  and 
never  worked  up  his  lead. 

Matthew  Arnold,  on  the  other  hand, 
began  the  serious  profession  of  being  a 
Grecian.  He  took  it  up  when  there  was 


THE  GREEK  GENIUS 


nothing  in  it,  and  he  developed  a  little 
sect  of  his  own,  out  of  which  later  came 
Swinburne  and  Gilbert  Murray,  each 
of  whom  is  the  true  British  article. 
While  Swinburne  is  by  far  the  greater 
poet,  Murray  is  by  far  the  more  im- 
portant of  the  two  from  the  ethno- 
logical point  of  view.  Murray  was  the 
first  man  to  talk  boldly  about  God, 
and  to  introduce  his  name  into  all 
Greek  myths,  using  it  as  a  fair  trans- 
lation of  any  Greek  adjective.  There 
is  a  danger  in  this  boldness.  The  read- 
er's attention  becomes  hypnotized  with 
wondering  in  what  manner  God  is  to 
be  introduced  into  the  next  verse.  The 
reader  becomes  so  concerned  about 
Mr.  Murray's  religious  obsessions  that 
he  forgets  the  Greek  altogether  and 
remembers  only  Shakespeare's  hostess 
in  her  distress  over  the  dying  Falstaff: 
'Now  I,  to  comfort  him,  bid  him  'a 
should  not  think  of  God,  —  I  hoped 
there  was  no  need  to  trouble  himself 
with  any  such  thoughts  yet.' 

Murray  and  Arnold  are  twins  in 
ethical  endeavor.  I  think  that  it  was 
Arnold  who  first  told  the  British  that 
Greece  was  noted  for  melancholy  and 
for  longings.  He  told  them  that  chas- 
tity, temperance,  nudity,  and  a  wealth 
of  moral  rhetoric  marked  the  young 
man  of  the  Periclean  period.  Even 
good  old  Dean  Plumptre  has  put  this 
young  man  into  his  prefaces.  Swin- 
burne added  the  hymeneal  note,  —  the 
poetic  nature- view,  —  of  which  the 
following  may  serve  as  an  example :  — 

And  the  trees  in  their  season  brought  forth  and 

were  kindled  anew 
By  the  warmth  of  the  mixture  of  marriage,  the 

child-bearing  dew. 

There  is  hardly  a  page  in  Swinburne's 
Hellenizing  verse  that  does  not  blos- 
som with  Hymen.  The  passages  would 
be  well  suited  for  use  in  the  public 
schools  of  to-day  where  sex-knowledge 
in  its  poetic  aspects  is  beginning  to  be 
judiciously  introduced. 


This  contribution  of  Swinburne's,  — 
the  hymeneal  touch,  —  and  Murray's 
discovery  that  the  word  God  could  be 
introduced  with  effect  anywhere,  went 
like  wildfire  over  England.  They  are 
characteristic  of  the  latest  phase  of 
Anglo-Grecism. 

Gilbert  Murray  has,  in  late  years, 
had  the  field  to  himself.  He  stands 
as  the  head  and  front  of  Greek  culture 
in  England.  It  is  he,  more  than  any 
one  else,  who  is  the  figure-head  of  dra- 
matic poetry  in  England  to-day;  and, 
as  such,  his  influence  must  be  met, 
and,  as  it  were,  passed  through,  by  the 
American  student  who  is  studying  the 
Greek  classics. 


ii 

The  Greek  genius  is  so  different  from 
the  modern  English  genius  that  they 
cannot  understand  one  another.  How 
shall  we  come  to  see  this  clearly?  The 
matter  is  difficult  in  the  extreme;  be- 
cause we  are  all  soaked  in  modern  feel- 
ing, and  in  America  we  are  all  drench- 
ed in  British  influence.  The  desire  of 
Britain  to  annex  ancient  Greece,  the 
deep-felt  need  that  the  English  writers 
and  poets  of  the  nineteenth  century 
have  shown  to  edge  and  nudge  nearer 
to  Greek  feeling,  is  familiar  to  all  of  us. 
Swinburne  expresses  his  Hellenic  long- 
ings by  his  hymeneal  strains,  Matthew 
Arnold  by  sweetness  and  light,  Gilbert 
Murray  by  sweetness  and  pathos,  — 
and  all  through  the  divine  right  of 
Victorian  expansion.  It  has  been  a 
profoundly  unconscious  development 
in  all  these  men.  They  have  instinct- 
ively and  innocently  attached  their 
little  oil-can  to  the  coat-tails  of  Eu- 
ripides and  of  the  other  great  Attic 
writers.  They  have  not  been  interested 
in  Greek  for  its  own  sake.  They  have 
been  interested  in  the  exploitations  of 
Greece  for  the  purpose  of  British  con- 
sumption. 


THE   GREEK  GENIUS 


Some  people  will  contend  that  none 
of  the  writers  of  this  school  are,  pro- 
perly speaking,  professional  scholars. 
Others  will  contend  that  professional 
scholarship  is  tolerable  only  because 
it  tends  to  promote  cultivation  of  a 
non-professional  kind.  For  instance, 
Jowett  was  never  regarded  as  a  scholar 
by  the  darkest-dyed  Oxford  experts, 
and  Jebb  of  Cambridge  is  undoubtedly 
regarded  as  an  amateur  in  Germany, 
because  he  descends  to  making  transla- 
tions. The  severest  classicist  is  able  to 
talk  only  about  texts.  He  is  too  great 
to  do  anything  else.  And  yet,  properly 
speaking,  these  men  are  all  scholars. 
Murray  represents  popular  scholarship 
to  a  degree  which  would  have  shocked 
Matthew  Arnold,  just  as  Arnold  him- 
self would  have  been  poison  to  Nauck, 

-Nauck  the  author  of  the  text  of 
Euripides. 

But  they  are  all  scholars,  and  Mur- 
ray who  is  an  Australian,  and  who 
rose  into  University  prominence  on  the 
wings  of  University  Extension,  and 
through  his  lyric  gift  rather  than 
through  his  learning,  belongs  to  Oxford 
by  race  and  by  nature,  as  well  as  by 
adoption.  The  outsider  ought  not  to 
confuse  him  with  the  whole  of  Oxford, 
and  the  whole  of  Oxford  ought  not  to 
disown  him  after  making  him  the  head 
and  front  of  its  Hellenism  so  far  as  the 
world  at  large  can  judge.  Murray,  as 
St.  Paul  would  say,  is  not  the  inner 
Oxford;  but  Murray  is  the  outer 
Oxford  which  the  inner  Oxford  cannot 
too  eagerly  sniff  at  or  condemn;  be- 
cause he  is  no  accident,  but  a  true-bred 
Oxonian  of  the  Imperial  epoch. 

The  tendency  of  universities  has 
ever  been  to  breed  cliques  and  secret 
societies,  to  produce  embroideries  and 
start  hothouses  of  specialized  feeling. 
They  do  well  in  doing  this :  it  is  all  they 
can  do.  We  should  look  upon  them  as 
great  furnaces  of  culture,  largely  social 
in  their  influence,  which  warm  and 


nourish  the  general  temperament  of  a 
nation.  Would  that  in  America  we 
had  a  local  school  of  classic  cultiva- 
tion half  as  interesting  as  this  Oxford 
Movement,  —  quaint  and  non-intel- 
lectual as  it  is!  It  is  alive  and  it  is 
national.  While  most  absurd  from  the 
point  of  view  of  universal  culture,  it  is 
most  satisfactory  from  the  domestic 
point  of  view,  —  as  indeed  everything 
in  England  is.  If  in  America  we  ever 
develop  any  true  universities,  they  will 
have  faults  of  their  own.  Their  defects 
will  be  of  a  new  strain,  no  doubt,  and 
will  reflect  our  national  shortcomings. 
These  thoughts  but  teach  us  that  we 
cannot  use  other  people's  eyes  or  other 
people's  eye-glasses.  We  have  still  to 
grind  the  lenses  through  which  we 
shall,  in  our  turn,  observe  the  classics. 


in 

Ancient  religion  is  of  all  subjects  in 
the  world  the  most  difficult.  Every 
religion,  even  at  the  time  it  was  in  pro- 
gress, was  always  completely  misunder- 
stood, and  the  misconceptions  have 
increased  with  the  ages.  They  multi- 
ply with  every  monument  that  is  un- 
earthed. If  the  Eleusinian  mysteries 
were  going  at  full  blast  to-day,  so  that 
we  could  attend  them,  as  we  do  the 
play  at  Oberammergau,  their  interpre- 
tation would  still  present  difficulties. 
Mommsen  and  Rhode  would  disagree. 
But  ten  thousand  years  from  now, 
when  nothing  survives  except  a  line  out 
of  St.  John's  Gospel  and  a  tablet  stat- 
ing that  Fischer  played  the  part  of 
Christ  for  three  successive  decades, 
many  authoritative  books  will  be  writ- 
ten about  Oberammergau,  and  reputa- 
tions will  be  made  over  it.  Anything 
which  we  approach  as  religion  becomes 
a  nightmare  of  suggestion,  and  hales  us 
hither  and  thither  with  thoughts  be- 
yond the  reaches  of  the  soul. 

The  Alcestis  and  the  Bacchantes  are, 


76 


THE  GREEK  GENIUS 


in  this  paper,  approached  with  the  idea 
that  they  are  plays.  This  seems  not  to 
have  been  done  often  enough  with 
Greek  plays.  They  are  regarded  as 
examples  of  the  sublime,  as  forms  of 
philosophic  thought,  as  moral  essays, 
as  poems,  even  as  illustrations  of  dra- 
matic law,  and  they  are  unquestion- 
ably all  of  these  things.  But  they  were 
primarily  plays,  —  intended  to  pass 
the  time  and  exhilarate  the  emotions. 
They  came  into  being  as  plays,  and 
their  form  and  make-up  can  best  be 
understood  by  a  study  of  the  dramatic 
business  in  them.  They  become  poems 
and  philosophy  incidentally,  and  after- 
wards: they  were  born  as  plays.  A 
playwright  is  always  an  entertainer, 
and  unless  his  desire  to  hold  his  audi- 
ence overpoweringly  predominates,  he 
will  never  be  a  success.  It  is  prob- 
able that  even  with  ^Eschylus,  —  who 
stands  hors  ligne  as  the  only  play- 
wright in  history  who  was  really  in 
earnest  about  morality,  —  we  should 
have  to  confess  that  his  passion  as  a 
dramatic  artist  c&me  first.  He  held  his 
audiences,  by  strokes  of  tremendous 
dramatic  novelty.  Both  the  stage  tra- 
ditions and  the  plays  themselves  bear 
this  out.  The  fact  is  that  it  is  not 
easy  to  keep  people  sitting  in  a  theatre; 
and  unless  the  idea  of  holding  their 
attention  predominates  with  the  au- 
thor, they  will  walk  out,  and  he  will 
not  be  able  to  deliver  the  rest  of  his 
story. 

In  the  grosser  forms  of  dramatic 
amusement  —  for  example,  where  a 
bicycle  acrobat  is  followed  by  a  comic 
song,  we  are  not  compelled  to  find 
any  philosophic  depth  of  idea  in  the 
sequence.  But  in  dealing  with  works 
of  great  and  refined  dramatic  genius 
like  the  Tempest,  or  the  Bacchantes, 
where  the  emotions  played  upon  are 
subtly  interwoven,  there  will  always 
be  found  certain  minds  which  remain 
unsatisfied  with  the  work  of  art  itself, 


but  must  have  it  explained.  Even 
Beethoven's  Sonatas  have  been  sup- 
plied with  philosophic  addenda,  - 
statements  of  their  meaning.  We  know 
how  much  Shakespeare's  intentions 
.used  to  puzzle  the  Germans.  Men  feel 
that  somewhere  at  the  back  of  their 
own  consciousness  there  is  a  philoso- 
phy or  a  religion  with  which  the  arts 
have  some  relation.  In  so  far  as  these 
affinities  are  touched  upon  in  a  manner 
that  leaves  them  mysteries,  we  have 
good  criticism;  but  when  people  dog- 
matize about  them,  we  have  bad  criti- 
cism. In  the  meantime  the  great  artist 
goes  his  way.  His  own  problems  are 
enough  for  him. 

The  early  critics  were  puzzled  to 
classify  the  Alcestis,  and  no  wonder, 
for  it  contains  many  varieties  of  dra- 
matic writing.  For  this  very  reason  it 
is  a  good  play  to  take  as  a  sample  of 
Greek  spirit  and  Greek  workmanship. 
It  is  a  little  Greek  cosmos,  and  it  hap- 
pens to  depict  a  side  of  Greek  thought 
which  is  sympathetic  to  modern  senti- 
ment, so  that  we  seem  to  be  at  home 
in  its  atmosphere.  The  Alcestis  is 
thought  to  be  in  a  class  by  itself.  And 
yet,  indeed,  under  close  examination, 
every  Greek  play  falls  into  a  class  by 
itself  (there  are  only  about  forty-five 
of  them  in  all),  and  the  maker  of  each 
was  probably  more  concerned  at  the 
time  with  the  dramatic  experiment 
upon  which  he  found  himself  launched 
than  he  was  with  any  formal  classifica- 
tion which  posterity  might  assign  to 
his  play. 

In  the  Alcestis  Euripides  made  one  of 
the  best  plays  in  the  world,  full  of  true 
pathos,  full  of  jovial  humor,  both  of 
which  sometimes  verge  upon  the  bur- 
lesque. The  happy  ending  is  under- 
stood from  the  start,  and  none  of  the 
grief  is  painful.  Alcestis  herself  is  the 
good-wife  of  Greek  household  myth, 
who  is  ready  to  die  for  her  husband. 
To  this  play  the  bourgeois  takes  his 


THE  GREEK  GENIUS 


77 


half-grown  family.  He  rejoices  when 
he  hears  that  it  is  to  be  given.  The 
absurdities  of  the  fairy-tale  are  ac- 
cepted simply.  Heracles  has  his  club, 
Death  his  sword,  Apollo  his  lyre.  The 
women  wail,  Admetus  whines;  there  is 
buffoonery,  there  are  tears,  there  is 
wit,  there  is  conventional  wrangling, 
and  that  word-chopping  so  dear  to  the 
Mediterranean  theatre,  which  exists  in 
all  classic  drama  and  survives  in  the 
Punch  and  Judy  show  of  to-day.  And 
there  is  the  charming  return  of  Her- 
acles with  the  veiled  lady  whom  he 
presents  to  Admetus  as  a  slave  for  safe 
keeping,  whom  Admetus  refuses  to 
receive  for  conventional  reasons,  but 
whom  every  child  in  the  audience  feels 
to  be  the  real  Alcestis,  even  before 
Heracles  unveils  her  and  gives  her 
back  into  her  husband's  bosom  with 
speeches  on  both  sides  that  are  like 
the  closing  music  of  a  dream. 

The  audience  disperses  at  the  close, 
feeling  that  it  has  spent  a  happy  hour. 
No  sonata  of  Mozart  is  more  com- 
pletely beautiful  than  the  Alcestis.  No 
comedy  of  Shakespeare  approaches  it 
in  perfection.  The  merit  of  the  piece 
lies  not  in  any  special  idea  it  conveys, 
but  entirely  in  the  manner  in  which 
everything  is  carried  out. 


rv 

It  is  clear  at  a  glance  that  the 
Alcestis  belongs  to  an  epoch  of  extreme 
sophistication.  Everything  has  been 
thought  out  and  polished ;  every  orna- 
ment is  a  poem.  If  a  character  has  to 
give  five  words  of  explanation  or  of 
prayer,  it  is  done  in  silver.  The  tone  is 
all  the  tone  of  cultivated  society,  the 
appeal  is  an  appeal  to  the  refined,  casu- 
istical intelligence.  The  smile  of  Vol- 
taire is  all  through  Greek  literature; 
and  it  was  not  until  the  age  of  Louis 
XIV,  or  the  Regency,  that  the  modern 
world  was  again  to  know  a  refinement 


and  a  sophistication  which  recall  the 
Greek  work.  Now,  in  one  word,  — 
this  subtlety  which  pleases  us  in  mat- 
ters of  sentiment  is  the  very  thing  that 
separates  us  from  the  Greek  upon  the 
profoundest  questions  of  philosophy. 
Where  religious  or  metaphysical  truth 
is  touched  upon,  either  Greek  sophis- 
tication carries  us  off  our  feet  with  a 
rapture  which  has  no  true  relation  to 
the  subject,  or  else  we  are  offended  by 
it.  We  do  not  understand  sophistica- 
tion. The  Greek  has  pushed  aesthetic 
analysis  further  than  the  modern  can 
bear.  We  follow  well  enough  through 
the  light  issues,  but  when  the  deeper 
questions  are  reached  we  lose  our  foot- 
ing. At  this  point  the  modern  cries 
out  in  applause,  '  Religion,  philosophy, 
pure  feeling,  the  soul ! '  —  He  cries  out, 
'  Mystic  cult,  Asiatic  influence,  Nature 
worship,  —  deep  things  over  there!' — 
Or  else  he  cries,  'What  amazing  cru- 
elty, what  cynicism!'  And  yet  it  is 
none  of  these  things,  but  only  the 
artistic  perfection  of  the  work  which  is 
moving  us.  We  are  the  victims  of 
clever  stage-management. 

The  cruder  intelligence  is  ever  com- 
pelled to  regard  the  man  of  complex 
mind  as  a  priest  or  as  a  demon.  The 
child,  for  instance,  asks  about  the  char- 
acter in  a  story,  'But  is  he  a  good  man 
or  a  bad  man,  papa?'  The  child  must 
have  a  moral  explanation  of  anything 
which  is  beyond  his  aesthetic  compre- 
hension. So  also  does  the  modern  in- 
telligence question  the  Greek. 

The  matter  is  complicated  by  yet 
another  element,  namely  stage  con- 
vention. Our  modern  stage  is  so  differ- 
ent from  the  classic  stage  that  we  are 
bad  judges  of  the  Greek  playwright's 
intentions.  The  quarrels  which  arise 
as  to  allegorical  or  secondary  meanings 
in  a  work  of  art  are  generally  con- 
nected with  some  unfamiliar  feature  of 
its  setting.  A  great  light  is  thrown 
upon  any  work  of  art  when  we  show 


78 


THE  GREEK  GENIUS 


how  its  form  came  into  being,  and  thus 
explain  its  primary  meaning.  Such  an 
exposition  of  the  primary  or  apparent 
meaning  is  often  sufficient  to  put  all 
secondary  meanings  out  of  court.  For 
instance:  It  is,  as  we  know,  the  Ger- 
mans who  have  found  in  Shakespeare 
a  coherent  philosophic  intention.  They 
think  that  he  wrote  plays  for  the  pur- 
pose of  stating  metaphysical  truths. 
The  Englishman  does  not  believe  this, 
because  the  Englishman  is  familiar 
with  that  old  English  stage  work.  He 
knows  its  traditions,  its  preoccupation 
with  story-telling,  its  mundane  char- 
acter, its  obliviousness  to  the  sort  of 
thing  that  Germany  has  in  mind.  The 
Englishman  knows  the  conventions  of 
his  own  stage,  and  this  protects  him 
from  finding  mare's-nests  in  Shake- 
speare. Again,  —  Shakespeare's  son- 
nets used  to  be  a  favorite  field  for 
mystical  exegesis,  till  Sir  Sidney  Lee 
explained  their  form  by  reference  to  the 
sixteenth-centurv  sonnet  literature  of 

%> 

the  continent/  This  put  to  flight  many 
theories. 

In  other  words,  the  appeal  to  con- 
vention is  the  first  duty  of  the  scholar. 
But,  unfortunately,  in  regard  to  the 
conventions  of  the  Classic  Stage,  the 
moderns  are  all  in  the  dark.  Nothing 
like  that  stage  exists  to-day.  We  are 
obliged  to  make  guesses  as  to  its  inten- 
tions, its  humor,  its  relation  to  phil- 
osophy. If  the  classics  had  only  pos- 
sessed a  cabinet-sized  drama,  like  our 
own,  we  might  have  been  at  home 
there.  But  this  giant-talk,  this  mega- 
phone-and-buskin  method,  offers  us  a 
problem  in  dynamics  which  staggers 
the  imagination.  All  we  can  do  is  to 
tread  lightly  and  guess  without  dog- 
matizing. The  typical  Athenian,  Eu- 
ripides, was  so  much  deeper-dyed  in 
skepticism  than  anyone  since  that  day, 
that  really  no  one  has  ever  lived  who 
could  cross-question  him,  —  let  alone 
expound  the  meanings  of  his  plays.  In 


reading  Euripides,  we  find  ourselves, 
at  moments,  ready  to  classify  him  as 
a  satirist,  and  at  other  moments  as  a 
man  of  feeling.  Of  course  he  was  both. 
Sometimes  he  seems  like  a  religious 
man,  and  again,  like  a  charlatan.  Of 
course  he  was  neither.  He  was  a  play- 
wright. 


The  Bacchantes,  like  every  other 
Greek  play,  is  the  result,  first,  of  the 
legend,  second,  of  the  theatre.  There  is 
always  some  cutting  and  hacking,  due 
to  the  difficulty  of  getting  the  legend 
into  the  building.  Legends  differ  as  to 
their  dramatic  possibilities,  and  the  inci- 
dents which  are  to  be  put  on  the  stage 
must  be  selected  by  the  poet.  The  site 
of  the  play  must  be  fixed.  Above  all, 
a  Chorus  must  be  arranged  for. 

The  choosing  of  a  Chorus  is  indeed 
one  of  the  main  problems  of  the  trage- 
dian. If  he  can  hit  on  a  natural  sort 
of  Chorus  he  is  a  made  man.  In  the 
Alcestis  we  saw  that  the  whole  back- 
ground of  grief  and  wailing  was  one 
source  of  the  charm  of  the  play.  Not 
only  are  the  tragic  parts  deepened, 
but  the  gayer  scenes  are  set  off  by  this 
feature.  If  the  fable  provides  no  natu- 
ral and  obvious  Chorus,  the  playwright 
must  bring  his  Chorus  on  the  stage  by 
stretching  the  imagination  of  the  audi- 
ence. He  employs  a  group  of  servants 
or  of  friends  of  the  hero;  if  the  play  is 
a  marine  piece,  he  uses  sailors.  The 
whole  atmosphere  of  his  play  depends 
upon  the  happiness  of  his  choice. 

In  the  Agamemnon  'the  old  men 
left-at-home'  form  the  Chorus.  There 
is  enough  dramatic  power  in  this  one 
idea  to  carry  a  play.  It  is  so  natural: 
the  old  men  are  on  the  spot;  they  are 
interested ;  they  are  the  essence  of  the 
story,  and  yet  external  to  it.  These 
old  men  are,  indeed,  the  archetype  of 
all  choruses, — a  collection  of  bystand- 
ers, a  sort  of  little  dummy  audience, 


THE  GREEK  GENIUS 


79 


intended  to  steer  the  great,  real  audi- 
ence into  a  comprehension  of  the  play. 

The  Greek  dramatist  found  this  very 
useful  machine,  the  Chorus,  at  his  el- 
bow; but  he  was,  on  the  other  hand, 
greatly  controlled  by  it.  It  had  ways 
of  its  own :  it  inherited  dramatic  neces- 
sities. The  element  of  convention  and 
of  theatrical  usage  is  so  very  predomi- 
nant in  the  handling  of  Greek  choruses 
by  the  poets,  that  we  have  in  ch.orus- 
work  something  that  may  be  regarded 
almost  as  a  constant  quality.  By  study- 
ing choruses  one  can  arrive  at  an  idea 
of  the  craft  of  Greek  play-writing,  — 
one  can  even  separate  the  conventional 
from  the  personal  to  some  extent. 

The  Greek  Chorus  has  no  mind  of 
its  own;  it  merely  gives  echo  to  the  last 
dramatic  thought.  It  goes  forward  and 
back,  contradicts  itself,  sympathizes 
with  all  parties  or  none,  and  lives  in  a 
limbo.  Its  real  function  is  to  represent 
the  slow-minded  man  in  the  audience. 
It  does  what  he  does,  it  interjects  ques- 
tions and  doubts,  it  delays  the  plot 
and  indulges  in  the  proper  emotions 
during  the  pauses.  These  functions 
are  quite  limited,  and  were  completely 
understood  in  Greek  times ;  so  much  so, 
that  in  the  typical  stock  tragedy  of  the 
JEschylean  school  certain  saws,  max- 
ims, and  reflections  appear  over  and 
over  again.  One  of  them,  of  course, 
was, '  See  how  the  will  of  the  gods  works 
out  in  unexpected  ways.'  Another, 
'Let  us  be  pious,  and  reverence  some- 
thing that  is  perhaps  behind  the  gods 
themselves.'  Another,  'This  is  all  very 
extraordinary:  let  us  hope  for  the  best.' 
Another,  *  Our  feelings  about  right  and 
wrong  must  somehow  be  divine;  tradi- 
tional morality,  traditional  piety,  are 
somehow  right.' 

Precisely  the  same  reflections  are 
often  put  in  the  mouths  of  the  subordi- 
nate characters,  and  for  precisely  the 
same  purpose.  'O  may  the  quiet  life 
be  mine!  Give  me  neither  poverty  nor 


riches:  for  the  destinies  of  the  great 
are  ever  uncertain.'  'Temptation  leads 
to  insolence,  and  insolence  to  destruc- 
tion'; and  so  forth.  Such  reflections 
serve  the  same  purpose,  by  whomever 
they  are  uttered.  They  underscore  the 
moral  of  the  story  and  assure  the 
spectator  that  he  has  not  missed  the 
point. 

As  religious  tragedy  broadened  into 
political  and  romantic  tragedy,  the 
Chorus  gained  a  certain  freedom  in 
what  might  be  called  its  inter jectional 
duty,  —  its  duty,  that  is  to  say,  of 
helping  the  plot  along  by  proper  ques- 
tions, and  so  forth.  It  gained  also  a 
Protean  freedom  in  its  emotional  inter- 
pretations during  pauses.  The  play- 
wrights apparently  discovered  that  by 
the  use  of  music  and  dancing,  the  most 
subtle  and  delicate,  nay,  the  most 
whimsical  varieties  of  lyrical  mood 
could  be  conveyed  to  great  audiences. 
In  spite  of  this  license,  however,  the 
old  duties  of  the  Chorus  as  guard- 
ians of  conservative  morality  remained 
unchanged;  and  the  stock  phrases  of 
exhortation  and  warning  remained  de 
rigueur  in  the  expectation  of  the  au- 
dience. Their  meaning  had  become 
so  well-known  that,  by  the  time  of 
^Eschylus,  they  were  expressed  in  alge- 
braic terms. 

No  man  could  to-day  unravel  a 
Chorus  of  yEschylus  if  only  one  such 
Chorus  existed.  The  truncated  phrases 
and  elliptical  thoughts  are  clear,  to  us, 
because  we  have  learned  their  meaning 
through  reiteration,  and  because  they 
always  mean  the  same  thing.  The  poet 
has  a  license  to  provide  the  Chorus 
with  dark  sayings,  —  dark  in  form,  but 
simple  in  import.  It  was,  indeed,  his 
duty  to  give  these  phrases  an  oracular 
character.  In  the  course  of  time  such 
phrases  became  the  terror  of  the  copy- 
ists. Obscure  passages  became  cor- 
rupt in  process  of  transcription;  and 
thus  we  have  inherited  a  whole  class 


80 


THE  GREEK  GENIUS 


of  choral  wisdom  which  we  understand 
well  enough  (just  as  the  top  gallery 
understood  it  well  enough)  to  help  us 
in  our  enjoyment  of  the  play.  The 
obscurity,  and  perhaps  even  some  part 
of  what  we  call  *  corruption/  are  here  a 
part  of  the  stage  convention. 

Now  with  regard  to  the  Bacchantes: 
— the  scheme  of  having  Maenads  fora 
Chorus  gave  splendid  promise  of  scenic 
effect;  and  the  fact  that,  as  a  logical 
consequence,  these  ladies  would  have 
to  give  utterance  to  the  usual  max- 
ims of  piety,  mixed  in  with  the  rhap- 
sodies of  their  professional  madness, 
did  not  daunt  Euripides.  He  simply 
makes  the  Chorus  do  the  usual  cho- 
rus work,  without  burdening  his  mind 
about  character-drawing.  Thus  the 
Maenads,  at  moments  when  they  are 
not  pretending  to  be  Maenads,  and  are 
not  singing,  'Away  to  the  mountains, 
O  the  foot  of  the  stag,'  and  so  on,  are 
obliged  to  turn  the  other  cheek,  and 
pretend  to  be  interested  bystanders,  — 
old  gaffers,  wagging  their  beards,  and 
quoting  the  book  of  Proverbs.  The 
transition  from  one  mood  to  the  other 
is  done  in  a  stroke  of  lightning,  and 
seems  to  be  independent  of  the  music. 
That  is,  it  seems  to  make  no  difference, 
so  long  as  the  musical  schemes  are  filled 
out,  whether  the  ladies  are  singing,  *  On 
with  the  dance,  let  joy  be  unconfined!' 
or,  'True  wisdom  differs  from  sophis- 
try, and  consists  in  avoiding  subjects 
that  are  beyond  mortal  comprehen- 
sion.' All  such  discrepancies  would,  no 
doubt,  have  been  explained  if  we  pos- 
sessed the  music;  but  the  music  is  lost. 
It  seems,  at  any  rate,  certain  that 
the  grand  public  was  not  expected  to 
understand  the  word-for-word  mean- 
ing of  choruses;  hence  their  license  to 
be  obscure.  We  get  the  same  impres- 
sion from  the  jibes  of  Aristophanes, 
whose  ridicule  of  the  pompous  obscur- 
ity of  ^Eschylus  makes  us  suspect  that 
the  audiences  could  not  follow  the  gram- 


mar in  the  lofty  parts  of  the  tragedy. 
They  accepted  the  drum-roll  of  horror, 
and  understood  the  larger  grammar  of 
tragedy,  much  as  we  are  now  forced 
to  do  in  reading  the  plays. 

It  would  seem  that  by  following  the 
technique  of  tragedy,  and  by  giving 
no  thought  to  small  absurdities,  Eu- 
ripides got  a  double  effect  out  of  his 
Maenads  and  no  one  observed  that 
anything  was  wrong.  In  one  place  he 
resorts  to  a  dramatic  device,  which 
was  perhaps  well-known  in  his  day,  — 
namely,  the  '  conversion '  of  a  bystand- 
er. After  the  First  Messenger  has 
given  the  great  description  of  Diony- 
sus's  doings  in  the  mountains,  the 
Chorus,  or  one  of  them,  with  over- 
powering yet  controlled  emotion,  steps 
forward  and  says,  'I  tremble  to  speak 
free  words  in  the  presence  of  my  King; 
yet  nevertheless  be  it  said:  Dionysus 
is  no  less  a  god  than  the  greatest  of 
them!'  This  reference  to  the  duty  of 
a  subject  is  probably  copied  from  a 
case  where  the  Chorus  was  made  up  of 
local  bystanders.  In  the  mouth  of  a 
Maenad  the  proclamation  is  logically 
ridiculous;  yet  so  strange  are  the  laws 
of  what '  goes '  on  the  stage  that  it  may 
have  been  effective  even  here. 

Some  of  the  choruses  in  the  Bac- 
chantes are  miracles  of  poetic  beauty, 
of  savage  passion,  of  liquid  power.  It 
is  hard  to  say  exactly  what  they  are, 
but  they  are  wonderful.  And  behind 
all,  there  gleams  from  the  whole  play  a 
sophistication  as  deep  as  the  JSgean. 


VI 

There  is  one  thing  that  we  should 
never  do  in  dealing  with  anything 
Greek.  We  should  not  take  a  scrap  of 
the  Greek  mind  and  keep  on  examining 
it  until  we  find  a  familiar  thought  in  it. 
No  bit  of  Greek  art  is  to  be  viewed  as  a 
thing  in  itself.  It  is  always  a  fragment, 
and  gets  its  value  from  the  whole. 


THE  GREEK  GENIUS 


81 


Every  bit  of  carved  stone  picked  up  in 
Athens  is  a  piece  of  architecture;  so  is 
every  speech  in  a  play,  every  phrase  in 
a  dialogue.  You  must  go  back  and 
bring  in  the  whole  Theatre  or  the  whole 
Academy,  and  put  back  the  fragment 
in  its  place  by  means  of  ladders,  before 
you  can  guess  at  its  meaning.  The  in- 
ordinate significance  that  seems  to 
gleam  from  every  broken  toy  of  Greece, 
results  from  this  very  quality,  —  that 
the  object  is  a  part  of  something  else. 
Just  because  the  thing  has  no  meaning 
by  itself,  it  implies  so  much.  Somehow 
it  drags  the  whole  life  of  the  Greek 
nation  before  you.  The  favorite  Greek 
maxim,  'Avoid  excess,'  does  the  same. 
It  keeps  telling  you  to  remember  yes- 
terday and  to-morrow;  to  remember  the 
palcestra  and  the  market-place;  above 
all  to  remember  that  the  very  opposite 
of  what  you  say  is  also  true.  Wherever 
you  are,  and  whatever  doing,  you  must 
remember  the  rest  of  the  Greek  world. 
It  is  no  wonder  that  the  Greeks  could 
not  adopt  the  standards  and  contriv- 
ances of  other  nations,  while  their  own 
standards  and  contrivances  resulted 
from  such  refined  and  perpetual  bal- 
ancing and  shaving  of  values.  This  re- 
finement has  become  part  of  their  daily 
life;  and  whether  one  examines  a  drink- 
ing cup  or  a  dialogue  or  a  lyric,  and 
whether  the  thing  be  from  the  age  of 
Homer  or  from  the  age  of  Alexander, 
the  fragment  always  gives  us  a  glimpse 
into  the  same  Greek  world.  The  foun- 
dation of  this  world  seems  to  be  the 
Myth;  and  as  the  world  grew  it  devel- 
oped in  terms  of  Myth.  The  Greek 
mind  had  only  one  background.  Ath- 
letics and  Statuary,  Epic  and  Drama, 
Religion  and  Art,  Skepticism  and  Sci- 
ence expressed  themselves  through  the 
same  myths.  In  this  lies  the  fascina- 
tion of  Greece  for  us.  What  a  com- 
plete cosmos  it  is!  And  how  different 
from  any  other  civilization!  Modern 
life,  like  modern  language,  is  a  mon- 
VOL.  114 -NO.  1 


strous  amalgam,  a  conglomeration  and 
mess  of  idioms  from  every  age  and 
every  clime.  The  classic  Greek  hangs 
together  like  a  wreath.  It  has  been 
developed  rapidly,  during  a  few  hun- 
dred years,  and  has  an  inner  harmony 
like  the  temple.  Language  and  temple, 
—  each  was  an  apparition;  each  is,  in 
its  own  way,  perfect. 

Consider  wherein  Rome  differed 
from  Greece.  The  life  of  the  Romans 
was  a  patchwork,  like  our  own.  Their 
religion  was  formal,  their  art  imported, 
their  literature  imitative,  their  aims 
were  practical,  their  interests  unimag- 
inative. All  social  needs  were  control- 
led by  political  considerations.  This 
sounds  almost  like  a  description  of 
modern  life;  and  it  explains  why  the 
Romans  are  so  close  to  us.  Cicero, 
Horace,  Caesar,  Antony,  are  moderns. 
But  Alcibiades,  Socrates,  Pericles,  and 
the  rest  take  their  stand  in  Greek  fable. 
Like  Pisistratus,  Solon,  and  Lycurgus, 
they  melt  into  legend  and  belong  to  the 
realms  of  the  imagination. 

No  other  people  ever  bore  the  same 
relation  to  their  arts  that  the  Greeks 
bore;  and  in  this  lies  their  charm. 
When  the  Alexandrine  critics  began  to 
classify  poetry  and  to  discuss  perfec- 
tion, they  never  even  mentioned  the 
Roman  poetry,  although  all  of  the 
greatest  of  it  was  in  existence.  Why  is 
this?  It  is  because  no  Roman  poem  is  a 
poem  at  all  from  the  Greek  point  of 
view.  It  is  too  individual,  too  clever, 
and,  generally,  too  political.  Besides, 
it  is  not  in  Greek.  The  nearest  modern 
equivalent  to  the  development  of  the 
whole  Greek  world  of  art  is  to  be  found 
in  German  contrapuntal  music.  No 
one  except  a  German  has  ever  writjten 
a  true  sonata  or  a  symphony,  in  the 
true  polyphonic  German  style.  There 
are  tours  deforce  done  by  other  nation- 
alities; but  the  natural  idiom  of  this 
music  is  Teutonic. 

I  am  not  condemning  the  Latins, 


THE  GREEK  GENIUS 


or  the  moderns.  Indeed,  there  is  in 
Horace  something  nobler  and  more 
humane  than  in  all  Olympus.  The 
Greeks,  moreover,  seem  in  their  civic 
incompetence  like  children,  when  con- 
trasted with  the  Romans  or  with  the 
moderns.  But  in  power  of  utterance, 
within  their  own  crafts,  the  Greeks  are 
unapproachable.  Let  us  now  speak  of 
matters  of  which  we  know  very  little. 
The  statues  on  the  Parthenon  stand 
in  a  region  where  direct  criticism  can- 
not reach  them,  but  which  trigono- 
metry may,  to  some  extent,  determine. 
Their  beauty  probably  results  from  an 
artistic  knowledge  so  refined,  a  sophis- 
tication so  exact,  that,  as  we  gaze,  we 
lose  the  process  and  see  only  results. 
A  Greek  architect  could  have  told  you 
just  what  lines  of  analysis  must  be 
followed  in  order  to  get  these  effects  in 
grouping  and  in  relief.  It  is  all,  no 
doubt,  built  up  out  of  tonic  and  domi- 
nant, —  but  the  manual  of  counter- 
point has  been  lost.  As  the  tragic  poet 
fills  the  stage  with  the  legend,  so  the 
sculptor  fills  the  metope  with  the 
legend.  Both  are  closely  following  art- 
istic usage:  each  is  merely  telling  the 
old  story  with  new  refinement.  And 
whether  we  gaze  at  the  actors  on  the 
stage  or  at  the  figures  in  the  metope, 
whether  we  study  a  lyric  or  listen  to 
a  dialogue,  we  are  in  communion  with 
the  same  genius,  the  same  legend.  The 
thing  which  moves  and  delights  us  is 
a  unity. 

This  Genius  is  not  hard  to  under- 
stand. Any  one  can  understand  it. 
.  That  is  the  proof  of  its  greatness.  As 
,  Boccaccio  said  of  Dante,  not  learning 
but  good  wits  are  needed  to  appreciate 
him.  One  cannot  safely  look  toward 
the  mind  of  the  modern  scholar  for  an 
understanding  of  the  Greek  mind,  be- 
cause the  modern  scholar  is  a  special- 
ist, —  a  thing  the  Greek  abhors.  If  a 
scholar  to-day  knows  the  acoustics  of 
the  Greek  stage,  that  is  thought  to  be 


a  large  enough  province  for  him.  He 
is  not  allowed  to  be  an  authority  on 
the  scenery.  In  the  modern  scholar's 
mind  everything  is  in  cubby-holes ;  and 
everybody  to-day  wants  to  become  an 
authority.  Every  one,  moreover,  is  very 
serious  to-day;  and  it  does  not  do  to 
be  too  serious  about  Greek  things,  be- 
cause the  very  genius  of  Greece  has 
in  it  a  touch  of  irony,  which  combines 
with  our  seriousness  to  make  a  heavy, 
indigestible  paste.  The  Greek  will  al- 
ways laugh  at  you  if  he  can,  and  the 
only  hope  is  to  keep  him  at  arm's 
length,  and  deal  with  him  in  the  spirit 
of  social  life,  of  the  world,  of  the  beau 
monde,  and  of  large  conversation.  His 
chief  merit  is  to  stimulate  this  spirit. 
The  less  we  dogmatize  about  his  works 
and  ways,  the  freer  will  the  world  be 
of  secondary,  second-rate  commenta- 
ries. The  more  we  study  his  works  and 
ways,  the  fuller  will  the  world  become 
of  intellectual  force. 

The  Greek  classics  are  a  great  help 
in  tearing  open  those  strong  envelopes 
in  which  the  cultivation  of  the  world 
is  constantly  getting  glued  up.  They 
helped  Europe  to  cut  free  from  theo- 
cratic tyranny  in  the  late  Middle  Ages. 
They  held  the  Western  world  together 
after  the  fall  of  the  Papacy.  They  gave 
us  modern  literature:  indeed,  if  one 
considers  all  that  comes  from  Greece, 
one  can  hardly  imagine  what  the  world 
would  have  been  like  without  her.  The 
lamps  of  Greek  thought  are  still  burn- 
ing in  marble  and  in  letters.  The  com- 
plete little  microcosm  of  that  Greek 
society  hangs  forever  in  the  great  ma- 
crocosm of  the  moving  world,  and  sheds 
rays  which  dissolve  prejudice,  making 
men  thoughtful,  rational,  and  gay. 
The  greatest  intellects  are  ever  the 
most  powerfully  affected  by  it;  but  no 
one  escapes.  Nor  can  the  world  ever 
lose  this  benign  influence,  which  must, 
so  far  as  philosophy  can  imagine,  qual- 
ify human  life  forever. 


A  PLEA  FOR  ERASMIANS 


BY   CHARLES  H.  A.   WAGER 


IN  1521,  the  year  of  the  Diet  of 
Worms,  Albrecht  Diirer  wrote  in  his 
diary :  — 

'  O  Erasmus  of  Rotterdam,  where  art 
thou  delaying?  Behold  what  the  un- 
righteous tyranny  of  the  power  of  this 
world,  what  the  might  of  darkness  can 
do!  Hear,  thou  knight  of  Christ!  De- 
fend the  truth!  Attain  the  martyr's 
crown ! ' 

In  the  same  year,  Erasmus,  writing 
to  an  English  friend,  explains  why  he 
cannot  support  Luther:  — 

'Even  if  everything  he  wrote  had 
been  right,  I  had  no  intention  of  put- 
ting my  head  in  danger  for  the  sake  of 
the  truth.  It  is  n't  every  one  that  has 
the  strength  for  martyrdom,  and  I  sad- 
ly fear  that  if  any  tumult  should  arise, 
I  should  follow  the  example  of  Peter. 
I  obey  the  decrees  of  emperor  and  pope, 
when  they  are  right,  because  that  is  my 
duty;  when  they  are  wrong  I  bear  it, 
because  that  is  the  safe  plan.  This  I 
believe  to  be  permitted  to  good  men,  if 
there  is  no  hope  of  improvement.' 

Now,  it  must  be  admitted  that  this 
is  not  exactly  a  knightly  utterance.  A 
'soul-animating'  strain  it  can  hardly 
be  called.  Indeed,  this  Hitter  Christi 
seems  a  pitiful  figure  enough  in  the 
pages  of  certain  of  his  biographers,  — 
a  poseur,  if  not  an  instinctive  and  elab- 
orate liar;  an  inveterate  trimmer,  un- 
luckily born  into  an  age  that  demanded 
honest  and  determined  men;  a  fussy 
valetudinarian,  maundering  about  his 
stomach  and  his  need  of  Burgundy 


wine,  the  inconveniences  of  inns,  and 
the  hard  lot  of  a  wandering  scholar; 
so  skillful  a  juggler  with  words  that  in 
reading  his  letters  and  treatises,  one 
must  exercise  constant  vigilance  to  dis- 
entangle from  what  he  said  he  was 
doing  and  what  he  thought  he  was 
doing,  what  he  was  really  doing.  If  this 
were  the  whole  story,  Erasmus,  as  a 
'hero  of  the  Reformation,'  would  be  but 
a  pinchbeck  hero  after  all.  There  is, 
however,  an  obvious  interpretation  of 
his  character  and  career  which  quite 
justifies  the  admiration  in  which  he  has 
always  been  held  by  a  respectable 
minority  of  the  reading  world.  While 
the  categories  of  Lutheran  and  Eras- 
mian  are  probably  not  so  inclusive  as 
those  of  Platonist  and  Aristotelian,  yet 
they  mark  a  fundamental  distinction 
of  temper  among  thinking  men.  Eras- 
mus, in  fact,  is  the  patron,  if  not  the 
founder,  of  an  intellectual  order;  and 
it  is  to  an  apology  for  that  order,  which 
is  not  always  understood  or  esteemed 
according  to  its  merit,  that  these  pages 
are  addressed. 

When  Luther  defied  Empire  and 
Papacy  at  Worms,  Erasmus  was  al- 
ready a  famous  and  influential  man. 
He  had  made  all  Europe  ring  with 
laughter  at  the  vices  and  absurdities 
of  the  monastic  orders.  He  had  square- 
ly taken  the  position  that  the  Church 
needed  reform,  but  that  reform  must 
come  through  the  men  of  light  and 
leading  within  the  Church.  Ignorance 
and  an  uncritical  habit  were  the  chief 
sources  of  the  existing  evils,  and  an  en- 
lightened scholarship  would  cure  them. 

83 


84 


A  PLEA  FOR  ERASMIANS 


A  fine,  critical  sense  must  be  devel- 
oped; the  habit  must  be  formed  of 
clearing  away  mere  conventions,  how- 
ever solemn,  and  of  seeing  things  as 
they  are.  It  was  necessary  that  exist- 
ing institutions  and  doctrines  should  be 
tried  by  the  New  Testament  and  the 
teachings  of  the  Fathers.  To  this  end, 
Erasmus  had  prepared  his  critical  edi- 
tion of  the  New  Testament,  which 
should  in  the  first  place  open  the  eyes 
of  clerics  and  scholars,  and  in  the  sec- 
ond place  be  a  basis  for  vernacular 
translations  which  should  find  their 
way  into  the  home  of  every  peasant  in 
Europe.  'Teach  your  boys  carefully,' 
he  wrote  to  an  ardent  young  scholar, 
'edit  the  writings  of  the  Fathers,  and 
irreligious  religion  and  unlearned  learn- 
ing will  pass  away  in  due  time.' 

It  is  not  surprising  that  Erasmus 
should  have  had  such  faith  in  the  pow- 
er of  learning.  He  had  seen  in  England 
a  learned  and  cultivated  prince  whose 
purpose  it  was  to  foster  scholarship  for 
the  sake  of  its  effect  upon  religion.  He 
had  seen  the  wise  and  generous  War- 
ham  made  Archbishop  of  Canterbury; 
Colet,  the  learned  and  pious,  Dean  of 
St.  Paul's;  and  Thomas  More  a  coun- 
cilor of  the  king.  Could  any  state  of 
things  be  more  hopeful  for  the  Church? 
If  this  could  be  in  England,  why  not 
on  the  continent?  He  foresaw,  there- 
fore, a  peaceful  reformation  of  the 
Church  from  within,  produced  partly 
by  genial  satire  of  existing  absurdi- 
ties, but  chiefly  by  the  combination  of 
exalted  piety  with  sound  scholarship 
in  men  of  high  place.  Gradually  health 
should  descend  from  the  head  to  the 
extremities  of  the  body  ecclesiastical, 
the  monks  should  be  shamed  out  of 
their  ignorance  and  idleness,  the  laity, 
under  better  instruction,  be  restored  to 
primitive  piety  and  devotion  to  pure 
religion.  The  Church  should  slowly 
cast  off  the  burden  of  the  merely  spec- 
ulative dogmas  that  she  had  imposed 


upon  herself,  and  should  once  more 
know  the  perfect  freedom  of  her  early 
days.  And  all  this  should  be  done  with- 
out anger  or  violence,  without  laying 
profane  hands  upon  any  sacred  thing, 
without  giving  an  opening  to  anarchy, 
without  disturbing  the  basis  of  faith  in 
any  honest  man. 

An  attractive  picture,  was  it  not? 
Surely,  far  more  attractive  than  what 
actually  happened.  It  may  be  true  that 
the  time  was  past  for  any  such  Arca- 
dian visions,  that  the  state  of  religion 
demanded  a  violent  upheaval,  in  which 
the  good  and  the  bad  should  be  cleared 
away  to  make  room  for  a  new  heaven 
and  earth.  Erasmus's  plan  of  reform 
was,  perhaps,  impracticable,  but  his 
ideal,  at  least,  was  eminently  sane  and 
reasonable.  In  any  case,  it  is  unfair  to 
judge  him  too  severely.  Doubtless  our 
views  of  the  real  issues  of  his  time 
and  their  inevitable  outcome  are  en- 
lightened and  philosophic,  but  we  do 
well  to  remember  Burke's  remark  that 
'men  are  wise  with  but  little  reflection, 
and  good  with  but  little  self-denial,  in 
the  business  of  all  times  except  their 
own/ 

But,  in  fact,  it  is  not  perfectly  clear 
that  Erasmus  was  wrong.  It  may  be 
pious,  it  is  certainly  practical,  to  ac- 
cept any  actual  state  of  things  as  ideal, 
or,  at  any  rate,  to  behave  as  if  it  were. 
But  the  philosophically  minded  can 
hardly  refrain  from  asking,  '  Might  not 
the  same  result,  or,  conceivably,  a  bet- 
ter result,  have  been  brought  about  by 
other  and  less  destructive  meajis?'  An 
unwavering  faith  in  '  manifest  destiny ' 
is,  no  doubt,  very  comfortable,  but  it 
is  not  possible  to  all  minds. 

At  all  events,  Erasmus  was  doomed 
to  disappointment.  He  saw  the  peace- 
ful progress  of  internal  reform  inter- 
rupted by  the  violence  of  an  obscure 
monk.  He  saw  not  only  the  excres- 
cences of  Catholicism  attacked,  but 
the  very  foundation  of  the  Church.  He 


A  PLEA  FOR  ERASMIANS 


85 


saw  the  doctrine  of  authority  defied, 
and  the  right  of  private  judgment,  a 
right  which  he  had  always  upheld,  im- 
posed upon  the  foolish  and  headstrong, 
as  well  as  upon  the  prudent.  He  saw 
the  natural  result  of  this  in  outbursts  of 
social  and  political  anarchy,  and,  what 
was  worse,  in  the  instinctive  reaction 
of  bigotry  and  intolerance  within  the 
shaken  Church.  He  saw,  moreover, 
himself,  Erasmus,  held  up  by  church- 
men and  revolutionists  alike  as  the  in- 
stigator of  the  rebellion.  'This,'  cried, 
the  monks, '  is  what  comes  of  teaching 
the  people  to  laugh  at  us.'  'Come  out 
like  a  man,'  cried  the  Lutherans.  'You 
have  always  been  one  of  us  in  spirit. 
Give  us  now,  give  the  cause  of  sound 
religion  the  immense  weight  of  your 
scholarship,  your  sanity,  your  piety! 
This  is  your  opportunity!' 

It  is  easy  enough  to  accuse  Erasmus, 
at  this  crisis,  of  cowardice  and  shuf- 
fling, easy  enough  to  inveigh  against 
his  fatuous  temporizing  at  a  time  when 
only  actions  counted.  But  it  is  to  be 
remembered  that  on  the  one  hand,  he 
saw  methods  which  he  disapproved 
resulting  in  measures  which  he  hated; 
he  saw  good  and  bad,  essential  and 
non-essential,  confounded  and  swept 
away  together.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
saw  that  Luther's  cause  was  really  the 
one  for  which  he,  himself,  had  fought 
for  many  years,  —  deformed,  mon- 
strously perverted,  but  still  his  cause. 
Surely,  if  ever  man's  soul  was  tried, 
Erasmus  was  the  man.  For  a  time,  he 
tried,  with  vain  but  sensible  appeals, 
to  moderate  the  frenzy  of  both  sides. 
To  churchmen  he  wrote  urging  tolera- 
tion and  gentle  measures  with  Luther. 
To  Luther  he  wrote:  'Old  institutions 
cannot  be  rooted  up  in  an  instant. 
Quiet  argument  may  do  more  than 
wholesale  condemnation.  Avoid  all  ap- 
pearance of  sedition.  Keep  cool;  do  not 
get  angry;  do  not  hate  anybody.  Do 
not  be  excited  over  the  noise  which  you 


have  made.'  The  attitude  which  he 
had  maintained  from  the  beginning  is, 
perhaps,  best  set  forth  in  a  letter  of 
1520.  He  knows  that  many  things  are 
in  need  of  reform,  but  he  is  fearful  that 
more  harm  may  be  done  by  violently 
taking  from  the  unlearned  precious 
half-truths  than  by  allowing  them  to 
work  out  their  own  emancipation.  'We 
must  bear  almost  anything,'  the  let- 
ter runs, '  rather  than  throw  the  world 
into  confusion.  .  .  .  For  myself,  I  pre- 
fer to  be  silent  and  introduce  no  novel- 
ties into  religion.  ...  I  recommended 
Luther  to  publish  nothing  revolution- 
ary. I  feared  always  that  revolution 
would  be  the  end,  and  I  would  have 
done  more  had  I  not  been  afraid  that 
I  might  be  found  fighting  against  the 
Spirit  of  God.J 

But  the  end  was  inevitable.  More 
and  more  shocked  by  the  excesses  of 
the  reformers,  believing  more  and  more 
firmly  that  they  were  merely  setting  up 
a  new  tyranny  in  place  of  the  old,  the 
tyranny  of  the  mob,  he  threw  his  in- 
fluence on  the  papal  side,  and  died 
distrusted  by  extreme  Catholics  and 
Protestants,  alike.  He  bears  the  proud 
title  of '  the  humanist  of  the  Reforma- 
tion/ but  to  the  moralizing  historian  he 
is  a  terrible  example  of  one  who  made 
'the  great  refusal,'  who,  through  cow- 
ardice and  time-serving,  lost  the  proud- 
er title  of  one  of  the  great  emancipators 
of  the  human  spirit. 


ii 

Which  things  are  an  allegory.  Eras- 
mus is  an  inexhaustibly  interesting  his- 
torical personage,  because  he  is  more 
than  that;  he  is  a  type  as  old  as  civiliz- 
ation. He  is  not  to  be  confounded  with 
the  Hamlets  and  Amiels,  whom  he  su- 
perficially resembles.  Their  disease  is 
impotence  of  will;  their  weakness,  the 
lack  of  'the  courage  of  imperfection,' 
the  courage  to  do  their  best,  however 


86 


A  PLEA  FOR  ERASMIANS 


inadquate  the  means,  however  uncer- 
tain the  issue.  The  difficulty  of  Eras- 
mus and  the  Erasmians  is  an  intellec- 
tual one.  They  are  blinded  by  excess  of 
light.  They  see  too  clearly  both  sides  of 
every  question  to  commit  themselves 
to  either.  They  lack  the  sublime  aban- 
don with  which  simpler  and  usually 
less  enlightened  spirits  throw  them- 
selves into  causes  which  they  only  half 
comprehend.  Naturally,  the  practical 
world  cannot  do  away  with  such  hair- 
splitting. The  Erasmians  are  adjured 
to  act,  without  too  much  regard  for 
past  causes  or  future  results.  They  are 
said  to  lack  faith,  and,  in  truth,  they 
are  essentially  skeptics.  To  them,  only 
an  adumbration  of  truth  is  within  the 
reach  of  finite  minds,  and  they  are 
unable  to  become  violently  energetic 
for  an  adumbration.  They  have  the 
penetration  of  Disraeli,  without  draw- 
ing his  practical  inference.  In  one  of 
his  novels  a  son  complains  to  his  father 
that  at  college  they  taught  him  only 
words,  and  he  wished  to  know  ideas. 
The  father  replies,  evidently  voicing 
the  belief  of  the  great  political  phrase- 
maker,  *  Few  ideas  are  correct  ones,  and 
what  are  correct  no  one  can  ascertain; 
but  with  words  we  govern  men.' 

The  Erasmians  decline  to  govern  or 
be  governed  by  words.  They  prefer  to 
delay  and  reflect  and  compare,  in  the 
hope  that  at  last  one  idea  may  become 
so  clear,  so  compelling,  so  compara- 
tively certain  that  it  may  result  in  an 
act.  The  process  is  long  and  very  try- 
ing to  active  spirits;  but  the  Erasmians 
have  infinite  patience.  It  is  a  glorious 
thing  to  wear  the  martyr's  crown.  But 
is  there  no  difference  between  martyr- 
dom in  a  good  cause  and  martyrdom  in 
a  doubtful  one?  The  Erasmians  think 
there  is.  'The  greatest  obstacle  to  be- 
ing heroic,'  writes  Hawthorne,  'is  the 
doubt  whether  one  may  not  be  going 
to  prove  one's  self  a  fool.  The  truest 
heroism  is  to  resist  the  doubt,  and  the 


profoundest  wisdom  is  to  know  when  it 
ought  to  be  resisted  and  when  to  be 
obeyed.' 

Well,  the  Erasmians  would  agree  to 
that.  'A  certain  partiality,  a  headiness 
and  loss  of  balance,  is  the  tax  which 
all  action  must  pay.  Act,  if  you  like, 
—  but  you  do  it  at  your  peril.'  Such 
is  Emerson's  warning.  The  Erasmians 
prefer  to  reduce  the  peril  to  the  low- 
est possible  terms.  To -them,  a  certain 
headiness  and  loss  of  balance  are,  at 
all  costs,  to  be  avoided. 

Now,  the  result  of  such  views,  inac- 
tivity, is  precisely  the  result  of  reac- 
tionary conservatism.  Whether  a  man 
declines  to  act  because  he  is  weighing 
ideas,  or  because  he  is  a  slave  to  tra- 
dition and  the  established  order,  makes 
very  little  difference  to  the  world;  but 
there  is  a  difference,  for  all  that.  The 
Erasmians,  like  most  sensible  men, 
agree  that  there  is  a  presumption  in 
favor  of  antiquity.  It  seems  to  them 
little  like  economy,  considering  the 
number  of  things  of  which  the  world  is 
full,  to  begin  all  discussions  of  all  sub- 
jects ab  ovo.  They  do  not  wake  every 
morning  with  the  idea  that  everything 
is  an  open  question,  for  they  see  clearly 
enough  whither  this  leads.  They  have 
no  mind  to  enroll  themselves  in  the  in- 
glorious register  of  the  revivers  of  vener- 
able political  blunders  and  the  preach-  • 
ers  of  forgotten  and  exploded  heresies. 
Yet,  they  distinctly  do  not  propose  to 
be  deluded  by  mere  words,  however 
sacrosanct.  To  them,  as  to  their  great 
exemplar,  every  ancient  absurdity  that 
claims  the  reverence  due  to  age  is  fair 
game. 

They  make  a  clear  distinction  be- 
tween essentials  and  non-essentials,  be- 
tween ideas  which  have  received  the 
stamp  of  time  and  those  which  have 
merely  received  the  stamp  of  conven- 
tion. And  the  latter  it  is  their  way  to 
cover  with  inextinguishable  laughter. 
Like  the  third  Lord  Shaftesbury,  they 


A  PLEA  FOR  ERASMIANS 


87 


believe  '  in  the  freedom  of  wit  and  hu- 
mor.' They  think  that  ridicule  is  a 

V 

criterion  of  true  and  false  enthusiasm, 
and  that  'opinions  which  claim  to  be 
exempted  from  raillery  and  discussion 
afford  presumptive  evidence  of  their 
falsity.'  While  the  method  is  open  to 
obvious  dangers,  and  is  certain  to  be 
condemned  by  persons  who  take  them- 
selves with  undue  seriousness,  yet  it  is 
precisely  the  method  by  which  Addi- 
son  and  Steele  reformed,  in  a  measure, 
the  society  of  their  time.  It  is  a  method 
of  warfare  that  demands  no  violence, 
that  attacks  measures,  not  men,  and 
that  often,  by  its  intrinsic  charm,  half 
heals  the  wounds  it  makes.  At  any 
rate,  it  is  the  only  method  possible  to 
the  Erasmian.  He  hates  and  fears  vio- 
lence almost  as  much  as  he  hates  and 
fears  evil.  He  knows  that  violent  reme- 
dial measures  frequently  destroy  an 
institution  that  needs  only  reforma- 
tion. 'What  does  war  breed,  but  war?' 
cries  Erasmus,  'while  gentleness  calls 
forth  gentleness,  and  equity  invites 
equity.'  The  Erasmian  consistently 
maintains  that  there  are  few  evils  so 
bad  as  war,  so  harmful  in  themselves, 
so  destructive  in  all  their  relations  — 
an  inglorious  doctrine  in  these  militant 
days,  a  doctrine  that  will  always  be  an 
abomination  to  the  children  of  this 
world,  but  a  doctrine  ever  to  be  ex- 
pected on  the  lips  of  the  children  of 
light. 

The  Erasmian  is  not  wholly  faith- 
less. He  has  faith  in  the  power  of 
thought.  He  may  believe  that  the  hope 
of  attaining  absolute  and  ultimate 
truth  on  any  subject,  most  of  all  the 
highest,  is  an  idle  dream;  therefore  he 
dislikes  dogmatism.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  'discourse  of  reason,'  the  power 
to  'look  before  and  after,'  he  knows  to 
be,  however  inadequate,  man's  only 
instrument  for  acquiring  truth  and  for 
making  it  prevail.  In  other  words,  he 
has  faith  in  the  supremacy  of  ideas. 


He  believes  that  in  the  long  run  they 
will  prevail,  and  he  sees  the  danger  of 
attempting  to  supersede  them  by  any 
other  agent.  He  knows  that  this  can 
be  done,  that  something  quite  the  re- 
verse of  ideas  may  for  a  time  be  made 
to  prevail,  and  that  men  will  accept  the 
inferior  thing  in  utter  ignorance  that 
it  is  not  the  highest.  Hence,  the  com- 
pelling impulse  that  drives  the  Eras- 
mian to  criticism.  He  may  not,  him- 
self, be  constructive;  it  may  not  be  the 
moment  for  construction;  but  at  any 
rate,  he  is  determined  that  no  false  and 
shoddy  edifice  shall  cumber  the  ground 
and  prevent  the  fair,  ideal  structure 
which  he  foresees. 

He  is  not  apologetic  under  the  sneers 
or  arguments  of  believers  in  a  second- 
best.  He  will  not  be  diverted  from  his 
critical  office  by  appeals  to  his  pride  or 
to  his  patriotism.  It  may  be  admitted, 
perhaps,  that  patriotism,  in  its  narrow 
sense,  is  not  one  of  his  governing  mo- 
tives. He  is  inclined  to  be  that  superior 
and  disagreeable  thing,  a  cosmopolitan. 
Like  Erasmus  himself,  his  home  is  the 
place  where  he  has  most  freedom  of 
thought.  Even  though,  like  that  great 
scholar,  he  may  not  spend  his  life  in 
wandering  from  city  to  city  and  forget 
the  very  place  of  his  birth,  yet  he  main- 
tains a  detached,  critical  attitude  to- 
ward his  native  land  that  greatly  irri- 
tates his  neighbors. 

He  cannot  see  that  a  thing  is  right 
because  it  is  'our  national  way.'  He 
tells  us,  his  compatriots,  the  plainest 
of  truths,  classifies  us  under  various 
opprobrious  categories,  and  compares 
us  with  neighboring  rivals  to  our  great 
disadvantage.  But  we  must  do  him  the 
justice  to  confess  that  no  land  seems  to 
suit  him  altogether,  and  that  he  tells 
our  rivals  the  same  disagreeable  truths 
he  has  told  us.  The  fact  is,  he  is  testing 
all  civilizations  by  his  standards  of 
ideas,  and  if  we  blame  him  for  lacking 
the  patriotic  weakness,  we  must  praise 


88 


A  PLEA  FOR  ERASMIANS 


him  for  bringing  to  all  his  national 
studies  the  same  high  seriousness,  the 
same  exacting  criterion. 

It  is  a  compliment  to  be  criticized 
by  such  a  man.  Surely,  in  our  right 
minds,  we  find  it  a  welcome  relief  from 
the  monotony  of  contemplating  our 
virtues.  Such  criticism  is  usually  enter- 
taining to  a  candid  mind,  and  always 
wholesome.  The  Erasmian,  under  these 
circumstances,  is  really  an  inspiring 
sight.  He  speaks  as  the  citizen  of  a 
commonwealth  of  which  all  human  so- 
cieties are  more  or  less  successful  imi- 
tations, —  the  commonwealth  of  ideas, 
where  philosophers  are  kings. 

His  independence  of  national  ties 
naturally  extends  to  parties.  He  has  no 
shibboleths.  He  alternately  ridicules 
and  reviles  'the  machine.'  He  finds  it 
difficult  to  comprehend  that  men  of 
humor  —  much  more,  men  of  intelli- 
gence and  piety  —  should  take  politi- 
cal organization  seriously.  With  Lord 
Morley  he  declares :  *  Politics  are  a  field 
where  action  is  one  long  second-best, 
and  where  the  choice  constantly  lies 
between  two  blunders.'  Choices  of  that 
sort,  as  we  have  seen,  he  is  loath  to 
make.  He  is  accused  by  practical  poli- 
ticians of  being  a  hopeless  visionary, 
making  impossible  demands;  but  all  he 
really  asks  is  the  application  of  ideas 
and  rudimentary  morals  to  political 
affairs. 

He  is  as  slow  to  commit  himself 
unreservedly  to  individuals  as  to  par- 
ties, for  he  knows  how  fatally  seduc- 
tive enthusiasm  for  a  great  person- 
ality may  become.  He  is  frequently 
found  scourging  his  prophets  for  their 
soul's  health;  and  in  dealing  with  false 
political  gods,  he  not  seldom  forgets  to 
be  urbane.  To  be  rigidly  just,  I  must 
,  confess  that  he  sometimes  forgets  to 
attend  the  primaries,  and  he  has  been 
known  not  to  vote  at  a  presidential 
election.  This,  however,  is  not  due  to 
carelessness,  but  to  a  temporary  spasm 


of  despair,  to  which  his  kind  ,is  sub- 
ject. 

In  religion  it  is  as  difficult  for  him  to 
be  a  partisan  as  in  politics.  It  should 
be  said  at  the  outset  that  he  is  a  funda- 
mentally religious  man  —  not  devout, 
precisely,  but  essentially  religious.  He 
holds  with  Erasmus  himself  that  'the 
sum  of  religion  is  peace,  which  can  only 
be  when  definitions  are  as  few  as  pos- 
sible, and  opinion  is  left  free  on  many 
subjects.'  He  is,  therefore,  rather  likely 
to  ally  himself  with  no  ecclesiastical 
party  or  sect,  to  sit  'as  God,  holding  no 
form  of  creed,  but  contemplating  all.' 
He  is,  however,  equally  consistent  if  he 
gives  a  limited  allegiance  to  some  great 
historic  faith  for  the  sake  of  the  prin- 
ciple of  authority,  in  which  he  believes. 
But,  he  is  no  more  comfortable  neigh- 
bor ecclesiastically  than  he  is  politi- 
cally. He  is  usually  regarded  by  the 
foes  of  religion  as  a  hypocrite  and  a 
coward,  and  by  its  friends  as  a  very 
doubtful  ally;  both  sides  relegate  him 
to  Dante's  'sect  of  those  displeasing 
to  God  and  to  his  enemies.'  He  is,  un- 
questionably, open  to  Mr.  Gladstone's 
criticism  of  Matthew  Arnold  as  a  theo- 
logian: 'He  combined  a  sincere  devo- 
tion to  the  Christian  religion  with  a 
faculty  for  presenting  it  in  such  a  form 
as  to  be  recognizable  neither  by  friend 
nor  foe.' 

Ethically  he  is  often  accused  of  lax- 
ity, and  he  is  certainly  not  austere. 
He  is  genuinely  humane,  and  believes 
that  whatever  makes  human  life  hap- 
pier, gentler,  more  refined,  more  tol- 
erant, is  a  moral  agent.  He  finds  that 
intellectual  shuffling  and  the  uncritical 
acceptance  of  venerable  fictions  are 
quite  as  immoral  as  more  easily  recog- 
nized vices.  He  maintains  the  unpopu- 
lar theory  that  severe  intellectual  dis- 
cipline is  itself  moralizing.  Always,  to 
the  Erasmian,  the  emphasis  lies  on  the 
human  and  the  tentative  in  religion, 
never  on  the  superhuman  and  the  dog- 


A  PLEA  FOR  ERASMIANS 


89 


matic.  Toward  the  pathos  of  human 
striving  he  is  tender;  toward  its  ill- 
judged  attempts  at  fixity  and  exclu- 
siveness  he  is  genially  severe. 


in 

The  Erasmian  is  not  useless  to  soci- 
ety. He  performs  a  function,  ungrate- 
ful, indeed,  but  in  the  highest  degree 
necessary.  The  history  of  human  in- 
stitutions entirely  confirms  Burke's 
dictum  that  'all  men  possessed  of  an 
uncontrolled  discretionary  power  lead- 
ing to  the  aggrandizement  and  profit  of 
their  own  body  have  always  abused  it.' 
Hence,  in  parliaments  and  churches 
and  society  in  general,  the  need  of  an 
opposition,  enlightened,  incorruptible, 
eternally  vigilant.  This  the  Erasmian 
is.  He  has  at  least  one  resemblance  to 
the  righteous  —  he  is  the  salt  of  human 
society,  and  he  is  not  the  worse  for 
being  Attic  salt.  Happy  the  land  or 
the  age  in  which  the  Erasmians  are  in 
numbers  respectably  proportionate  to 
their  self-satisfied  neighbors;  but  they 
are  usually  too  few  to  be  practically 
effective  —  vox  et  prceterea  nihil. 

They  are  the  adherents  of  unpopular 
causes  and,  not  seldom,  of  unsuccessful 
ones.  Like  Frederick  Denison  Maurice, 
in  Arnold's  witty  characterization,  they 
spend  their  lives '  beating  the  bush  with 
deep  emotion,  but  never  starting  the 
hare.'  But  that  is  distinctly  not  to  say 
that  they  are  useless.  Usually,  in  the 
long  run,  the  world  comes  round  to 
them,  but  if  it  does  not,  they  often 
profoundly  modify  its  course.  In  vain, 
like  Burke,  they  may  attempt,  at  a 
critical  epoch,  to  induce  their  country- 
men to  bring  ideas  to  bear  upon  poli- 
tics; but,  like  him,  after  a  hundred 
years,  their  opinions  may  be  lauded 
by  practical  statesmen  as  a  very  vade 
mecum  of  political  theory  and  prac- 
tice. 

While  Burke  was,  in  most  respects, 


very  far  from  illustrating  the  type  of 
mind  that  I  am  describing,  yet  it  was 
of  him,  at  a  certain  moment  of  his 
career,  that  Arnold  wrote  this  highly 
Erasmian  sentence:  'When  one  side  of 
a  question  has  long  had  your  earnest 
support,  when  all  your  feelings  are  en- 
gaged, when  you  hear  all  round  you  no 
language  but  one,  when  your  party 
talks  this  language  like  a  steam  engine 
and  can  imagine  no  other  —  still  to 
be  able  to  think,  still  to  be  irresistibly 
carried,  if  so  it  be,  by  the  current 
of  thought  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 
question,  and,  like  Balaam,  to  be  un- 
able to  speak  anything  but  what  the 
Lord  has  put  in  your  mouth  —  that  is 
what  I  call  living  by  ideas.' 

Arnold,  himself,  is  an  obvious  ex- 
ample of  the  Erasmian  in  all  his  mani- 
fold relations  to  society.  In  his  irony, 
his  disinterestedness,  his  pursuance  of 
the  Aristotelian  mean,  his  faith  in  cul- 
ture, and,  not  least,  in  his  immediate 
ineffectiveness,  he  reminds  us  of  the 
great  humanist.  '  I  do  not  profess  to  be 
a  politician,'  he  writes,  'but  simply  one 
of  a  class  of  disinterested  observers, 
who,  with  no  organized  and  embodied 
set  of  supporters  to  please,  set  them- 
selves to  observe  honestly  and  to  report 
faithfully  the  state  and  prospects  of 
our  civilization.'  When  we  read  in  Mr. 
Russell's  admirable  little  book  on  Ar- 
nold that  the  young  Liberals  of  1869 
declined  to  learn  from  him  'to  under- 
value personal  liberty,  or  to  stand  aloof 
from  the  practical  work  of  citizenship, 
or  to  despise  Parliamentary  effort  and 
its  bearing  on  the  better  life  of  Eng- 
land,' we  recognize  the  immediate  in- 
effectiveness of  the  Erasmian;  but 
when  we  read,  further,  that  he  perma- 
nently modified  all  their  thinking  on 
political  and  social  matters,  we  per- 
ceive that  'ineffective'  is  perhaps  not 
the  best  term  to  apply  to  an  influence 
so  profound  and  so  salutary.  This  is 
the  ordinary  attitude  of  the  political 


90 


A  PLEA  FOR  ERASMIANS 


Erasmian,  the  detached  attitude  of  the 
spectator  and  critic. 

But  English  political  life  a  few  years 
ago  afforded  us  the  unusual  spectacle 
of  an  Erasmian  in  office.  Mr.  Balfour's 
speeches,  writings,  and  behavior,  alike 
stamp  him  as  'sealed  of  the  tribe.' 
When  a  newspaper  editor  cruelly  re- 
marks that  'Mr.  Balfour's  mind  is  so 
hospitable  that  he  can  harbor  contra- 
dictory ideas,'  what  is  it  but  an  accu- 
sation of  extreme  Erasmianism? 

But  we  need  not  confine  ourselves  to 
modern  times  for  our  examples.  There 
were  Erasmians  before  Erasmus,  and 
he,  himself,  canonized  the  patron  saint 
of  the  order.  '  Saint  Socrates,  pray  for 
us,'  he  exclaimed  on  reading  the  Pkaedo, 
and  in  Socrates  we  find  the  first  and 
best  of  all  Erasmians.  His  function  was 
to  sting  and  goad  men,  if  not  into  vir- 
tue, at  any  rate  into  an  apprehension 
of  their  ignorance  and  vice.  To  which 
end,  the  best  means  was  to  force  them, 
by  a  relentless  logic,  to  bring  ideas  to 
bear  upon  life,  and  to  abandon  forth- 
with all  irrational,  and  hence  immoral 
positions.  His  fundamental  assump- 
tion, like  that  of  Erasmus,  was  that 
evil  conduct  is  the  result  of  ignorance, 
and  that,  therefore,  the  first  remedial 


measure  is  to  let  in  the  light.  Like 
Erasmus,  too,  he  was  loath  to  dogma- 
tize. 

As  I  have  already  intimated,  it 
would  not  be  difficult  to  convict  the 
Erasmian  of  basal  skepticism,  and  it  is 
one  of  the  ironies  of  philosophy  that 
skeptics  and  Platonic  transcendental- 
ists  alike  called  Socrates  master.  His 
Erasmian  character  extends  even  to 
details  of  method.  The  Socratic  dialec- 
tic, urbane,  ironical,  sweetly  reason- 
able, is  the  most  formidable  weapon  in 
the  Erasmian  armory.  The  humane 
and  tolerant  sympathy  with  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  men  is  not  the  least 
valuable  aspect  of  the  Socratic  and  the 
Erasmian  temper.  Like  a  true  Eras- 
mian, Socrates  was  regarded  by  the 
unregenerate  and  unenlightened  of  his 
contemporaries  as  a  wearisome  fault- 
finder, because  of  the  '  damnable  itera- 
tion' with  which  he  pointed  out  their 
follies.  And  if  the  cup  of  hemlock,  in 
one  form  or  another,  be  the  inevitable 
end  of  both,  there  is  surely  compensa- 
tion in  the  approval  of  the  inward 
'daemon'  that  prevents  ill-considered 
action,  and  in  the  veneration  of  a 
school  of  disciples  who  are  fit,  though 
few. 


A  POET  SILENT 

« 

BY   ALICE   BROWN 

THE  birds  are  silent,  homesick  for  the  south. 

And  you,  my  poet,  numbed  in  autumn  cold, 

Have  locked  on  melody  your  singing  mouth, 

And  muse  upon  the  spring;  yet  not  that  old 

Sweet  spring,  when  wing 

To  wing  beat  a  twinned  ecstasy,  — 

But  the  rapt  secrecies  you  may  not  sing, 

Of  what  the  year,  in-sheathed  and  folded,  yet  might  be, 

If  it  could  break,  to  your  amazed  eyes, 

Through  airs  of  Paradise. 

So  brood  in  silence,  though  the  expectant  ear, 

Thrilled  once  to  your  clear  matins,  trembles  yet, 

And  will,  with  ravishment's  remembered  pang,  to  hear 

The  golden  fret 

Of  words  in  measures  ancient  and  in  beauty  new, 

Born  like  the  evocation  of  the  leaf,  and  true 

To  rhythm  as  torrential  rain, 

Or  fall  of  runnels,  or  the  girdling  roar 

Of  the  unhindered  main. 

Still  do  I  see  you  with  the  migrant  choir 

In  that  dejected  pause  of  intermittent  note 

And  sickened  look  and  dulled  desire, 

Before  they  rise,  to  float 

O'er  fields  inhospitable  and  branches  bare 

Where  once  their  elfland  arrows  pierced  the  air. 

This  is  the  hush  preliminary, 

This  the  long  rest 

Writ  down  upon  your  staff  of  melody. 


THE  DANGER  OF  TOLERANCE  IN  RELIGION 


O  you,  though  dumbly  now  distrest, 

Shall  fly,  your  preluding  all  done, 

Trusting  the  unviewed  track,  the  charted  ease 

Of  the  winged  mariner  in  skyey  seas  — 

Sown  with  kind  stars  and  little  clouds  at  play  — 

And  make  at  last  that  country  where  alway 

They  sing  who  live  there,  and  their  harmonies 

Join  in  a  blest  accord  with  his  pure  ardencies 

Who  is  the  Lord  thereof  and  sun. 


THE  DANGER  OF  TOLERANCE  IN  RELIGION 


BY   BERNARD   IDDINGS   BELL 


IT  is  scarcely  more  than  a  platitude 
to  say  that  we  are  living  in  an  age  of 
transformation  of  thought.  It  is  not, 
perhaps,  quite  so  much  a  platitude  to 
say  that  we  are  apt  to  assume  that 
certain  contemporary  tendencies  in 
thought  are  permanent  results  of  that 
transformation  instead  of  ephemeral 
phases  of  it.  Every  great  upheaval  of 
life  and  thought  through  which  hu- 
manity has  gone  has  been  accompanied, 
first,  by  a  popular  sense  of  uncertainty 
as  to  truth,  and  a  consequent  tolerance 
of  every  sort  of  belief.  This  tolerance 
is  a  mark  of  the  decay  of  old  standards 
rather  than  of  the  formation  of  new 
ones.  After  every  period  of  tolerance 
there  has  come  a  period  of  intolerance, 
of  intellectual  strife,  —  often  accom- 
panied by  physical  strife.  This  period 
of  strife  is  characteristic  of  the  integra- 
tion of  new  standards. 

The  decay  of  Roman  civilization  was 
marked  by  tolerance  of  every  sort  of 
morals,  philosophy,  religion.  The  rise  of 


that  civilization  which  succeeded  it  was 
heralded  by  the  intolerant  persecution 
of  Christianity,  itself  an  intolerant 
movement.  Eighteenth-century  France 
was  marked  by  a  similar  universal 
tolerance,  but  it  was  the  bitter  intol- 
erance of  the  Revolution  which  ended 
this  complacency,  out  of  which  new 
standards  emerged.  Numerous  other 
examples  will  occur  to  any  one.  Toler- 
ance is  a  destructive  force.  The  suc- 
ceeding intolerance  is  constructive. 
The  danger  of  tolerance  is  always  this, 
that  one  may  assume  it  to  be  a  final  in- 
stead of  a  preliminary  step  in  thought- 
development,  and  in  consequence  stand 
half-developed,  intellectually  imma- 
ture. The  danger  of  tolerance  is  that 
it  may  destroy  the  capacity  for  con- 
structive thought. 

Notwithstanding  all  our  pretending 
that  we  are  of  an  age  which  lives  and 
thinks  scientifically,  we  are  still,  for  the 
most  part,  not  creatures  of  thought  but 
creatures  of  sentiment.  With  most  of 


THE  DANGER  OF  TOLERANCE  IN  RELIGION 


93 


us,  for  instance,  the  relationship  of  the 
sexes  is  still  a  matter  to  be  regarded 
sentimentally.  We  still  ignore  as  much 
as  possible  the  physical  and  social  facts 
back  of  that  relationship.  We  still, 
too,  for  the  most  part,  have  sentimen- 
tal political  affiliations  with  glorious 
ideals,  but  little  conception  of  the  facts 
which  condition  their  realization,  with 
much  of  unreasoning  loyalty  to  parties 
or  persons.  We  still  are  apt  to  have, 
and  desire,  a  sentimental  sort  of  edu- 
cation for  our  children,  on  a  cultural 
basis  which  ignores  at  once  the  neces- 
sity of  knowledge  of  the  facts  of  real 
life  and  the  vulgar  necessity  of  our 
children's  earning  a  living.  We  still 
speak,  with  a  pathetic  dignity,  in  terms 
of  a  sentimental  economics  based  on 
life  as  a  sentimentalist  would  have  it 
rather  than  on  life  as  it  is.  We  still 
enjoy  sentimental  literature.  We  still 
patronize  sentimental  drama.  And  be- 
cause in  all  these  matters  most  of  us 
are  still  comparatively  unthinking  be- 
ings, we  are  apt  in  all  of  them  to  have 
a  genial  toleration  for  our  fellows,  who, 
equally  unthinking,  tolerate  us. 

In  each  of  these  fields,  however, 
there  is  going  on  a  rapid  change.  In 
each  there  are  coming  to  be  small  but 
growing  groups  which  are  so  very  much 
in  earnest  that  they  refuse  to  be  tol- 
erant. As  people  are  facing  facts  in 
life  rather  than  mere  sentiments  about 
life,  the  tendency  toward  intolerance 
is  becoming  more  and  more  apparent. 
Marriage  and  the  problems  of  sex  are 
discussed  more  and  more  with  a  mark- 
ed unwillingness  to  tolerate  opinions 
other  than  those  one  has  founded  upon 
the  basis  of  facts.  Ellen  Key,  Edward 
Carpenter,  and  others  like  them,  write 
on  these  subjects  powerfully,  just  be- 
cause they  have  passed  through  the  in- 
definiteness  of  tolerance  to  positive  and 
intolerant  affirmations. 

A  few  years  ago  political  affiliations 
were  almost  wholly  superficial.  As 


politics  have  integrated  more  and  more 
around  the  seen  facts  of  our  civic  and 
economic  inter-relationships  we  have 
observed  a  renewal  of  intolerant  and 
deep  political  cleavages.  The  genial 
tolerance  of  every  sort  of  educational 
theory  which  characterized  our  older 
brothers  is  being  supplanted  by  utter 
impatience  among  the  various  schools 
of  educational  thought;  and  this  has 
been  true  just  in  so  far  as  we  have 
begun  constructively  to  think  about 
pedagogy. 

Our  literature  has  become  vital  and 
meaningful  of  late  years  in  a  way  that 
it  was  not  a  decade  ago;  and  it  is 
hard  not  to  see  that  this  has  been 
accompanied,  if  not  caused,  by  the 
espousal  of  positive  convictions  and  by 
their  quite  impatient  utterance  by  our 
contemporary  novelists,  essayists,  and 
poets.  Whether  their  plays  prove  pop- 
ular or  not,  the  dramatists  of  to-day 
are  preaching  in  a  way  that  is  anything 
but  conciliatory.  In  all  these  respects, 
we  are  gradually  and  hopefully  emerg- 
ing from  an  age  of  good-natured  toler- 
ance into  one  of  contradictory  and 
frankly  clashing  ideas  and  ideals. 

In  religion,  however,  we  are,  appar- 
ently, for  the  most  part  afraid  to  per- 
mit in  ourselves  this  development  from 
tolerance  into  bigotry.1  The  very  same 
man  who  is  a  healthy  bigot  on  sex-rela- 
tionship, politics,  economics,  and  what 
not  else,  imagines  that  in  religion  he  is 
bound,  if  he  would  be  in  accord  with 
the  Zeitgeist,  to  be  tolerant  of  all  kinds 
and  shades  of  religious  belief  or  dis- 
belief. Of  course,  part  of  this  attitude 
is  due  to  the  impression,  not  now  so 
prevalent  as  once  it  was,  that  certain 
truth  is  truth  demonstrable  physically, 
and  that  religion,  which  is  incapable 

1  Bigotry,  according  to  the  Standard  Dic- 
tionary, means  merely,  'obstinate  or  intoler- 
ant attachment  to  a  cause  or  creed.'  Ignorance 
is  not  necessarily  implied  by  the  word.  —  THE 
AUTHOR. 


94 


THE  DANGER  OF  TOLERANCE  IN  RELIGION 


of  such  demonstration,  is  a  thing  in 
which  uncertainty  is  inevitable.  (Of 
course  such  an  assumption  is  quite 
unscientific.)  The  main  reason  for  it, 
however,  is  the  unthinking  or  super- 
ficially thinking  assumption  that  man- 
kind has  developed  religiously  from 
intolerance  into  tolerance,  and  that 
tolerance,  complete,  unquestioned,  is 
the  highest  point  yet  reached  in  the 
development  of  religion.  Students  of 
the  history  of  religion  know  that  this 
is  not  so.  They  know  that  there  have 
always  been  successive  waves  of  toler- 
ance and  intolerance  in  religion,  as  in 
every  other  realm  of  human  thought, 
and  that  religion  has  evolved  out  of 
tolerance  into  intolerance  just  as  often, 
and  as  rightly,  as  the  other  way  about. 
Most  of  us,  however,  know  nothing  of 
this.  The  result  of  this  mistake  of  ours 
is  that  the  return  or  progression  toward 
constructive  intolerance  manifested  in 
every  other  line  of  thought  to-day  is 
almost  entirely  absent  from  modern 
religious  thinking. 

One  can  see  this  in  the  very  popular 
campaigns  on  foot  making  for  what  is 
called 'Church  Unity.'  Everywhere  in 
Christendom  one  hears  nowadays  such 
cries  as  this:  'Let  us  all  get  together. 
Let  us  forget  the  things  which  divide 
us,  and  think  only  of  that  which  unites 
us.'  What  it  is  that  unites  us,  one  no- 
tices, is  never  defined.  'Let  the  Bap- 
tists and  the  Methodists  and  the  Epis- 
copalians and  the  Lutherans  and  the 
Roman  Catholics  and  the  Unitarians 
and  all  the  others  simply  agree  to  love 
one  another,  and  forget  their  differ- 
ences.' We  see  many  sorts  of  ministers, 
in  their  desire  to  promote  what  they 
believe  to  be  the  unity  desired  by  their 
Master,  Christ,  exchanging  pulpits  with 
one  another  and  passing  genial  compli- 
ments about  one  another's  superlative 
worth.  There  is  a  tremendous  deal  of 
good  feeling  and  every  one  is  very 
happy;  and  behold,  the  millennial  unity 


of  all  men,  for  which  Christ  prayed  on 
the  night  of  his  betrayal,  is  at  hand! 

Is  it?  If  this  was  the  sort  of  thing 
Christ  wanted,  why  did  He  not  prac- 
tice this  modern,  tolerant  method  when 
He  was  on  earth?  Why  did  He  not 
seek  to  conciliate,  on  a  basis  of  mutual 
toleration,  the  Sadducees  and  Phari- 
sees, for  instance,  instead  of  denounc- 
ing them  both  for  differing  from  his 
own  conception  of  religion?  Why  did 
He  preach  things  so  definite  as  to 
alienate  most  of  the  people  whom  He 
came  to  earth  to  save?  Why  did  He 
die?  Apparently  it  was  because  He  ut- 
tered such  definite  and  positive  teach- 
ing as  to  force,  by  his  very  intolerance, 
the  reflex  intolerance  of  those  opposed 
to  that  teaching.  It  is  apparent  to  any 
one  who  reads  the  Gospels,  that  Christ 
stood  for  definiteness  in  religion,  that 
He  himself  died  rather  than  tolerate 
the  religious  ideas  of  most  of  his  con- 
temporaries, and  that  He  earnestly 
urged  his  followers  to  imitate  the  stead- 
fastness of  his  example.  He  prayed,  it 
is  true,  that  all>the  world  might  become 
united ;  but  He  must  have  meant  united 
on  the  positive  and  definite  platform  on 
which  He  himself  stood.  Any  other  in- 
terpretation would  stultify,  not  merely 
his  words,  but  his  whole  life. 

To  Christ,  apparently,  the  most  im- 
portant thing  about  a  man  was  his 
philosophy  of  life  in  all  its  relations,  — 
in  short,  his  religion.  To  us,  that  seems 
to  be  the  least  important  thing  about 
a  man.  Our  attitude  implies  that  one 
way  of  looking  at  God,  man,  and  the 
universe  is  as  good  as  another,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  none  of  them  mat- 
ters very  much  anyway. 

Our  present  efforts  to  be  tolerant  in 
religion,  then,  are  based  upon  the  pre- 
supposition that  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  objective  religious  truth.  This  is 
to  say,  that  in  the  thing  which  for  a 
human  being  must  correlate  all  his 
other  thought  and  activity,  —  namely 


WHAT  OF  COEDUCATION? 


95 


his  theory  of  life,  his  religion,  —  there 
is  no  objective  reality  at  all,  toward 
which  he  may  approximate.  This  is 
to  deny  that  there  is  anything  which 
may  rightly  be  called  fundamental 
truth.  It  is  to  exalt  peace  at  any  price 
into  the  throne  of  ultimate  reality.  It 
is  to  destroy  the  search  for  that  reality. 
It  is  to  glorify  intellectual  cowardice 
and  inefficiency.  It  is  not  merely  to 
destroy  a  rational  basis  for  morals;  it 
is,  in  the  end,  to  destroy  a  rational  basis 
for  thinking  as  a  whole. 

One  hears  constantly  that  people  are 
not  interested  to-day  in  systems  of 
religion  which  are  not  all-inclusive, 
which  are  in  any  way  divisive.  If  that 
be,  true,  it  is  a  sad  period  for  religion 
or  for  thought  in  general,  that  lies 
before  us.  To  prohibit  men  from  at- 
tempting to  lift  themselves  up  toward 
the  realities  of  eternity,  to  compel 
them  to  abandon  the  mighty  gropings 


which  have  ever  characterized  the 
seers,  —  intolerant  because  they  were 
seers  and  not  politicians,  —  and  to 
substitute  for  these  a  unified  *  religion ' 
consisting  of  platitudes  about  being 
good  to  one's  grandmother  and  similar 
banalities,  —  to  do  this  would  be  a 
dire  calamity  to  the  generation  and  to 
the  race.  Ah,  no;  better  the  bitter 
intolerance  of  those  who  believe  too 
much  and  too  strongly  than  the  easy 
complaisance  of  those  who  believe  too 
little  and  hold  that  little  too  lightly. 
Better  the  Inquisition  and  the  rack 
than  the  drugging  of  those  who  else 
might  seek  for  God.  Better  that  we 
live  and  die  slaves  to  a  half-truth,  or  a 
millionth-truth,  than  that  we  refuse 
to  look  for  truth  at  all.  Better  even 
that  in  religion  a  man  should  live  and 
die  believing  with  all  his  soul  in  a  lie, 
than  that  he  should  merely  exist,  be- 
lieving in  nothing. 


WHAT  OF  COEDUCATION? 


BY  ZONA   GALE 


AN  English  critic,  unable  to  bear  an 
English  poet's  broken  metre,  with  its 
orchestral  suiting  of  sound  to  sense, 
at  length  cried  aloud  to  the  British 
public,  — 

'If  we  are  to  arrogate  to  ourselves 
poetic  license  such  as  this,  what  is  to 
become  of  the  iambic  pentameter?' 

To  which  one  of  his  public  very  rea- 
sonably inquired,  - 

'Whose  iambic  pentameter?' 

And  this  is  the   kind  of  question 


which  some  of  us  would  ask  of  those 
whose  alarm  is  unbounded  at  the  dele- 
terious effect  which,  since  college  doors 
opened  to  women,  feminine  influence  is 
said  to  be  having  on  education.  On 
whose  education?  To  whom  does  edu- 
cation belong,  anyway?  For  we  seem 
to  be  having  always  laboriously  to 
prove  the  ancient,  evident  fact  that 
education  is  not  a  thing  at  all,  that  it  is 
only  a  name  for  the  unfolding  of  human 
life.  The  thing  with  which  we  are  con- 
cerned, then,  is  simply  how  education 
affects  this  unfolding;  what,  on  the 


96 


WHAT  OF  COEDUCATION? 


students  themselves,  are  the  reactions 
of  coeducation.  There  is  no  other 
issue  involved. 

We  have  never  said  co-playing  or  co- 
dancing  or  co-serving.  When  we  have 
talked,  sung,  observed,  traveled,  re- 
joiced in  the  sun,  wondered  about  life, 
been  conscious  of  the  Substance  of 
things,  we  have  done  it  all  without  the 
prefix  co.  We  do  these  things  simply, 
act  in  them  as  human  beings,  know 
them  for  our  common  province.  They 
unfold  us  from  within.  They  co-unfold 
us,  only  we  have  never  troubled  to  say 
it  that  way.  But  when  this  unfolding 
began  to  be  valued,  and  men  pursued  it 
deliberately,  and  when,  much  later,  it 
was  recognized  that  the  sooner  the 
whole  race  shared  in  it  the  better,  and 
women  began  to  respond  to  it  too; 
and  when  human  beings,  in  a  common 
plight,  moving  to  a  common  destiny, 
seriously  undertook  the  great  business 
of  self-conscious  development  —  then 
education  ceased  to  be  a  sufficient 
term.  We  divided  it.  And  to  one  half 
of  it  we  gave  a  co. 

Now  in  reality  we  thus  made  a  beau- 
tiful word,  a  word  as  beautiful  in  con- 
tent as  cooperation,  or  coalition,  or 
coincidence;  carrying  a  sense  of  fel- 
lowship; meaning  together,  jointly; 
having  a  human  tang  that  is  thrilling, 
electric,  intentional.  But  at  once  an 
amazing  thing  happened.  Prefixed  to 
education,  co  somehow  developed  in 
the  word  a  new  property,  a  property 
which  speedily  transformed  everything 
else  about  it :  it  developed  an  import  of 
gender.  All  the  merely  human  signifi- 
cance of  the  word  vanished.  As  poets, 
handworkers,  scientists,  tradesmen, 
publicists,  industrial  slaves,  prophets, 
we  disappeared  from  the  scene.  The 
word  coeducation,  the  unfolding  of 
all  of  us,  the  leading  out  of  our  com- 
mon divinity  from  our  common  hu- 
manity, fell  in  bondage,  had  one  of  its 
implications  over-specialized,  and  now 


connotes  merely  the  process  of  educat- 
ing together  the  two  sexes,  as  such. 
This  psychology  is  not  unfamiliar.  It 
may  be  that  of  an  elemental  people 
who  regard  the  distinction  as  one  rep- 
resenting differences  alone;  it  may  be 
that  of  an  intellectualized,  somewhat 
intuitionized  people  who  regard  the 
distinction  as  the  symbol  of  comple- 
ments. To  the  former,  sex  has  always 
been  a  kind  of  final  word  and  wall.  To 
the  latter  it  will  be  a  window  and  a 
door. 

Meanwhile,  being  neither  as  ele- 
mental as  we  were  nor  as  wise  as  we 
shall  be,  we  may  as  well  face  the  word 
in  its  ordinary  application,  and  to  do  so 
is  to  reduce  a  statement  of  the  issue 
involved  to  this :  — 

Since  in  the  world  there  is  to  be  co- 
existence of  the  members  of  the  human 
race,  their  co-use  of  products,  their  co- 
development  of  more  products,  their 
co-labor  for  the  future  of  the  race,  their 
co-aspiration  to  a  dim  co-destiny,  what 
will  be  the  probable  effect  upon  them 
if  we  permit  them  to  have  co-education 
too? 

II 

In  the  ancient  pastime  of  judging  we 
not  infrequently  make  the  ancient  mis- 
take of  confusing  the  idea  of  a  thing 
with  the  method  in  which  that  idea  is 
being  expressed.  'We  have  not  achiev- 
ed social  justice:  Democracy  is  a  fail- 
ure '  —  this  kind  of  argument  still 
deceives.  We  know  well  that  we  are 
continually  obliged  to  try  to  express 
spiritual  values  by  the  use  of  physical 
terms;  yet  when  we  are  called  upon  to 
judge  some  created  physical  envelope, 
we  forget  our  synthesis  and,  instead  of 
analysis,  put  faith  in  what  we  see. 

If  we  put  faith  in  what  we  see  of  co- 
education, we  are  of  course  obliged  to 
admit  that  after  fifty  years  and  more  of 
experimentation  in  America  the  effect 
of  coeducation  on  the  students  under- 


WHAT  OF  COEDUCATION? 


going  it  is  not  wholly  desirable.  Simi- 
larly, after  uncounted  thousands  of 
years  of  living,  the  experience  of  indi- 
viduation  is  not  always  operative  to 
develop  the  Substance  so  expressed. 
But  if  we  are  wise,  we  shall  voluntarily 
abandon  neither  coeducation  nor  liv- 
ing, on  account  of  conclusions  import- 
ant only  as  they  furnish  bases  for 
examination  and  modification.  And 
the  reactions  from  four  years  of  educa- 
tional life  are  important  in  our  seek- 
ings  for  democracy  —  and  for  other 
things. 

This  conclusion  regarding  the  pre- 
sent partial  failure  of  coeducation  we 
may  reach  while  still  regarding  as 
negligible  in  our  consideration  those  in- 
stitutions where  coeducation  is  as  yet 
markedly  undeveloped,  or  abandoned 
fora  compromise;  where,  for  example, 
men  and  women  students  are  assem- 
bled for  four  years  of  propinquity — not 
of  real  association;  where  the  term 
*  co-ed,'  with  a  feminine  connotation, 
is  not  only  stupid,  as  it  always  is,  but 
is  anathema  as  well;  where  'co-eds' 
are  in  one  class,  and  one's  friends  and 
one's  sisters  and  one's  sweethearts 
are  in  another  class;  where  to  no  man 
intent  on  propriety  does  it  occur  to 
appear  at  promenade,  or  formal  recep- 
tion, or  even  hop,  with  a  woman  stud- 
ent of  his  own  college;  where,  in  short, 
the  order  of  things  is  as  false  to  the 
habit  of  any  other  social  group  as  to 
the  habit  of  life.  Obviously,  such  a  con- 
dition will  in  some  respects  result  per- 
niciously. But  this  situation  is  so  bald- 
ly a  rudimentary  development  that  in 
considering  ultimate  values  it  need  not 
enter.  Nor  in  a  discussion  of  the  effect 
of  coeducation  on  students  need  those 
institutions  be  considered  wherein  is 
practised  the  compromise  of  segrega- 
tion. Segregation  is  to  coeducation 
what  class-conscious  government  is  to 
democracy. 

But  even  in  those  institutions  where 

VOL.  114 -NO.  1 


men  and  women  meet  as  normally  and 
casually  as  they  will  be  meeting  in  later 
life,  coeducation  now  has  certain  de- 
leterious effects.  Stated,  their  causes 
have  a  mediaeval  look;  but  then  we, 
too,  are  mediaeval,  and  so,  in  a  consid- 
eration of  ultimate  values,  we  should 
know  how  much  to  allow  to  current 
prejudices  at  this  stage  of  our  evolu- 
tion. Which  is  to  say,  we  should  exer- 
cise a  god-like  intuition.  And  so  we 
should. 

There  are,  for  example,  the  effects  of 
sex-repulsion.  There  comes  wide  testi- 
mony to  the  effect  that  in  coeduca- 
tional institutions,  classes  in  political 
economy,  sociology,  logic,  and  law  are 
largely  made  up  of  men,  while  litera- 
ture and  'aesthetics'  generally  are 
elected  by  women,  somewhat  to  the 
exclusion  in  each  case  of  the  other  sex. 
Each  sex  is  said  to  be  found  refusing 
to  elect  branches  popular  with  the 
other.  And  some  educators  have  ad- 
mitted that  they  see  no  way  out  of 
this,  since  the  more  frequently  women 
enter  courses,  the  more  definitely  do 
men  shun  these  courses,  and  vice  versa, 
until  the  progression  and  retrogression 
proceed  automatically.  And  this  ten- 
dency is  actually  resulting,  it  is  af- 
firmed, in  'natural  segregation,'  due  to 
sex-repulsion,  a  phenomenon  long  inci- 
dent to  social  life  and  as  a  matter  of 
course  reasserting  itself  as  soon  as  a 
common  intellectual  training  for  the 
two  sexes  is  institutionalized.  Sex- 
repulsion  would  thus  appear  to  indi- 
cate biological  grounds  against  coedu- 
cation which  no  arbitrary  opening  of 
college  doors  to  men  and  women  has 
overcome,  — '  can  ever  overcome,'  some 
have  put  it. 

But  this  is  not  all.  There  is  also  sex- 
attraction.  There  comes  wide  testi- 
mony that  in  coeducational  institu- 
tions there  enter  a  large  number  of 
women  whose  function  appears  to  be 
chiefly  social,  in  the  narrowest  sense  of 


98 


WHAT  OF  COEDUCATION? 


that  word.  Every  year  sees  an  influx 
of  these  young  women,  whose  popular- 
ity is  based  on  their  ability  to  make 
themselves  centres  of  masculine  ad- 
miration. Serious-minded  men,  who 
would  otherwise  be  intent  on  serious 
study,  are  immeasurably  distracted. 
At  the  very  time  of  life  when  all  their 
energies  should  be  spent  in  preparation, 
these  men  are  bent  on  *  social'  offices, 
are  falling  in  love,  becoming  engaged, 
with  the  incident  entailing  of  economic 
readjustment  in  an  effort  to  live  up  to 
a  hostage  so  early  assumed.  Also,  al- 
though this  is  far  less  frequently  urged, 
the  young  women  themselves,  who 
might  be  leading  sober  lives  at  some 
female  college,  are  diverted  and  over- 
stimulated.  For  it  is  observably  not 
the  intellectual  leaders  among  the 
young  women  who  thus  become  dis- 
turbing influences.  It  is  the  *  socially 
fit.'  We  might  ponder  this  antithesis, 
to  such  random  lengths  has  gone  our 
sense  of  the  phrase  'socially  fit.'  This 
wholesale  disturbance  is  due  to  sex- 
attraction,  long  incident  to  social  life, 
to  be  sure,  but  appearing  to  indicate 
biological  grounds  against  coeduca- 
tion which  no  arbitrary  opening  of 
college  doors  to  men  and  women  has 
overcome. 

There  is  no  doubt  at  all,  so  wide  is 
the  testimony,  that  these  extremes  of 
both  conditions  do  now  exist  to  some 
extent  in  coeducational  institutions; 
and  that  both  carry  harmful  conse- 
quences. But  granting  that  they  do 
exist,  and  that  they  are  harmful,  it  is 
well  to  get  on  to  the  heart  of  the  mat- 
ter; for  to  be  alarmed  by  these  appear- 
ances may  be  much  like  *  letting  straws 
tell  the  wind  which  way  to  blow.' 

Here  is  the  hackneyed  historical 
sequence  (and  for  the  present  purpose 
we  may  neglect  its  materialistic  inter- 
pretation, which  is  that  the  education 
of  women  was  begun,  and  continues, 
because  it  pays;  because  educated 


women  are  now  of  greater  economic 
value  to  the  state,  though  to  the  state 
of  the  past  they  were  useful  exclusively 
as  bearers  of  children  and  of  domestic 
burdens) :  — 

First,  we  have  women's  ignorance  of 
their  need  of  *  higher '  education,  while 
they  were  busy  bearing  and  rearing 
children  to  balance  the  ravages  of  war 
and  famine  and  disease.  Then,  wo- 
men's own  recognition  of  their  need 
and  its  denial  by  men.  Next,  women's 
gradual,  grudged  admission  to  insti- 
tutions of  learning  through  the  tedious 
compromise  of  'normal*  courses  and 
female  colleges,  on  the  same  campus 
with  the  men  and  under  the  same 
faculty,  but  rigidly  separate.  And  now, 
their  present  state  of  advance  —  their 
admission  to  some  colleges  as  'co-ed* 
and  anathema,  to  others  in  segregated 
classes,  to  some  in  full  citizenship,  with 
still  by  far  the  greatest  number  of 
women  taking  college  courses  in  either 
one  of  the  first  two  groups  or  in  wo- 
men's colleges. 

Is  it  great  wonder  that  in  these 
mediaeval  days  of  1914  sex-repulsion 
should  still  be  manifesting  itself  some- 
what in  the  coeducational  colleges? 
Not  many  women,  tending  to  elect 
the  immemorial  French  and  literature 
courses,  and  to  shun  sociology,  will 
realize  that  their  impulse  is  based  on 
the  long  need  of  women  to  be  accom- 
plished within  limits  rather  than  to  be 
abreast  of  life.  Not  one  in  a  myriad  of 
undergraduate  men,  feeling  a  smother 
of  resentment  at  women's  presence  in 
'his'  law  class,  or  permitting  himself  a 
shrug  at  a  'lady  class,'  or  at  'dope  for 
the  dames,'  will  recognize  his  shrug  as  a 
primal  stirring  which  he  felt  ages  ago 
when  women  were  a  part  of  his  impedi- 
menta. Yet  this  is  what  his  shrug 
means,  modified  somewhat  by  the 
years,  mixed  with  vanity,  with  ego- 
tism, with  provincialism,  but,  not  the 
less,  still  strong  enough  to  commend 


WHAT  OF  COEDUCATION? 


99 


itself  in  the  breasts  of  living  faculties 
and  regents  as  a  thing  to  be  taken  into 
account  in  the  policy  of  institutions 
whose  prime  use  is  the  development  of 
the  divinity  in  our  humanity. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  the  recog- 
nition should  be  slow;  that  women 
should  first  be  allowed  to  enter  law 
schools;  then  should  be,  with  much 
indignant  protest,  admitted  to  state 
bars,  and  allowed  to  interpret  the  laws 
which  they  have  studied;  and  then, 
much  later  and  much  more  indig- 
nantly, should  be  given  the  right  of 
citizenship  to  help  make  and  adminis- 
ter those  laws  which  they  are  studying 
and  interpreting.  We  need  not  be  im- 
patient with  the  process.  But  how  can 
we  make  the  mistake  of  taking  any  one 
of  these  phases  as  the  norm?  And  this 
suggests  that  we  might,  if  we  were 
wise,  express  a  wise  wonder  as  to  what 
the  next  step  in  that  familiar  historic 
sequence  may  be.  Has  it  been  going 
toward  coeducation  and  working  out 
the  bad  results  of  coeducation's  reac- 
tions? Or  have  we,- at  the  line  of  sex, 
really  now  complacently  sounded  the 
dernier  cri,  and  may  we  rest?  Or  is  it 
not  just  possible  that  these  flights  of 
change  may  be  bearing  toward  future 
coeducational  students  a  power  which 
is  current  with  great  portents?  .  .  . 

As  a  stumbling-block  in  the  way  of 
the  success  of  coeducation,  sex-attrac- 
tion is  obviously  not  less  explicable 
than  sex-repulsion.  Here  is  no  historic 
sequence,  but  an  historic  deadlock, 
down  all  the  weary  years  when,  to  men, 
women  have  been  valuable  —  and  con- 
sequently able  to  get  a  livelihood  for 
themselves  —  in  proportion  as  they 
have  been  able  to  make  themselves 
attractive,  and  able  to  exert  that  very 
power  to  distract  from  work-a-day  con- 
cerns. So  we  may  as  well  pass  over 
the  fact  that  in  these  first  years  of  the 
life  of  coeducation,  certain  of  those 
women  who  seek  coeducational  insti- 


tutions do  come  there  crudely  exer- 
cising all  the  old  charm  on  which  they 
have  learned  so  well  to  depend  for  the 
very  economic  needs  of  life.  Not  one 
undergraduate  girl  in  a  myriad  who 
in  a  coeducational  institution  has  had 
her  head  turned  by  the  successful  exer- 
cise of  her  charm  will  recognize  in  that 
exercise  her  ancient  office.  Yet  that  is 
all  that  it  is,  becoming  with  the  years 
in  a  variety  of  aspects  more  and  more 
ignoble,  less  and  less  of  an  economic 
necessity,  and  nearer  to  recognition  as 
a  biological  anomaly  —  that  of  '  genus 
homo,  of  which  alone  the  female  wears 
the  bright  plumage  and  dances  before 
the  male.'  But  the  habit  is  still  strong 
enough  to  foist  itself  upon  us  as  a 
menace  instead  of  as  a  long  abuse  of 
a  relation  still  but  dimly  understood, 
an  abuse  whose  remedy  is  slowly  evol- 
ving from  that  coeducational  com- 
panionship which  the  traditionists  so 
fear. 

The  deterrent  to  the  recognition  of 
this  companionship  as  a  remedy  has 
been  the  realization  that  although  the 
future  normal  association  of  men  and 
women  in  socialized  coeducation,  in 
socialized  industry,  in  full  citizenship, 
in  all  democracy,  will  clarify  the  rela- 
tions of  men  and  women,  yet  sex-repul- 
sion and  attraction  will  exist  as  long  as 
does  life.  Extending  from  the  time 
when  youngish  men  put  feathers  in 
their  hair  and  lurked  outside  the  doors 
of  caves  and  ran  away  when  those 
primal  beloved  appeared,  down  through 
the  time  when  a  man  and  a  woman 
try  to  see  each  other  and  then  become 
tongue-tied  or  exasperated  in  each 
other's  presence,  the  law  has  been  oper- 
ative like  that  of  any  other  rhythm, 
and  will  be  so,  at  least  until  our  area 
of  consciousness  is  extended  consid- 
erably beyond  its  present  confines. 
That  which  is  operative  in  the  fail- 
ures of  coeducation  is  not  the  effect 
of  this  law,  but  the  effect  of  certain 


100 


WHAT  OF  COEDUCATION? 


abuses  resulting  from  vanishing  stan- 
dards. 

The  whole  area  of  the  social  life  of 
coeducational  institutions  lies  just  here. 
And  this,  and  not  coeducation  as  such, 
is  the  heart  of  the  problem. 

in 

Upon  the  social  relations  afforded  by 
coeducation,  a  heterogeneous  group  of 
young  people  emerge  abruptly  from  a 
variety  of  thresholds:  thresholds  radi- 
cal, conservative,  democratic,  aristo- 
cratic, provincial,  cosmopolitan,  poor, 
rich.  Most  of  these  young  people  have 
this  in  common,  that  they  stand  at 
many  beginnings :  the  first  check-book, 
the  first  adventure  in  certain  clothes 
and  personal  belongings,  the  first  leis- 
ure that  need  not  be  accounted  for,  the 
first  freedoms  in  countless  walks.  Also, 
each  has  his  knapsack  of  dreams, 
dreams  in  which  we  are  just  beginning 
to  realize  how  potently  and  vitally  and 
wistfully  gregariousness  figures.  This 
is  normal  and  human;  but  many  of 
these  young  folk  arrive  at  college  with 
an  entire  kit  of  measuring  tools  already 
made  for  them,  and  the  selective  pro- 
cess almost  precedes  the  impulse  to  gre- 
gariousness. In  their  resultant  social 
life,  the  standards  are  standards  of 
social  life  as  it  has  been  obscurely 
reported  to  them :  not  a  thing  of  human 
companioning,  but  a  thing  of  display 
and  competitive  spending. 

So  it  befalls  that  a  portion  of  the 
student  body  is  drawn  into  a  social  life 
which  comes  to  exist  almost  independ- 
ently of  anybody's  wanting  it  there. 
Everything  is  prescribed.  Every  fra- 
ternity and  sorority  must  have  one  or 
more  *  formals '  a  year,  and  every  class 
its  party.  Here  are  numerous  social 
affairs  already  provided  for  in  advance, 
plus  the  three-day  celebration  of  the 
Junior  Prom,  the  social  functions  of 
commencement  week,  and  all  the  fes- 


tivities of  the  games  and  of  the  rushing 
season.  To  these  are  added  dinners 
and  *  informals '  and  a  varying  amount 
of  town  entertaining,  with  whatever  of 
the  musical  or  dramatic  can  find  a 
place.  Upon  all  this  the  students  enter 
willingly,  with  far  more  expense  than 
many  of  them  can  afford  -  —  and  who 
cannot  understand?  If  the  smart 
thing,  the  late  thing,  the  spectacular 
thing  is  emulated  by  them,  who  is  at 
fault  but  those  who  are  being  emulated  ? 
And  of  course  the  answer  is,  as  it  al- 
most always  is,  that  those  who  are 
being  emulated  are  victims  too.  The 
same  thing,  eternally  economic,  is  the 
matter  with  the  society  of  a  coeduca- 
tional institution  —  that  little  world 

—  that  is  the  matter  with  the  world 
outside. 

Realizing,  however,  that  something 
more  immediately  assailable  is  wrong, 
criticism  strikes  out  and  falls  on  the 
fallible  field  of  number,  and  says  that 
there  will  not  be  enough  Fridays  and 
Saturdays  in  the  semesters  to  accom- 
modate all  these  entertainments  — 
that  the  other  evenings  will  be  invaded 

—  students    will     have    their    minds 
*  taken  from  their  work '  —  in  short, 
that    when    young    men    and    young 
women  are  associated  in  college,  the 
stimulation   of  their   social   life   is  a 
grievous  ill.    And  so  it  is  —  though 
this  is  often  overstated,   because  to 
predicate  all  these  social  affairs  of  the 
majority  of  students  is  like  adding  up 
the  thousand  or  so  annual  social  func- 
tions of  a  little  town  and  concluding 
that  the  village  is  populated  by  butter- 
flies. Also,  the  matter  has  another  side, 
in  the  lack  of  social  stimulation  of  the 
students  who  are  not  '  socially  fit '  and 
who  almost  altogether  miss  a  social  life. 
But  if  one  is  going  to  attack  the  situa- 
tion —  and  we  ought  to  be  attacking  it 
instead  of  criticizing  it  —  there  is  a 
thing  more  logically  attackable  than 
the  mere  number  of  the  social  affairs  in 


WHAT  OF  COEDUCATION? 


101 


which  these  college  men  and  women 
participate,  or  which  they  miss.  That 
is  to  say,  the  difficulty  is  not  so  much 
in  the  incidence  of  festivity  as  in  the 
quality  of  a  social  life  which  is  still  tire- 
lessly presenting  itself  in  its  element- 
ary conditions. 

Development  after  development 
takes  place  in  the  academic  life :  new  de- 
partments are  added,  investigations  are 
encouraged,  appropriations  increase, 
buildings  multiply,  both  student  body 
and  faculty  enlarge,  the  hands  of  state 
and  educational  institutions  lock  the 
more  closely  in  proportion  as  waxes  the 
wisdom  of  both;  educationally,  and  lit- 
tle by  little  legislatively,  the  father-mo- 
therhood of  the  institution  is  felt;  and 
yet  that  recreational  life,  hardly  even 
second  in  importance  to  the  academic, 
has,  almost  until  this  moment,  failed 
to  present  itself  as  a  problem  with  as 
inevitable  a  solution  as,  say,  poverty; 
and  has  therefore  been  permitted  to 
find  itself  at  random;  indeed,  to  lose 
itself  in  the  pathetic  attempt  to  take 
its  uninvited  place  in  the  house  of  col- 
lege life. 

Above  all  other  places,  it  is  to  co- 
educational institutions  that  the  new 
evaluation  of  recreation  should  be 
vital.  We  developed  the  new  social 
attitude  toward  recreation  first  among 
little  children,  and  sought  to  fill  the 
need  for  it  in  the  kindergarten.  To  the 
public  schools  we  are  tending  to  give 
playgrounds  with  directed  play,  gym- 
nasiums with  a  director,  social  centres 
in  which  pupils  shall  have  a  part.  The 
building  of  the  first  stadia,  the  desul- 
tory production  of  outdoor  plays,  the 
occasional  giving  of  pageants,  certain 
commencement  customs  which  have 
haltingly  come  into  the  educational 
colleges,  all  symbolize  this  new  know- 
ledge. But  as  yet  there  is  no  effort  at  all 
commensurate  with  the  sovereign  im- 
portance of  the  end,  to  standardize 
coeducational  recreation,  to  put  social 


life  in  its  rightful  place  in  coeduca- 
tional curricula. 

They  are  still  frequently  saying  that 
it  can  never  be  done.  They  said  that 
for  a  long  time  when  it  was  proposed  to 
standardize  education  itself.  We  have 
become  so  habituated  to  looking  upon 
bad  amusement  as  the  bad  private 
schools  were  looked  upon,  as  legitimate 
commercialization,  that  box-offices,  ca- 
terers, florists,  garages,  and  expensive 
clothes  are  inextricably  confused  with 
our  social  conceptions.  The  fact  that 
the  desire  for  social  life  has  a  sound, 
democratic,  uncommercial  basis  —  that 
of  the  wish  for  human  companionship 
—  disappears  behind  the  mock  walls 
which  we  have  built.  There  is  sharp 
pathos  in  this,  that  after  all  this  time, 
men  and  women  in  their  official  so- 
cial capacity  still  confine  themselves 
so  largely  to  the  rudiments  of  social 
communication,  by  means  of  a  social 
life  either  commercialized  or  otherwise 
made  prohibitive. 

Is  it  too  much  to  say  that  when  the 
first  folk  had  triumphantly  developed 
the  rudimentary  stages  of  human 
communication  in  speech,  they  had 
done  rather  more  toward  the  task  of 
human  socialization  than  ever  we  have 
done  since  ? 

There  is,  however,  one  rather  fine 
contributing  circumstance  in  our  hav- 
ing so  long  continued,  with  more  or 
less  of  consciousness,  to  regard  as  self- 
indulgence  all  recreation  not  engaged 
in  as  physical  exercise  —  for  we  were  a 
new  world,  and  we  were  exceedingly 
busy.  Once,  in  the  daytime,  as  I  was 
lying  down,  a  woman  of  two  genera- 
tions gone  observed  to  me  with  the 
utmost  tolerance,  — 

*I  don't  blame  you  a  bit.' 

The  thrill  of  the  recognition  of  what 
that  meant  was  like  touching  hands 
with  generations  of  pioneers  to  whom 
rest,  when  it  came  at  all,  was  all  but 
stolen.  But  though  we  are  now  basing 


102 


WHAT  OF  COEDUCATION? 


a  whole  new  horizon  of  human  effi- 
ciency on  right  rest,  rhythmic  rest,  and 
though  play  in  its  simpler  aspects  we 
have  come  to  value  as  a  formative 
force,  yet  the  average  *  social  recrea- 
tion* we  still  regard  as  an  indulgence, 
and  either  chide  or  loosely  tolerate. 

The  country  newspapers  say  of  it :  — 

*  Revelry  was  frankly  the  order  of 
the  day/ 

'The  time  was  then  given  over  to 
social  intercourse.' 

'Dancing  was  indulged  in.' 

'  The  party  dispersed,  feeling  that  the 
evening  had  by  no  means  been  wasted, 
or,  if  wasted,  then  was  well  lost.' 

And  with  this  attitude  we  show 
exceeding  good  sense,  withal,  for  the 
most  of  what  we  have  so  far  developed 
in  social  life,  as  such,  independent  of 
its  healthy  incidental  occurrence,  is 
still  so  embryonic  that  we  must  con- 
sider our  lapsing  into  it  as  akin  to 
indulgence.  i 

We  must  do  better.  And  what  finer 
opportunity  could  there  be  afforded 
for  the  further  development  of  sane  so- 
cial life  than  coeducational  life,  whose 
social  reactions  are  unquestionably  as 
strong  as  those  which  are  technically 
educational?  The  arraignment  of  '  too 
much  society,'  and  this  accusingly 
thrown  back  on  sex-attraction,  holds 
the  candle  responsible  for  its  blowing 
flame.  The  thing  is  as  much  greater 
than  sex-attraction  as  life  is  greater 
than  any  one  form  of  love. 

We  are  beginning  to  make  desultory 
and  partially  self-conscious  attempts  to 
face  a  query  as  to  what,  construct- 
ively, co-recreational  life  may  come  to 
mean,  and  our  imaginations  work  with 
really  marvelous  rapidity.  If  only  so 
much'as  we  have  now  come  upon  were 
to  be  applied  to  coeducational  social 
life,  we  should  be  some  distance  toward 
its  development.  Whatever  else  such 
development  will  involve,  it  will  in- 
volve nothing  paternalistic.  As  unsuc- 


cessful as  the  growth  of  undergraduate 
coeducational  society  is  proving,  it  is 
far  better  than  direction  handed  down 
from  above.  For  the  undergraduate 
generation  is  forever  recasting  the 
ideals  of  the  faculty  generation,  and 
this  is  true  in  recreation  not  one  whit 
less  than  in  ethics;  and  the  tendency  is 
welcome. 

Perhaps  a  shaping  at  the  hands  of 
representatives  from  the  student  body 
and  from  the  faculty  is  the  first  pos- 
sibility, with  the  cooperation  of  that 
community  servant  soon  to  be  taken 
for  granted  not  less  than  vocational 
teachers  —  the  director  of  public  re- 
creation. In  Wisconsin,  the  state  uni- 
versity is  recommending  the  appoint- 
ment in  every  town  of  an  assistant  to 
the  superintendent  of  education.  The 
assistant  shall  be  a  superintendent  of 
recreation,  who  shall  bear  to  recreation 
the  same  relation  that  the  present  su- 
perintendent bears  to  the  other  aspects 
of  education. 

However  such  programmes  may  be 
worked  out,  already  we  have  intima- 
tions of  what  the  new  recreation,  when 
it  is  found,  is  going  to  include.  For 
example,  the  development  of  an  intelli- 
gent attitude  —  one  may  as  well  say 
the  new  attitude  —  toward  drama,  re- 
sulting, as  the  value  of  the  amateur  is 
more  and  more  clearly  revealed,  in 
groups  of  young  players  presenting  the 
vital  classic  and  modern  plays  and 
meeting  to  read  those  plays;  the  whole 
area  of  pageantry,  with  its  rich  possi- 
bilities in  a  winter's  preparation  of 
music,  of  folk-dancing,  of  dramatic 
entertainment;  socialization  through 
music;  the  vista  just  opened  by  the 
connection  of  the  college  with  the  col- 
lege community  through  the  depart- 
ments of  sociology,  revealing  activities 
involving  social  —  not  service  and  not 
cooperation,  with  an  implication  of 
task  and  teaching  —  but  co-recreation, 
in  the  'foregathering  of  folks,'  with 


WHAT  OF  COEDUCATION? 


103 


implications  which  are  fascinating  and 
absorbing  those  who  are  already  par- 
ticipating in  such  foregathering.  These 
intimations,  however,  hardly  more  than 
point  toward  the  way;  but  the  way  is 
thereabout,  just  as  certainly  as  the 
way  lay  fallow  for  the  development  of 
the  other  phases  of  education  now 
partly  provided  for  in  the  college  cur- 
riculum. 

Of  all  the  kinds  of  places  that  there 
are,  a  coeducational  institution  is  the 
place  where  seeds  such  as  these  should 
germinate.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  repres- 
sive measures  are  going  to  avail  far  less 
than  the  gospel  of  a  wise  substitution. 
And  what  could  not  have  been  dtfne  a 
decade  ago  finds  its  faint  beginnings 
now  at  this  high  moment  of  what  we 
call  social  awakening.  Why,  on  its 
crest,  should  not  coeducational  social 
life  begin  to  be  socialized? 


IV 

Even  as  we  now  practice  it,  my 
contention  is  whole-heartedly  that  the 
reactions  of  coeducational  life,  its  in- 
sufficient social  life  included,  are  emi- 
nently more  healthful  than  otherwise. 
Indeed,  to  the  majority  of  us  here  in  the 
Middle  West,  the  contention  long  ago 
lost  its  savor;  and  when,  a  few  years 
since,  at  the  installation  of  a  dean  of 
women  of  one  of  the  eastern  colleges, 
the  dean  made  her  address  a  defense 
of  coeducation,  a  graduate  of  a  Middle 
Western  university  who  had  listened, 
said  with  real  wonder,  — 

*  Should  n't  you  think  that  she  would 
have  chosen  a  modern  problem?' 

We  used  to  discuss  the  effect  of  four 
years  of  masculine  criticism  upon  the 
manners,  conversation,  and  dress  of 
young  women.  That  was  natural,  for 
men  were  in  possession  and  women,  as 
late-comers,  were  subject  to  doctrine, 
reproof,  and  correction.  At  first  we  ex- 
pected nothing  new,  but  looked  mere- 


ly for  the  repetition  of  the  ancient, 
simple  process  of  women's  wish  to 
please,  somewhat  intensified  by  con- 
stant association.  But  gradually  a  new 
thing  became  evident.  Save  in  the 
minds  of  the  preeminently  'socially 
fit '  —  still  in  its  bad  sense  —  this  wish 
was  not  the  ruling  passion  of  university 
women.  The  ruling  passion  of  univer- 
sity women  was  identical  with  the  rul- 
ing passion  of  the  university :  develop- 
ment. And  masculine  criticism  took  its 
proper  place,  as  a  valued  and  effective 
means  of  influence,  but  not  in  any 
sense  as  a  determinant.  It  is  by  no 
means  that  these  university  women  are 
indifferent  to  the  opinion  of  men. 
Only,  as  women's  means  of  livelihood 
multiply,  women  are  ceasing  to  sacri- 
fice to  this  opinion.  And  who  is  there 
to  be  recorded  as  deploring  that? 

So  after  a  time  we  found  ourselves 
discussing  the  effect  of  four  years  of 
feminine  criticism  upon  the  manners, 
conversation,  and  dress  of  young  men. 
And  few  of  us  have  ever  heard  a  word 
implying  that  the  effect  of  this  crit- 
icism tends  to  be  pernicious. 

Then  we  said :  '  Now  we  must  watch 
the  effect  on  the  young  women  of  the 
stimulus  of  intellectual  rivalry  with  the 
male  mind/  We  did  watch.  And  at 
length,  of  mothers  whp  had  had  to  let 
their  minds  lie  fallow  while  they  bent 
backs  to  the  pioneer  tasks,  there  came 
daughters  as  salutatorians  and  vale- 
dictorians, as  ripe-minded  women,  as 
social  servants.  And  we  understood 
that  the  initial  spur  of  competition 
with  the  masculine  minds  which  were 
the  flower  of  the  racial  development, 
had  been  forgotten  in  the  simple  dis- 
covery that  women  have  minds  too. 
Discovery  of  magnitude.  We  had  late- 
ly conceded  to  them  souls;  now,  under 
normal  conditions,  here  they  were,  like 
the  camel,  occupying  the  teiit.  And 
how  simply  the  university  women  wore 
this  circumstance.  Far  from  feeling  an 


104 


WHAT  OF  COEDUCATION? 


ill-bred  satisfaction  in  keeping  pace 
with  their  male  companions,  or  a  be- 
coming shame  in  graceless  new  attain- 
ments, here  they  were  unconscious  of 
both.  It  may  be  confidently  ventured 
that  if  the  majority  of  women  gradu- 
ates of  coeducational  institutions  were 
to  be  asked  for  the  comparative  aver- 
age of  scholarship  of  the  men  and  wo- 
men who  were  with  them  in  their  own 
university,  they  would  have  to  write 
to  their  registrars  to  determine.  For, 
in  the  language  of  the  undergraduates 
themselves,  —  Who  cares? 

It  may  be  that  to  a  woman,  a  man 
is  a  greater  stimulus  in  the  classroom 
than  is  another  woman.  This  may 
have  been,  in  the  beginning,  a  real  fac- 
tor. But  there  are  those  of  us  who 
would  not  regard  an  affirmation  of  this 
as  one  of  the  arguments  in  favor  of  co- 
education, and  who  would  consider  it 
as  altogether  negligible.  The  type  of 
woman  who  seeks  a  university  educa- 
tion is  not  there  to  win  out  in  competi- 
tive standings.  In  fact,  she  has  begun 
to  see  that  averages,  and  degrees  them- 
selves, have  no  great  import,  even  as 
symbols.  Rather,  these  women  are 
beginning  to  have  a  sense  of  life,  as 
such,  and  to  relate  to  it  their  university 
experiences.  Not  the  *  socially  fit,5  per- 
haps, and  not  always  the  grinds ;  mere- 
ly the  majority.  Their  faces  are  toward 
the  new  civilization  whose  child's  play 
may  be  competition  and  titles,  but 
whose  man-talk  and  woman-talk,  and 
deed,  are  going  to  be  concerning  a 
simpler  thing:  growth. 

The  two  ways  in  which  women  are 
chiefly  benefiting  from  college  associa- 
tion with  men,  of  both  the  student  and 
the  faculty  body,  are  perhaps :  first,  in 
winning  to  the  human  outlook,  which 
men's  wide  experience  has  given  to 
many  men,  as  distinguished  from  the 
restricted  outlook  to  which  woman's 
household  experience  has  largely  con- 
fined her.  Second,  in  winning  to  the 


understanding  that  athletics  is  not  dis- 
tinctively a  masculine  prerogative,  but 
a  human  prerogative  and  duty;  and 
that,  as  a  deliberate  encouragement  to 
the  super-race,  Nature  actually  does 
not  intend  the  fathers  of  the  race  to 
have  strong  bodies  and  the  women  of 
the  race  to  remain  in  'ladylike'  under- 
development.  And  for  the  late  discov- 
ery and  emphasis  of  this  so  obvious 
fact,  we  of  to-day  are  deeply  indebted 
to  coeducational  association. 

The  way  in  which  men  are  chiefly 
benefiting  by  college  association  with 
women  is  perhaps  in  having  their  ideal 
of  women  recast.  In  the  past  there 
were  occasionally  men  who  chafed  at 
the  restricted  lives  of  their  wives  and 
mothers;  who  understood  that  these 
creatures  had  somehow  not  yet  come  in- 
to their  own,  that  they  had  been  caught 
in  a  cul-de-sac  of  over-specialization 
to  domestic  duties  and  to  sex,  till  the 
world  should  be  peopled  and  science 
and  economic  conditions  should  help  to 
free  them;  who  had  visions  of  the  time 
when  these  other  selves  should  bloom 
and  glow  in  more  abundant  life,  and 
mother  the  next  advance  of  the  evolv- 
ing thing  folk  are.  And  now  it  is  being 
given  to  university  men  to  see,  faintly 
and  far  off,  how  these  potentialities 
are  on  the  way  to  fulfillment,  and  what 
the  great-great-great  grandmothers  of 
the  super-race  will  conceivably  be  like. 
And  if  some  of  them  still  shrug  at  a 
'  lady-class '  —  well,  when  the  creature 
first  struggled  up  out  of  the  ooze,  the 
ooze  must  have  rocked  with  laughter. 

These  two  sets  of  benefits  are  not 
lightly  to  be  foregone.  In  a  word,  the 
best  that  men  and  women  are  devel- 
ops in  their  normal  companionship, 
because  they  are  also  intellectual  and 
spiritual  complements.  Does  this  ax- 
iom then  become  operative  with  a  click 
at  Commencement?  Does  it  in  Amer- 
ica exist  through  the  high-school  age, 
and  lapse  abruptly  with  matriculation, 


WHAT  OF  COEDUCATION? 


105 


and  revive  by  dint  of  a  degree?  Do  not 
we  believe  that  it  becomes  operative 
with  life,  and  that  it  is  our  business  to 
make  of  life,  including  education,  a 
condition  under  which  this  law  shall 
always  be  operative? 

The  healthful  and  diseased  reactions 
of  coeducational  life  are  identical  with 
the  healthful  and  diseased  reactions  of 
society,  and  they  are  not  other.  The 
reactions  of  coeducational  life,  as  of 
life,  are  more  healthful  than  diseased. 
To  find  what  is  wrong  with  coeduca- 
tional reactions,  we  must  look  to  soci- 
ety and  prevent  the  evil  there.  And  it 
is  the  distinguishing  spirit  of  the  age 
that  this  prevention  is  beginning,  in 
the  functioning  of  what  seems  almost 
a  new  form  of  consciousness.  May  it 
not  be  that  pessimism  with  regard  to 
coeducation  is  only  an  anachronism, 
and  that  in  time  we  shall  lay  objection 
aside,  even  as  the  country  churches 
have  ceased  to  have  two  doors,  the  one 
for  women,  the  other  for  men? 


Examining  certain  social  symptoms 
which  we  are  likely  to  connect  with  co- 
educational life  rather  than  with  their 
birthplace  in  society,  we  are  chiefly 
struck  by  these  two  symptoms :  — 

First,  the  abandoning  of  certain 
standards  of  etiquette  and  of  propriety. 
For  we  in  America,  having  left  behind 
many  forms  of  pioneering,  have  now 
time  and  inclination  to  attend  to  some 
ideals  of  a  mellower  people.  Naturally, 
we  have  turned  to  the  tried  and  '  safe ' 
ideals  of  the  present  mellow  peoples. 
But  during  our  magnificent  pioneering, 
our  social  conditions  have  been  so 
changed  that  certain  proprieties  of  an 
older  civilization  would  sit  strangely 
upon  us.  Many  of  them,  for  example, 
are  bound  up  with  traces  of  the  sub- 
jection of  women.  Yet  in  America, 
with  its  seven  million  women  earning 


their  own  livelihood,  we  find  ourselves 
trying  to  take  over  customs  evolved  by 
'quite  other  conditions.  Now,  it  is  a 
sign  of  the  healthfullness  of  our  growth 
that  the  best  traditions  of  the  past  do 
linger  in  our  blood,  even  though  they 
may  not  be  useful  to  us  now;  their 
presence  is  the  deterrent  which  gives 
us  time  to  weigh  and  to  judge  —  but 
they  must  not  permanently  deter  us. 
Indeed,  we  must  prompt  them  just 
when  to  depart,  else  their  presence 
will  breed  another  of  our  hypocrisies. 
The  line  of  least  resistance  is  to  adopt 
the  ideals  of  the  mellow  peoples,  but 
the  task  in  hand  is  to  adapt  and  recast 
their  ideals.  For  '  tried  and  safe '  ideals 
are  all  pathos,  and  idealism  cannot  be 
all  empirical. 

It  is  because  the  young  folk  are 
themselves  stirring  toward  that  re- 
casting of  ideals,  that  we  observe  the 
second  social  symptom;  and  because  it 
is  evident  in  the  universities,  we  predi- 
cate it  of  coeducation :  the  dropping  of 
certain  reticences.  This  threshed-out 
subject  of  lost  reticence  results  most 
often  in  the  usual  exchange  of  misun- 
derstandings between  conservative  and 
radical.  But  is  there  not  an  inviolate 
middle  ground  where  may  stand  all 
those  having  any  faint  claim  to  pro- 
phecy? For  the  sake  of  this  middle 
ground,  some  of  us  would  lay  aside  our 
comparison  of  the  number  of  coed- 
ucational students  who  make  ship- 
wreck with  the  number  of  shipwrecks 
cast  up  from  the  most  carefully  chap- 
eroned society,  and  we  would  also  lay 
aside  our  insistence  that  both  varieties 
of  shipwreck  are  fundamentally  due 
to  economic  causes ;  and  we  would  say 
merely  that  the  loss  of  certain  reticences 
we  may  well  deplore,  that  unquestion- 
ably their  going  carries  peril,  as  in  any 
transition.  But  a  factor  in  any  transi- 
tion, and  in  most  growth,  is  peril  to 
the  least  fit  —  that  is  to  say,  to  those 
whom  our  society  has  not  fitted. 


106 


WHAT  OF  COEDUCATION? 


In  the  loss  of  some  of  these  reti- 
cences some  of  the  least  fit  will  go 
down.  But  it  is  to  the  loss  of  other 
reticences,  prejudices,  false  modesties, 
that  we  owe  a  sane  meeting  of  the 
facts  of  life,  a  sane  preparation  to 
cope  with  them,  —  that  we  owe,  for 
example,  the  coeducational  classes  in 
biology,  in  eugenics,  in  various  phases 
of  social  control,  seminaries  on  The 
Family,  on  Sin,  on  the  Dynamics  of 
Population,  on  forms  of  pathology 
once  folded  in  the  immeasurable  peril 
of  silence.  From  the  members  of  these 
classes,  and  from  the  groups  of  field 
workers,  men  and  women,  who  are 
dealing  with  human  beings  involved  in 
a  tangle  of  the  web  whose  very  pres- 
ence the  old  *  reticence'  would  have 
ignored  as  the  part  of  good  breeding, 
there  comes  no  echo  of  sex-repulsion, 
no  record  of  either  men  or  women 
dropping  from  the  task  because  the 
other  sex  is  engaged  on  it.  There  comes 
no  echo  of  anything  save  how  to  help 
society  to  *  take  the  short  cuts  for  the 
race.'  Must  not  this  middle  ground  of 
our  choosing  bear  the  implication  that 
if  the  loss  of  some  of  the  old  reticences 
can  do  this,  then  we  want  them  to  go? 
For  we  are  on  the  way  to  being  com- 
pletely articulate,  and  humanized. 

The  humanizing  of  social  relations, 
—  this  is  what  we  are  about  to-day. 
We  are  developing  means  of  bringing 
it  to  pass:  the  quite  dazzling  under- 
standing that  our  ills  are  economic; 
revised  conceptions  of  industrialism; 
legislation  and  administration  looking 


to  human  rights;  suffrage  for  women, 
who  are  in  their  turn  emerging,  as 
group  after  group  of  men  has  emerged, 
into  citizenship;  the  beginning  of  un- 
commercialized  recreation;  and,  at  the 
threshold  of  them  all,  coeducation. 

Like  many  of  these  social  forces,  co- 
education is  a  thing  not  of  the  past, 
hardly  even  of  the  present,  but  pre- 
eminently of  the  future,  of  that  co-civ- 
ilization which  we  descry  dimly  fore- 
shadowed in  the  attempt  to  solve  the 
precise  problems  which  coeducation 
brings.  Democracy,  when  we  achieve 
it,  will  fit  us  better  to  understand  co- 
education's import;  and  coeducation 
itself  is  fitting  us  for  democracy.  La- 
ter, that  new  individualism  on  which 
we  shall  enter  and  whose  physical  en- 
velope we  have  tried  to  claim  too  soon, 
will  perhaps  find  us  equipped  to  recog- 
nize coeducation  as  a  natural  step  in 
our  long  struggle  for  complete  self- 
consciousness.  And  as  the  race  slips 
further  into  the  cosmic  consciousness 
which  divines  the  pilgrim  spirit  in  us 
and  is  chiefly  concerned  with  its  growth, 
there  may  fade  away  the  ancient  ob- 
jections to  many  a  form  of  growth  to 
which  in  turn  the  spirit  has  been 
debtor. 

When  we  have  ceased  to  confuse  the 
present  tentative  working  out  of  co- 
education with  its  sovereign  idea,  as 
yet  implicit  in  the  future,  our  question 
may  not  be,  'Does  it  work?'  but,  'Will 
it  work?'  For  the  present  is  only  one 
of  the  little  things  with  which  the 
spirit  is  concerned. 


THE  RAIN  OF  LAW 


BY   WILLIAM   D.   PARKINSON 


There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a 

fretful  realm  in  awe, 
And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in 

universal  law. 

THE  day  of  universal  law  has  ar- 
rived. It  seems  to  be  a  lap  or  two  ahead 
of  time.  It  is  not  just  the  kind  of  law 
that  is  written  upon  the  hearts  of  men 
or  upon  the  doorposts  of  their  houses, 
and  it  is  very  difficult  to  teach  it  to  our 
children,  or  to  meditate  upon  it  day  or 
night.  There  is  n't.  time.  It  is  print- 
ed on  a  rapid-fire  printing-press  and 
bound  in  unabridged  sheep  or  blue  sky 
boards.  The  kindly  earth  does  not 
slumber  in  its  lap;  it  fairly  wallows  in 
the  litter  of  it.  The  law-abiding  and 
the  law-evading  citizen  lie  down  to- 
gether in  the  confusion  of  it.  He  who 
reads  must  run  if  he  would  escape  the 
deluge  of  it,  and  he  who  runs  must  read 
if  he  would  keep  up  with  the  changing 
phases  of  it. 

In  Massachusetts,  which  leads  the 
world  in  the  volume  and  plasticity  of 
its  statutory  output,  President  Eliot's 
five-foot  shelf  will  not  begin  to  hold  the 
volumes  a  man  must  read  if  he  would 
know  what  he  is  bidden  and  what  he 
is  forbidden;  and  a  new  volume  will 
be  placed  in  his  hands  ere  he  can  scan 
the  current  one.  All  the  states  need 
to  conserve  their  natural  resources  to 
provide  the  paper  and  drive  the  press- 
es of  their  legislative  mills;  and  lest  in 
their  impotence  they  should  fail  to  do 
full  justice  to  the  situation,  Congress 
comes  to  their  aid  with  ponderous 
volumes  of  its  own.  By  yielding  its  claim 
to  be  a  deliberative  body,  the  Nation- 


al House  finds  time  to  hear  called  off 
the  captions  of  bills  as  they  pass  from 
its  committees  to  enactment  through 
the  pneumatic  tube  of  the  government 
printing-office. 

No  official  may  venture  upon  an  un- 
usual public  service  until  he  has  pro- 
cured a  law  to  authorize  him;  and  if 
subsequently  he  desires  to  perform  a 
similar  but  not  identical  service,  it  be- 
comes him  to  examine  anew  his  legis- 
lative authorization,  and  to  go  back  to 
the  legislature  for  an  amendment  if  his 
new  enterprise  is  not  explicitly  and 
precisely  within  its  terms.  To  be  sure, 
he  will  have  little  difficulty  in  securing 
the  amendment,  provided  no  one  is 
sufficiently  interested  or  sufficiently 
informed  to  appear  in  remonstrance. 
He  may  make  his  own  law  if  he  will 
observe  the  rules  of  the  game,  and  the 
office-holding  caste  usually  does  ob- 
serve them. 

But  the  unofficial,  the  uninitiated, 
the  plebeian  citizen  must  also  beware. 
It  will  not  do  for  him  to  govern  himself 
merely  by  sound  principles  of  conduct, 
or  even  by  a  fair  familiarity  with  the 
general  law  of  the  land.  A  neighbor,  in 
securing  a  legislative  proviso  expressly 
to  authorize  a  transaction  that  some 
random  critic  has  challenged,  may,  by 
his  very  proviso,  have  read  into  the 
law  an  implied  prohibition  of  all  prac- 
tices not  thus  explicitly  provided  for. 
One  who,  in  all  innocence,  pursues  the 
even  tenor  of  his  once  legalized  way, 
may  awake  any  morning  to  find  him- 
self a  law-breaker,  not  by  enactment 
but  by  inference  from  some  enactment 

107 


108 


THE  RAIN  OF  LAW 


which  was  procured  for  his  neighbor's 
benefit. 

Some  day,  to  be  sure,  there  will  be 
a  revision  and  a  codification  of  the 
statutes.  Obsolete  and  conflicting  and 
repeated  and  irrelevant  provisions  will 
be  eliminated.  The  sifted  contents  of 
twenty  or  more  huge  volumes  will  be 
brought  within  the  compass  of  one  or 
two,  with  perhaps  a  third  to  serve  as  an 
index,  and  to  make  the  contents  of  the 
other  two  available  to  the  would-be- 
law-abiding  citizen.  Even  these  vol- 
umes will  record  not  so  much  the  will  of 
the  people  as  the  impulses  of  the  peo- 
ple; and  if  history  repeats  itself,  before 
the  index  volume  can  be  issued  a  new 
volume  of  unlimited  bulk  will  have  re- 
vised the  revision  and  will  have  played 
havoc  with  the  contents  which  the  in- 
dex purports  to  elucidate. 

What  precipitates  such  a  rain  of  law, 
and  to  what  sea  of  chaos  will  it  find  its 
way? 

It  has  been  said  that  law  is  discov- 
ered, not  made,  and  that  is  a  notable 
truth  when  applied  to  law  in  the  uni- 
versal sense  of  the  term.  Although  it  is 
not  so  aptly  applied  to  printed  law,  — 
law  while  you  wait,  —  yet  in  seeking 
the  origin  of  the  mass  of  statute  law  in 
the  midst  of  which  we  are  floundering, 
we  shall  find  that,  like  real  law,  it  is 
both  discovered  and  made.  But  while 
real  law  is  discovered  first  and  made 
afterwards,  most  of  our  statute  law,  like 
Mr.  Pickwick's  archaeological  stone, 
is  made  first  and  discovered  afterwards. 
The  legislature  discovers  laws,  but  they 
are  made  by  private  individuals  and 
only  furbished  up  by  legislative  com- 
mittees. 

Laws  are  no  longer  enacted  in  gener- 
al terms  to  be  interpreted  by  the  indi- 
vidual and,  in  last  resort,  by  the  court. 
Discretion  is  taken  away  from  the 
learned  court  and  reposed  in  the  un- 
learned sub-committee.  The  commit- 
tee devotes  its  hearings  primarily  to 


those  who  have  legislation  to  promote 
for  private  reasons.  The  petitioner 
must  present  his  bill  ready  for  enact- 
ment. The  committee  will  graciously 
accord  him  a  hearing.  It  will  grant  a 
hearing  also  to  a  remonstrant.  It  will 
assume  that  each  has  some  personal  end 
to  gain,  and  will  endeavor  to  discover 
that  end.  Usually,  if  it  fails  to  discover 
any  motive  but  one  of  public  spirit,  it 
still  assumes  that  there  is  a  cat  in  the 
meal,  some  design  too  dark  to  appear  on 
the  surface,  and  is  more  distrustful  of 
such  a  petitioner  or  remonstrant  than 
of  one  whose  personal  motive  is  readily 
discovered  or  uncovered. 

The  great  bulk  of  legislation  in  the 
United  States  is  not  the  product  of  our 
legislative  bodies,  nor  is  it  shaped  by 
the  expert  advisers  of  our  legislatures. 
It  is  drawn  up  by  the  officials,  or  by  the 
private  parties  whose  activities  it  is 
designed  to  regulate,  or  to  justify,  or  to 
protect,  or  to  promote.  It  is  then  sub- 
mitted to  a  legislative  committee,  and 
possibly  revamped  more  or  less  intel- 
ligently by  that  always  inexpert  and 
usually  inept  body;  then  reported  favo- 
rably or  unfavorably  to  the  enacting 
body,  which  plays  the  part  of  discov- 
erer. In  short,  the  legislative  function 
which,  in  the  days  of  absolute  monar- 
chy, was  the  prerogative  of  the  heredi- 
tary sovereign,  in  our  day  of  popular 
sovereignty  becomes  the  prerogative 
of  the  volunteer  sovereign.  Many  a 
citizen  goes  through  the  statute  book 
with  pride  and  points  out  sections  and 
chapters  couched  in  his  own  phraseol- 
ogy, modified  —  or  rather  amplified  — 
only  by  the  insertion  of  certain  tra- 
ditional elaborations  which  seem  to  be 
insisted  on  for  the  sole  purpose  of  fur- 
nishing busy  work  for  the  state  printer. 
For  law-English  bids  fair  to  rival  the 
limpid  lucidity  and  romantic  beauty  of 
law-Latin. 

Some  pessimist  has  defined  demo- 
cracy as  a  system  of  government  based 


THE  RAIN  OF  LAW 


109 


on  the  economic  principle  that  two 
thieves  will  steal  less  than  one.  Our 
democratic  legislative  system  seems 
to  be  based  on  the  political  theory  that 
everybody  knows  more  about  every- 
thing than  anybody  does.  We  refuse 
to  trust  any  duly  constituted  authority 
to  exercise  discretion,  while  we  leave 
the  most  critical  problems  of  statecraft 
to  the  workmanship  of  any  Tom,  Dick, 
or  Harry  who  can  'get  by  with  the 
job.'  The  presumption  is  in  favor  of 
the  enactment  of  any  bill  presented 
with  plausible  support,  unless  it  meets 
with  serious  remonstrance.  Indeed  our 
legislatures  have  come  to  be,  not  law- 
making  bodies,  but  bazaars  for  mar- 
keting the  product  of  amateur  law- 
makers. 

It  is  a  physical  impossibility  for  the 
legislators,  as  a  body,  to  scrutinize 
with  any  care  such  a  mass  of  bills  as 
every  legislature  enacts  at  every  session. 
Equally  is  it  impracticable  for  the  pub- 
lic-spirited citizen  to  attend  the  hear- 
ings and  protest  a  fraction  of  the  fool- 
ish and  dangerous  bills  that,  if  enacted, 
would  affect  interests  with  which  he  is 
especially  conversant.  Not  only  is  the 
responsible  citizen  thus  at  the  mercy 
of  the  irresponsible  and  self-constitu- 
ted law-maker,  but  the  tendency  even 
of  those  public-spirited  organizations 
which,  like  the  prophets  of  old,  are 
often  more  representative  of  the  state 
in  its  better  nature  than  are  its  duly 
constituted  official  bodies,  is  to  frame 
legislation  in  specific  instead  of  general 
terms,  and  thus  to  make  the  laws  both 
more  numerous  and  more  complex. 
The  modern  statute  begins  with  a  sec- 
tion defining  in  detail  the  terms  it  is  to 
employ,  and  may  give  the  same  term  a 
significance  different  from  that  in  which 
it  is  used  in  another  statute  enacted 
by  the  same  legislature  at  the  same 
session.  Its  subsequent  sections  then 
attempt,  in  accordance  with  this  glos- 
sary, to  point  out  the  acts  which  it  pro- 


hibits or  authorizes,  in  terms  so  precise 
that  the  deed  and  the  person  it  applies 
to  may  be  sharply  discriminated  from 
those  to  which  it  does  not  apply. 

The  purpose  of  this  precision  in  de- 
tail is  to  avoid  inconsistencies  and  un- 
certainties. It  may  be  doubted  if  this 
is  usually  the  result.  Precise  definition 
is  a  readier  weapon  to  the  evader  than 
to  the  enforcer  of  law.  The  school- 
master who  attempts  to  elaborate  an 
all-inclusive  set  of  rules  is  likely  to  find 
that  his  rules  tie  his  own  hands  more 
than  they  do  those  of  his  pupils.  The 
government  is  likely  to  make  a  similar 
discovery.  The  exigencies  which  even 
the  most  specific  law  omits  specifically 
to  provide  for  will  be  found  so  numer- 
ous as  to  call  for  continuous  and  re- 
peated amendment. 

The  so-called  uniform  child-labor 
law,  already  adopted  in  some  states 
and  designed  for  adoption  in  all,  is  a 
case  in  point.  In  its  attempt  to  specify 
precisely  what  a  child  of  a  certain  age 
may  or  may  not  do,  as  distinguished 
from  a  child  of  a  slightly  different  age, 
it  has  forbidden  the  child  to  perform 
certain  functions  for  one  person  or  at 
one  time,  which  it  neglects  to  forbid 
him  to  perform  under  even  less  favor- 
able conditions  for  another  person  or  at 
another  time.  The  law  will  doubtless 
be  amended  to  correct  such  inconsis- 
tencies as  they  come  to  attention;  but 
in  the  nature  of  the  case  they  will  con- 
tinue to  come  to  attention,  making  its 
amendment  a  continuous  process.  Nor 
can  there  be  doubt  that  these  incon- 
sistencies will  arise  differently  and  in 
different  order  in  different  states,  and 
being  thus  differently  amended,  will 
defeat  one  prime  purpose  of  the  spon- 
sors, which  was  to  have  the  law  remain 
uniform  in  the  several  states.  The  Na- 
tional Women's  Trade-Union  League 
of  America  is  just  now  urging  that  no 
child  should  receive  an  employment 
certificate  until  he  knows  the  laws  bear- 


110 


THE  RAIN  OF  LAW 


ing  upon  his  employment.  The  fact  is 
that  school  officials,  employers,  labor- 
unionists,  and  lawyers,  are  at  sea  re- 
garding the  complex  provisions  of  the 
law,  and  if  children  were  refused  em- 
ployment certificates  until  they  were 
able  to  comprehend  its  mysteries,  they 
might  all  graduate  from  college  first. 

The  result  of  this  tendency  to  specific 
legislation  is  a  curious  kind  of  casuis- 
try, verging  upon  that  of  the  days  of 
the  Rabbinical  Law,  when  human  con- 
duct was  reduced  to  a  code  so  petty 
that  one  must  consider  what  he  might 
carry  in  his  hand  or  attach  to  his 
garment,  and  the  number  of  steps  he 
might  take,  if  he  would  make  a  Sab- 
bath day's  journey.  Already  our  pa- 
triotism is  being  meted  out  by  law. 
We  must  not  give  way  to  our  impulses, 
but  must  study  the  statute  book  if  we 
would  know  when  and  how  we  must  fly 
our  flag.  We  are  also  regulated  in  such 
detail  as  to  our  methods  of  conducting 
our  business  that  it  is  necessary  for 
state  and  nation  to  employ  hordes  of 
inspectors  to  keep  us  advised  of  what 
our  duties  and  responsibilities  are;  and 
so  narrow  are  the  margins  between 
what  is  permitted  and  what  is  prohib- 
ited that  these  inspectors  are  largely 
occupied,  not  with  forcing  people  to 
obey  the  law,  but  with  citing  to  them 
certain  *  rulings'  which  they  find  it 
necessary  to  make  as  to  whether  the 
law  need  be  obeyed  or  enforced  under 
certain  circumstances  or  not.  The  in- 
terpretation of  law  is  thus  being  trans- 
ferred from  the  judge  on  the  bench  to 
the  inspector  behind  the  door.  We  are 
confronted  with  the  curious  spectacle 
of  the  government  and  the  accused 
party  disputing  as  to  whether  the  law 
has  been  broken  or  not,  and  the  gov- 
ernment offering  to  waive  prosecution 
if  the  accused  will  accede  to  certain 
demands  as  to  the  future  conduct  of  his 
business.  This,  to  the  lay  mind,  ap- 
pears not  very  different  from  the  com- 


pounding of  felony,  which  used  to  be 
regarded  as  a  serious  offense. 

With  laws  made  in  such  irresponsi- 
ble fashion,  changed  in  such  haste  as 
to  make  it  impossible  for  the  citizen 
to  keep  up  with  them,  couched  in  such 
terms  as  to  leave  the  law-evader  in 
quite  as  dignified  a  position  as  the  law- 
abider,  and  enforced  or  not  enforced 
according  as  the  accused  can  or  cannot 
make  terms  with  the  prosecuting  au- 
thorities, reverence  for  law  does  not 
thrive.  Somehow  the  output  must  be 
reduced  in  quantity  and  improved  in 
quality  or  it  will  cease  to  be  regarded 
as  law.  It  becomes  casuistry  and  leads 
to  more  casuistry,  and  the  people  will 
not  long  stand  for  progressive  casuistry 
even  if  they  do  not  balk  at  the  piling 
up  of  such  costly  monuments  of  unread 
and  unreadable  print.  Some  check 
must  be  found,  but  what  check  and  how 
to  apply  it  does  not  yet  appear.  It  is  not 
likely  that  we  shall  repeal  all  statutes 
and  return  to  common  law,  much  as 
might  seem  to  be  gained  by  such  a 
revolution.  There  is  little  hope  that 
any  conflagration,  of  the  many  for 
which  we  are  laying  the  fuse,  will  be 
extensive  enough  to  destroy  the  Babel 
of  print.  It  is  less  combustible  than 
hollow  tiles.  A  hopeful  step  might  be 
to  shut  down  the  legislative  mill  for  a 
time  and  wait  for  the  real  law  to  pre- 
cipitate or  crystallize  out  of  the  turgid 
mass  of  guess-work  law. 

There  is  already,  in  certain  fields 
of  public  affairs,  indication  of  a  reac- 
tion against  the  tendency  to  substitute 
legislation  for  intelligence  in  adminis- 
tration, and  toward  lodging  in  public 
officials  a  new  kind  of  discretion,  dele- 
gating to  them  power  to  make  neces- 
sary regulations  within  their  respective 
fields,  and  to  enforce  these  regulations 
as  if  they  were  law.  This  is  illustra- 
ted by  enactments  authorizing  boards 
of  health  to  designate  the  diseases  to 
which  certain  provisions  of  law  shall 


THE  RAIN  OF  LAW 


111 


apply,  or  to  make  regulations  which 
shall  have  the  force  of  law  as  to  the 
handling  of  food-products  or  the  ob- 
servance of  quarantine.  Labor  and  fac- 
tory legislation  also  to  some  extent 
fixes  penalties  upon  certain  prohibi- 
tions or  requirements  made  in  general 
terms,  the  particulars  of  which  are  to 
be  specified  by  commissions  or  inspec- 
tors, and  may  by  them  be  extended  or 
modified  or  changed  from  time  to  time. 
The  National  Banking  law  lodges  in 
the  Reserve  Board  a  similar  discretion 
as  to  the  extension,  suspension,  and 
limitation  of  some  of  its  provisions. 
This  method  again  affords  hope  of  re- 
lief. It  seems  possible  that  legislatures, 
which  are  themselves  beginning  to 
realize  their  helplessness,  may  reduce 
the  volume  of  their  output  by  dele- 
gating to  administrative  officials  the 
power  to  make  and  to  modify,  as  condi- 
tions may  require,  many  of  the  regula- 
tions which  in  recent  years  have  been 
made  subjects  of  hasty  legislation  and 
amendment,  and  have  thus  clogged  the 
wheels  of  deliberate  law-making. 

There  is  also  possible  relief  in  the  es- 
tablishment of  a  permanent  office  or 
bureau  in  connection  with  the  legisla- 
tures, to  serve  as  a  filter,  if  not  as  a  dam, 
to  which  all  proposed  legislation  shall 
be  submitted.  The  duty  of  this  bureau 
should  be  to  point  out  needless  or  vi- 
cious provisions,  to  reshape  meritori- 


ous bills  in  such  way  as  to  reconcile 
them  with  existing  law,  to  give  them 
their  due  effect  with  least  possible  ad- 
dition to  the  body  of  law,  and  to  guard 
them  against  taking  effect  in  matters 
to  which  they  are  not  designed  to  ap- 
ply. Such  an  adjunct  to  the  legislative 
mill,  exercising  that  part  of  the  func- 
tion now  presumed  to  be  exercised  by 
legislative  committees  which  requires  a 
knowledge  and  experience  not  to  be  ex- 
pected of  such  committees,  has  brought 
a  degree  of  relief  where  it  has  been 
tried.  But  to  take  adequate  advantage 
of  it  requires  a  change  of  attitude  on 
the  part  of  the  public,  a  deeper  confi- 
dence in  the  expert  as  against  the  inex- 
pert, and  a  larger  patience  to  await  the 
full  effect  of  one  law  before  superim- 
posing another.  A  necessary  corollary, 
too,  would  be  a  change  in  the  atmo- 
sphere of  legislative  chambers  from  one 
of  presumption  in  favor  of  every  un- 
opposed bill  to  one  of  presumption 
against  every  bill  whose  sponsors  can- 
not show  public  necessity  therefor. 

By  whatever  method  it  may  come  to 
pass,  it  must  needs  be  that  by  some 
method,  and  at  no  distant  day,  the 
common  sense  of  most  shall  reassert 
itself  to  hold  in  awe  this  fretful  and 
impulsive  realm;  that  the  rain  of  laws 
shall  cease;  and  that  this  great  people 
shall  establish  itself  under  the  reign  of 
law. 


FLAG-ROOT 


BY  LUCY   HUSTON   STURDEVANT 


THE  stars  were  beginning  to  fade; 
Orion  stood  upright  in  the  western  sky, 
Venus  was  well  above  the  horizon;  by 
the  Shepherd's  Kalendar  it  was  No- 
vember, and  the  sun  would  soon  rise. 
Three  figures  came  out  of  a  little  house 
on  a  hill,  and  hurried  down  the  road. 
They  did  not  look  up  at  the  unknown 
stars,  nor  down  at  the  well-known 
road;  they  looked  straight  ahead,  and 
planned  their  day.  As  the  light 
strengthened,  they  defined  themselves 
as  a  woman  of  middle  age,  a  tall,  slight 
girl  of  eighteen,  and  an  awkward  boy, 
who  might  have  been  fifteen.  He  hung 
back,  and  grumbled. 

'Plenty  time,'  said  he.  'Gee!  I  wish 
I  was  goin'!' 

The  sun  rose  upon  their  haste,  and 
illumined  a  great  valley  beneath,  half 
full  of  cloud;  nearer  by,  peaks  and  high 
plateaus  appeared;  it  was  a  mountain 
country,  far  flung,  wooded,  beautiful; 
they  were  not  far  from  its  highest  point. 

*  There's  the  sun,'  said  the  girl  in  an 
agony.   'Mother!  We're  going  to  miss 
the  train.' 

The  two  women  strained  their  ears 
for  the  whistle  of  the  engine,  and  hur- 
ried more  than  ever;  the  boy  continued 
to  lag  behind  and  grumble. 

'Now,  Thomas,'  said  his  mother, 
*  Dorothy  and  I  can't  behave  the  way 
men  do.  We  just  have  to  hurry  when 
we  go  to  a  train.  You  got  to  make 
allowance,  son.' 

Thomas  quickened  his  steps  and 
smiled  in  his  mother's  face.  'You  got 
lots  of  time,'  he  said  good-humoredly. 

*  Better  be  an  hour  too  early  than 
112 


five  minutes  too  late,'  said  his  mother. 

So  her  father  had  told  her;  so  Thom- 
as would  some  day  tell  his  son;  it  was 
one  of  the  sayings  that  Age  foists  upon 
Youth,  who  rejects  it,  and  remembers 
it,  and  uses  it  at  last. 

They  waited  a  long  time  at  the  sta- 
tion before  the  train  came  along  and 
swallowed  them  up. 

*  We'll  be  back  on  Number  Twelve,' 
Mrs.  Smart  called  out  to  Thomas. 

It  is  the  custom  in  the  Pocono  to  call 
trains  by  their  numbers,  which  are,  in 
a  sense,  their  Christian  names.  The 
hamlets  in  those  mountains  are  not  un- 
like a  scattered  village;  the  railroad  is 
the  village  street.  Thomas  answered, 
inarticulately,  and  the  human  drift- 
wood that  gathers  at  such  stations  dis- 
integrated, to  gather  afresh  for  the  next 
train. 

After  October,  when  most  of  the 
hotels  close,  nobody  in  the  Pocono 
mountains  has  much  to  do  but  watch 
the  trains  and  wait  for  April  —  when 
the  trout  fishermen  come. 

Mrs.  Smart  had  a  little  house  at  Tip 
Top,  where  she  lived  with  her  two 
children.  She  was  a  bookkeeper  by 
trade,  but  she  was  a  capable  woman, 
and  could  help  out  almost  anywhere. 
She  was  a  worker.  Dorothy  and 
Thomas,  heredity  to  the  contrary,  were 
not  as  yet  inclined  that  way,  but  their 
mother  meant  they  should  be  when,  as 
she  said,  they  grew  up. 

She  and  Dorothy  sat  side  by  side  in 
the  crowded  car.  When  the  conductor 
came  through,  he  greeted  them  as  old 
friends. 


FLAG-ROOT 


113 


'Goin'  *to  Philadelphia?'  he  said, 
punching  their  tickets. 

Mrs.  Smart  nodded,  smiling.  'Mrs. 
Schauss  wants  a  new  parlor  carpet/  she 
said,  'and  she  said  if  I'd  go  down  and 
get  it,  she'd  give  me  my  ticket.  And  I 
need  a  winter  coat,  and  Dorothy  's 
going  to  get  a  new  dress.' 

'Be  at  Tip  Top  Inn  next  summer?' 

'If  Mr.  Haydock  wants  me,  Mr. 
Johns.' 

' He  '11  want  you,'  said  Johns.  '  Ches- 
ter County  Quaker,  ain't  he?' 

'Yes,'  said  Mrs.  Smart,  with  a  little 
laugh.  'Most  of  'em  are  in  summer. 
But  he's  nice.' 

'  They  know  a  good  thing  when  they 
see  it,'  said  Johns.  He  smoothed  his 
grizzled  moustache.  He  would  have 
liked  a  little  talk  with  Mrs.  Smart,  who 
was  a  pretty  and  friendly  woman,  much 
liked  along  the  road,  but  he  was  afraid 
of  Dorothy's  disdainful  young  profile, 
outlined  against  the  window. 

'Change  at  Stroudsberg,'  he  said  me- 
chanically, and  went  heavily  on  down 
the  car. 

'Why,  yes,'  said  Mrs.  Smart.  'To 
think  of  his  telling  us  that.  But  he's 
nice.' 

'He's  old,'  said  Dorothy.  'I'm  glad 
he  went  away.  I  think  a  voyle,  mo- 
ther.' 

'I  think  a  voyle,'  said  her  mother, 
with  eager  interest.  'Let's  talk  about 
it.' 

They  changed  at  Stroudsberg,  and 
went  on  through  the  great  Gap  that 
the  Delaware  River  has  cut  for  itself  in 
the  Blue  Mountains,  and  so  on  down  to 
Philadelphia.  They  went  first  to  the 
department  store  that  the  Pocono  folk 
affect,  and  bought  the  carpet. 

'Now  the  dress,'  said  Mrs.  Smart. 

Dorothy  hesitated;  she  loved  to  dally 
with  the  thought  of  the  dress;  until  she 
should  decide,  all  the  dresses  in  Phila- 
delphia were  hers;  afterwards,  but  that 
one. 

VOL.  124 -NO.  1 


'You  better  get  your  coat  first, 
mother.  You  might  get  it  here.' 

'I  bought  my  last  winter  coat  here, 
four  years  ago.  They'd  take  an  inter- 
est. And  I  might  get  the  same  lady.' 

'Yes,'  said  Dorothy.  In  her  heart 
she  was  appalled  by  the  greatness  and 
unconcern  of  the  city.  She,  too,  hoped 
they  would  get  the  same  lady. 

They  did.  At  least  she  said  they 
did;  Mrs.  Smart  doubted  it. 

'She  hadn't  all  that  hair  four  years 
ago,'  she  said  to  herself. 

'Never  mind,  she's  nice.' 

'Ninety  dollars,'  said  the  lady 
haughtily.  'A  French  model.' 

Mrs.  Smart  gasped.  'Fourteen  is  as 
high  as  I  can  go,'  said  she. 

'Why  mother,'  said  Dorothy,  dis- 
graced. 'It  is  n't  either.' 

The  lady  looked  into  Mrs.  Smart's 
honest  eyes;  she  had  honest  and  kindly 
eyes,  herself,  under  her  fuzz  of  hair. 
'Dearie,'  she  said.  'I've  been,  there 
myself.  Here's  a  line  of  last  year's 
coats,  marked  down.  They're  lovely. 
They're  long,  and  they're  wearing 
them  short  in  Paris,  but  land,  what 
difference  does  that  make  to  you  and 
me?' 

'  We  like  to  be  in  style  in  the  Pocono,' 
said  Dorothy. 

'  It  must  be  fierce  up  there  in  winter,' 
said  the  lady.  'Twenty-two  fifty.' 

Mrs.  Smart  shook  her  head.  She  and 
Dorothy  whispered  together. 

'What  made  you  say  fourteen?  She 
thought  it  was  funny.  You've  got 
fifteen  fifty.' 

'I  plan  to  spend  a  dollar  on  ties  for 
Thomas,  and  we've  got  to  keep  some 
for  our  lunch.  Fourteen  's  a  plenty  to 
spend  on  a  coat.' 

'It's  hell  to  be  poor,'  said  Dorothy, 
suddenly.  Her  face  worked. 

'Oh,  my  daughter,'  said  Mrs.  Smart 
in  terror;  'don't  talk  so.  Remember 
our  little  home,  and  Thomas,  and  all. 
Think  of  all  we've  got!' 


114 


FLAG-ROOT 


*  Here's  a  nice  lot  of  last  spring 
coats/  said  the  lady,  patiently.  'Thin, 
but  you  could  wear  something  under 
'em.'  She  glanced  at  Dorothy's  back; 
it  heaved  convulsively.  'It's  fierce 
when  they  want  things,  ain't  it?'  she 
said,  with  comprehension.  'My  little 
girl's  only  ten,  but  she's  beginning. 
My,  it 's  fierce  to  be  a  mother,  ain't  it 
—  when  they  want  things,  and  you 
have  n't  got  'em  to  give?' 

Mrs.  Smart  nodded,  speechlessly. 
'This  is  pretty,'  said  she,  after  a  pause; 
'real  pretty.' 

'Here's  two  for  fourteen,'  said  the 
lady,  returning  to  business.  'A  blue 
and  a  black.  The  blue's  prettiest,  but 
the  black  's  nearer  your  size. 

'You  wouldn't  hold  them  while  we 
go  and  look  at  a  dress?'  said  Mrs. 
Smart,  anxiously.  '  I  could  n't  expect 
it  —  but  't  would  be  a  help.' 

'And  you  could  take  a  look  at  coats 
elsewhere,'  said  the  lady,  as  one  who* 
knows  the  secrets  of  the  human  heart. 
'Land,  I  don't  blame  you,  but  you 
won't  do  any  better.  Yes,  I'll  hold  'em, 
till  two-thirty.  I've  been  there  my- 
self.' 

'  If  you  should  ever  come  to  Tip  Top,' 
said  Mrs.  Smart, '  there 's  a  house  you  'd 
be  welcome  in.  Late  falls  and  winters 
and  early  in  spring,  before  the  trout 
season  opens,  I  take  in  a  boarder.  I  'd 
be  pleased  to  take  you,  ma'am,  and  the 
little  girl.  I  would  n't  charge  for  her. 
She'd  like  it,  and  we'd  like  her.  If  I 
don't  see  you  again,  I'm  Mrs.  Lydia 
Smart,  Tip  Top,  Monroe  County, 
Pennsylvania.  Every  one  knows  me  in 
the  Pocono.  And  thank  you!  Good-  . 
bye !  Good-bye ! ' 

'Good-bye!' 

The  two  women  parted  with  a  hand- 
clasp. Dorothy  looked  on  with  a  kind 
of  disapproving  admiration,  such  as 
her  mother's  doings  often  inspired  in 
her. 

'You  do  make  friends!'  she  said, 


when  they  were  out  of  earshot.  'You 
might  have  asked  her  about  a  voyle. 
She'll  come  to  Tip  Top.  You  see!' 

'Never  mind.  Society  wears  'em  at 
the  Inn  all  summer,'  said  Mrs.  Smart. 
'  I  hope  she  does  come.  I  wish  I  did  n't 
have  to  charge  guests,  but  I  do  and 
that 's  all  there  is  to  it.  A  voyle 's  what 
you  want,  Dorothy  Smart.  We'll  go 
right  now  and  get  it.' 

They  bought  the  voile,  with  varying 
emotions,  but  their  final  mood  was  one 
of  satisfaction.  Then  they  parted  until 
train  time.  Mrs.  Smart  bought  Thom- 
as's ties,  and  did  a  few  errands  for  Tip 
Top  people;  then  she  wandered  down 
Chestnut  Street,  looking  in  the  win- 
dows; her  feet  burned  with  fatigue;  her 
healthy  Pocono  appetite  awoke  and 
cried  for  food. 

'Why!'  said  a  hearty  voice,  'I  de- 
clare, if  it  is  n't  Mrs.  Smart!' 

'Why, Mr. Lincoln,' said  Mrs.  Smart. 

Lincoln's  fresh-colored,  smooth-shav- 
en face  beamed  with  pleasure.  '  How 's 
all  the  folks  in  the  Pocono?  How's 
Mr.  Schauss?  Does  he  have  his  order 
ready  now,  or  does  he  make  the  trav- 
eling men  wait  all  day  for  it,  like  ,he 
used  to  me?' 

'He's  Pennsylvania  Dutch;  he  likes 
to  make  folks  wait.' 

Mrs.  Smart  laughed,  but  her  laugh- 
ter had  a  weary  sound  and  the  man 
peered  down  at  her. 

'Had  your  dinner?' 

'I  had  a  cup  of  chocolate,  and  a 
cracker.  I  thought  it  would  be  five 
cents,  but  they  asked  me  ten.' 

'  Suppose  we  get  our  dinner  together.' 

'I  guess  I  won't.' 

'Why  not?' 

'Well,  the  truth  is  I've  got  just  five 
cents  left,'  said  Mrs.  Smart.  She 
laughed  and  her  pretty  face  took  a 
fresher  color.  '  Thomas's  ties  cost  more 
than  I  thought,  and  I  don't  want  to 
touch  my  coat  money.  I'm  all  right, 
Mr.  Lincoln.  I  read  in  the  paper  where 


FLAG-ROOT 


115 


it  said  everybody  had  too  much  to  eat. 
If  I ' ve  had  too  much  to  eat,  it 's  time  I 
stopped.' 

*  Did  you  think  I  wanted  you  to  pay 
for  yourself?   What's  the  matter  with 
your  taking  dinner  with  me?' 

'  I  did  n't  want  to  go  to  a  party  when 
I  was  n't  asked,  Mr.  Lincoln.' 

*  You 're  asked  all  right.   We'll  go  to 
the  station.    You  can  get  a  good  meal 
there.' 

*  I ' ve  never  taken  a  meal  at  the  sta- 
tion, but  I've  often  wished  to,'  said 
Mrs.  Smart.    'You're  kind,  Mr.  Lin- 
coln.' 

'Kind  yourself,'  said  Lincoln.  'Come 
along!' 

'  I  wish  Dorothy  could  have  had  this 
instead  of  me,'  said  Mrs.  Smart,  half 
an  hour  later.  'She  went  to  see  a  girl 
friend.  She  was  going  to  stay  to  dinner, 
if  they  asked  her,  and  take  her  lunch 
money  to  buy  a  jabot.  We  generally 
carry  our  lunch,  when  we  come  to  the 
city,  but  Thomas  knocked  the  eggs  off 
the  table  in  the  dark,  this  morning,  and 
Dorothy  did  n't  think  it  was  worth 
while  to  take  just  bread  and  butter. 
She's  pretty,  Mr.  Lincoln.  Just  as 
pretty,  and  nice  —  and  Thomas !  — 
He's  almost  sixteen,  and  a  good  boy. 
He's  in  Mr.  Schauss's  now.  He  don't 
like  it  much,  but  he  stays  to  please  me. 
Let  me  see  —  why  you  have  n't  seen 
Thomas  for  four  years.  You  would  n't 
know  him.' 

'  I ' ve  buried  my  wife  since  I  saw  you 
last,  Mrs.  Smart.' 

'You  have!  Why,  Mr.  Lincoln,  I'm 
so  sorry.  How  I  must  have  worried 
you,  talking  so  much,  and  eating  so 
much.  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me?' 

'WelC  I  don't  know.  I  thought  it 
might  cast  a  chill.  I  often  think  of  you 
now  I'm  alone  in  the  world.' 

Mrs.  Smart  stiffened  perceptibly. 
'  She  was  an  invalid,  was  n't  she,  Mr. 
Lincoln?' 

'She  was  mindless,'  said  Lincoln.  It 


is  a  Quaker  expression;  he  came  of 
Quaker  stock.  'She  was  in  a  sanitari- 
um the  last  ten  years.' 

'She  was?' 

'Yes,  ma'am/ 

'  She  was ! ' 

'Yes,  ma'am,  she  was.  I  kept  her  as 
comfortable  as  anybody  there,  but 
there  was  n't  much  comfort  in  it  for 
me.' 

'I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Lincoln.' 

'  You  're  not  going  ? ' 

'I  must,  and  thank  you  for  the  din- 
ner. I  never  tasted  a  better  one  at  the 
Inn  even.  Everything  a  body  could 
wish.' 

'  Sit  down  again.  I  want  to  speak  to 
you.' 

Mrs.  Smart  sat  down  on  the  edge  of 
her  chair,  ready  to  take  flight  at  a 
word,  like  Mercury. 

'I'm  in  the  firm  now,  Mrs.  Smart, 
and  we're  doing  well.  I'd  like  to  call 
up  to  Tip  Top  to  see  you  some  day.' 

'I'm  a  busy  woman,  Mr.  Lincoln.' 

'So  am  I  a  busy  man,  but  I'd  find 
time  for  that.  I  've  liked  you  ever  since 
I  first  saw  you,  Mrs.  Smart  — ^  Lydia 
—  but  knowing  the  kind  of  woman 
you  are,  I  knew  it  was  no  use  me  say- 
ing a  word.  You'd  have  shown  me 
the  door.' 

'I  would,  Mr.  Lincoln.' 

'You  would,  and  right,  too.  But  I 
sometimes  thought  you —  liked  me,' 
said  Lincoln,  almost  shyly.  'I — I  used 
to  wonder.  Now  my  wife's  dead  and 
gone,  and  —  what  do  you  say?  I've 
had  a  hard  life  —  no  home,  no  chil- 
dren, and  you  might  say  no  wife  —  I'd 
like  a  little  happiness.  I'd  take  good 
care  of  you,  Lydia.  You  work  too  hard. 
You  would  n't  have  to  work  if  you 
married  me.' 

'I  like  work,'  said  Mrs.  Smart;  but 
she  colored  deeply,  and  did  not  meet 
Lincoln's  look. 

'You're  thinking  of  your  children. 
The  girl  '11  marry.  They  tell  me  -  - 1 


116 


FLAG-ROOT 


keep  track  of  Tip  Top  news  —  they 
tell  me  Joe  Bogardus  is  going  with 
her.  The  boy  —  he'll  leave  you.  Boys 
don't  stay  at  home.  Well,  what  do  you 
say?' 

'I  say  no,  Mr.  Lincoln.  I'm  sorry 
about  the  dinner!  If  I'd  known  what 
was  coming,  I  would  n't  have  accepted 
your  invitation.' 

'Damn  the  dinner!  I  guess  you  can 
take  that  from  me.  What  have  you  got 
against  me,  Lydia?  You  think  I'm  do- 
ing it  because  I  want  a  comfortable 
home,  but  it  ain't  that.  I  —  love  you, 
Lydia!'  said  Lincoln  explosively,  and 
growing  very  red. 

Mrs.  Smart  looked  down. 

'I  guess  the  folks  at  the  next  table 
wonder  what  we're  talking  about,'  she 
said. 

'Damn  the  folks  at  the  next  table,' 
said  Lincoln,  but  his  handsome,  ruddy 
face  lost  some  of  its  color,  as  he  watched 
her.  'Is  it  me?  Don't  you  like  me? 
I've  always  thought  you  did.  I  don't 
drink.  I  've  made  good  in  my  business. 
I've  got  a  car.' 

'I've  a  great  respect  for  you,  Mr. 
Lincoln,  but  I'd  —  rather  not,  thank 
you.' 

'I  won't  give  you  up,  Lydia,'  said 
Lincoln,  doggedly. 

'Well,  Mr.  Lincoln,  you  might  as 
well,'  said  Mrs.  Smart,  with  spirit. 
'And  I'd  thank  you  not  to  call  me 
Lydia.  I  don't  care  for  it.' 

Lincoln  stared  at  her  in  dismay. 
'You're  not  going  to  —  say  —  no,'  he 
said,  blankly.  'It's  that  boy.  I  don't 
believe  it's  me.  I  believe  you  like  me. 
Say,  I'll  give  the  boy  a  job  with  us  — 
a  job  that  '11  give  him  a  chance  to  rise. 
I  guess  that's  the  trouble,  ain't  it?' 

Mrs.  Smart  was  silent,  but  it  seemed 
to  Lincoln  that  her  downcast  face 
showed  signs  of  relenting;  it  was  the 
greater  credit  to  him  that  he  spoke  as 
he  did.  He  was  an  honest  and  upright 
business  man;  the  firm  and  its  reputa- 


tion came  first;  after  that  other  mat- 
ters,—  happiness,  love,  and  the  like. 
'I could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
loved  I  not  honour  more,'  said  Love- 
lace. 

'I  don't  say  he  can  rise  if  he  don't 
act  right,'  said  Lincoln.  'He's  got  to 
hold  the  job  down.  I  could  n't  keep 
him  if  he  did  n't.  Not  if  he  was  my 
own  son.  The  firm  would  n't  stand  for 
it  —  and  I  'm  one  of  'em  now.  Hard- 
ware 's  got  a  big  future  —  and  I  '11  give 
Thomas  a  chance  —  but  he 's  got  to 
work.'  He  cleared  his  throat.  'Well  — 
what  do  you  say?' 

'I  say  no,  Mr.  Lincoln,'  said  Mrs. 
Smart,  rising.  'You'll  find  a  nice  girl 
that'll  make  you  a  good  wife,  easy 
enough.  We're  most  of  us  good,  if  you 
treat  us  right,  and  there  is  n't  so  much 
difference  between  one  good  woman 
and  another  —  not  that  a  man  could 
see.  My  goodness,  it's  half-past  two 
already!' 

Mrs.  Smart  waited  at  the  station  for 
Dorothy  for  some  time;  on  her  knees 
she  nursed  a  big  pasteboard  box;  her 
face  had  a  sad  look,  but  it  brightened 
when  Dorothy  appeared. 

'Have  a  nice  time  with  Marian?' 

'Nice  enough,'  said  Dorothy.  Her 
voice  had  a  ring  of  bitterness.  She  was 
young,  young,  young,  poor  Dorothy, 
and  the  inequalities  of  fortune  were 
too  much  for  her.  Her  day  in  the  city 
had  shaken  her,  heart  and  soul.  Mrs. 
Smart  knew  it  without  being  told,  and 
her  heart  ached  for  her  daughter. 

'I  got  the  blue  coat,'  she  said. 

'You  did?  It's  too  big  for  you,  is  n't 
it?' 

'It  is  n't  too  big  for  you,'  said  Mrs. 
Smart.  Her  pretty  face  was  radiant 
with  eager  love  and  joy. 

'Why,  mother!' 

'Did  you  think  I  was  going  to  let 
you  go  without,  and  you  pretty  and 
young  and  all?' 


FLAG-ROOT 


117 


'I  had  a  coat  last  fall,'  said  Dorothy; 
but  her  face  flushed  with  pleasure. 

*  Never  mind!  It  came  to  me  when 
the  lady  said  coats  were  going  to  be 
short.  My  coat's  short.  They  were 
wearing  them  long  the  fall  I  got  it.  I  '11 
be  more  in  style  than  you,  Dorothy 
Smart.  It  came  to  me,  but  I  did  n't 
realize  until  after  —  dinner.  Then  I 
put  for  the  store  just  as  tight  as  I  could 
go  —  I  was  afraid  the  blue  one  might 
be  gone.  Don't  say  a  word!  Don't 
you  think  we  'd  better  go  out  and  stand 
by  the  gate?  The  train  might  go  ear- 
lier, or  something.' 

The  two  dozed  a  bit  on  the  Penn- 
sylvania train,  but  they  were  as  wide 
awake  as  possible  when  they  changed 
to  their  own  Lackawanna. 

'Once  I'm  through  the  Gap,  I  feel 
I'm  at  home,'  said  Mrs.  Smart. 

The  train  was  a  slow  one;  it  crawled 
up  into  the  mountains;  it  stopped  at 
many  little  stations.  When  the  car 
door  opened,  woodland  scents  and 
sounds  came  in;  the  sighing  of  the  wind 
in  the  tree-tops,  the  noise  of  mountain 
brooks,  the  odor  of  burning  wood. 

'It's  nice  to  get  home,'  said  Mrs. 
Smart.  'I  wonder  how  Thomas  is.' 

'I'm  awful  hungry,'  said  Dorothy. 
'  What  did  you  have  for  lunch,  mother  ? ' 

'All  I  wanted  -  —  and  more.  I 've  got 
five  cents  left;  I'll  buy  you  some  gum. 
Dear  me!  I  can't  find  it  —  it  must 
have  slipped  out.  Dear  me!' 

'Lost  something,  Mrs.  Smart?'  said 
the  brakeman,  Rally  Willems.  He  was 
a  Pocono  boy;  Mrs.  Smart  had  always 
known  him;  he  was  young,  slim,  alert; 
he  had  sandy  hair,  and  a  freckled  skin, 
and  a  little  red  moustache,  —  the  regu- 
lar brakeman  type. 

'Only  five  cents,'  said  Mrs.  Smart. 
Never  mind,  Rally.  I  was  going  to  buy 
Dorothy  some  gum.  She's  hungry.' 

Willems  went  into  his  blue  pocket 
and  produced  something  in  a  twist  of 
paper. 


'I  got  some  flag-root,' said  he.  'Mo- 
ther brought  it  down  to  the  train  this 
morning.  Wait  once,  till  I  cut  it.' 

He  divided  it  with  his  pocket  knife; 
he  gave  the  larger  piece  to  Mrs.  Smart; 
when  he  went  out  on  the  platform,  she 
changed  with  Dorothy.  She  ate  her 
own  piece  with  a  relish. 

'It's  good,'  she  said.  'Bitter-sweet 
things  stand  by  you  better  than  all- 
sweet  things  —  specially  after  a  hard 
day.  It  was  nice  in  Rally  to  give  it  to 
us.  He'll  be  a  conductor  some  day. 
Feel  better,  Dorothy?' 

'Some.  Thomas  won't  like  my  get- 
ting the  coat,  mother.  He  '11  be  as  mad 
as  a  hornet.'  . 

Mrs.  Smart  nodded,  with  a  very  se- 
rious face;  she  had  been  considering 
for  some  time  what  she  should  say  to 
Thomas. 

'You  take  the  lantern  and  go  on 
ahead,  and  I'll  talk  to  Thomas.' 

Thomas  met  them  at  the  station, 
sleepy  and  cross.  A  young  man  was 
waiting,  too,  —  Joe  Bogardus.  He  and 
Dorothy  walked  on  up  the  hill  together 
quickly,  with  the  lantern  swinging  be- 
tween them.  Mrs.  Smart  and  Thomas 
followed,  slowly,  arm  in  arm. 

'Get  your  coat,  mother?' 

'Not  this  time,  son.  My  coat  that 
I've  got's  in  style.  They're  going  to 
wear  short  coats  in  Paris  this  winter. 
My  coat 's  short.' 

'  I  wanted  you  to  get  a  new  one,'  said 
Thomas,  crossly. 

'Now,  son,'  said  Mrs.  Smart,  ten- 
derly, 'don't  you  get  to  thinking  you 
know  more  about  clothes  than  your 
mother  does.  That  ain't  men's  work. 
Wait  once,  till  you  see  your  new  ties: 
black,  with  red  spots,  one;  blue,  with 
white  lines,  one.' 

'See  any  folks  you  knew?' 

'  Mr.  Lincoln.  He 's  a  traveling  man, 
used  to  come  up  here  drumming  for 
hardware.' 

'I  remember  him  all  right.  Used  to 


118 


FLAG-ROOT 


talk  to  you  —  thought  he  was  good- 
lookin'  —  fresh ! '  said  Thomas,  fero- 
ciously. 'What  did  he  have  to  say?' 

'Oh,  he  just  talked.  Didn't  you 
used  to  like  him,  son?' 

'Naw,'  said  Thomas,  'I  didn't. 
Why  you  know  I  did  n't,  mother.  You 
used  to  say  he  was  nice,  and  I  always 
told  you  I  did  n't  like  him.' 

'I  remember,'  said  Mrs.  Smart, 
briefly. 

She  plodded  along  the  rough  road 
in  the  darkness;  the  November  wind 
blew  keenly  from  the  mountains;  she 
was  tired,  and  hungry,  and  cold;  her 
weary  body  caught  her  brave  soul  in  its 
clutches,  and  shook  it,  and  wrung  it, 
and  left  it  faint  and  gasping. 

'It's  a  hard  world  for  a  woman,'  she 
muttered.  'Maybe  I'd  better  have 
said  yes.' 

'Gee,  but  Schauss's  is  fierce,'  said 
Thomas.  'Guess  I'll  quit,  and  go 
West.' 

'You  would  n't  leave  me,  son,'  said 
Mrs.  Smart,  in  quick  alarm.  'Would 
you?' 

'I'm  sick  of  the  store/ 

'I'm  going  to  try  to  get  Mr.  Hay- 
dock  to  take  you  at  the  Inn  next  sum- 
mer,' said  Mrs.  Smart,  forgetting  her- 
self at  once  in  Thomas's  need.  'You 


could  be  in  the  office  wi^h  me,  and 
see  the  world  and  society  —  and  may- 
be folks  would  take  you  out  in  a  car 
sometimes.' 

'  Gee,  mother,  you  're  a  peach.  That 
would  be  great,'  said  Thomas,  molli- 
fied. 

It  did  not  take  much  to  please  him; 
he  was  his  mother's  own  son,  after  all. 
He  clung  to  her  arm,  and  lurched  to 
and  fro  in  the  road.  He  was  an  awk- 
ward boy;  he  seemed  to  go  out  of  his 
way  to  fall  over  things;  he  was  like  an 
overgrown  puppy,  with  his  clumsy 
ways  and  his  inarticulate,  loving  heart. 
Suddenly,  at  a  turn  in  the  road,  a  light 
shone  out  above  them. 

'There's  home,'  said  Mrs.  Smart. 
'You  put  the  lamp  in  the  window,  did 
n't  you,  son?' 

'Yes,  I  did.  And  the  kettle's  on  the 
stove,  boiling  by  this  time.  I  thought 
you'd  like  some  tea,'  said  Thomas,  with 
pride.  '  So  I  kept  the  fire  up,  and  had 
everything  nice.' 

Mrs.  Smart  laughed  in  the  darkness, 
a  little,  well-pleased  laugh,  and  stepped 
out  briskly. 

'After  all,  I'm  glad,'  she  said. 

'To  be  back  home?'  said  Thomas. 

'To  be  back  home,'  said  Mrs.  Smart. 
'There's  no  place  like  home.' 


EDUCATION  IN  VERMONT 


BY   JAMES   MASCARENE   HUBBARD 


VERMONT  has  set  an  example  to  the 
other  states  of  the  Union  in  being  the 
first  to  make  a  comprehensive  effort 
to  study  its  educational  responsibilities. 
In  conformity  to  an  act  of  the  legisla- 
ture, approved  in  November,  1912,  the 
governor  appointed  a  commission  of 
nine  persons  '  to  inquire  into  the  entire 
educational  system  and  condition  of 
this  state.'  To  secure  the  information 
essential  for  an  intelligent  and  adequate 
report,  the  commission,  which  included 
among  its  members  the  President  of 
Columbia  University,  Dr.  Nicholas  M. 
Butler,  and  the  President  of  the  Amer- 
ican Telephone  and  Telegraph  Com- 
pany, Mr.  Theodore  N.  Vail,  invited 
the  Carnegie  Foundation  for  the  Ad- 
vancement of  Teaching  to  make  *  an  ex- 
pert study  of  the  school  system,  includ- 
ing the  higher  institutions  of  learning/ 
Acting  upon  this  invitation,  the  Foun- 
dation caused  to  be  made  a  first-hand 
study  of  education  in  Vermont,  em- 
bracing the  whole  system,  from  ele- 
mentary school  to  university. 

The  detailed  examination  of  the  ele- 
mentary schools  was  committed  to  Pro- 
fessor Milo  B.  Hillegas  of  Teachers 
College,  Columbia  University;  of  the 
secondary  schools  to  Dr.  William  S. 
Learned  of  the  Harvard  School  of  Edu- 
cation; and  of  the  normal  schools  and 
the  state  system  of  administration  and 
expenditure  to  Professor  Edward  C. 
Elliott  of  the  University  of  Wisconsin. 
Other  expert  service  was  employed  for 
special  fields,  as  the  agricultural  college 
and  its  relations  to  the  farming  indus- 
tries, medical  and  engineering  schools, 


library  facilities  in  relation  to  the  pub- 
lic schools,  and  the  system  in  use  of 
school  accounts  and  financial  state- 
ments. 

The  results  of  these  investigations 
have  been  published  in  a  Bulletin,  the 
primary  purpose  of  which  is  to  place 
in  the  hands  of  the  commission  the 
essential  facts  which  will  enable  them 
to  form  conclusions,  to  make  recom- 
mendations, and  to  propose  legisla- 
tion. Accordingly,  it  is  of  great  interest 
to  all  who  have  at  heart  the  better- 
ment of  our  educational  system.  For 
the  conditions  are  not  peculiar  to 
Vermont;  similar  conditions  prevail 
throughout  the  country,  and  the  con- 
clusions reached  should  be  thoughtfully 
and  carefully  considered,  even  though 
one  may  not  entirely  agree  with  all  the 
statements  or  recommendations.  Many 
Vermonters  think  the  Bulletin  does  not 
set  forth  the  facts  as  accurately  as  they 
had  hoped  it  would;  while  the  recom- 
mendation of  withdrawing  the  state 
financial  aid  from  the  colleges  is  decid- 
edly and  generally  condemned. 

A  remarkable  array  of  facts  of  every 
kind,  from  the  course  of  study  to  the 
condition  of  the  schoolhouses,  is  to  be 
found  in  the  report  of  Professor  Hille- 
gas on  the  elementary  schools.  It  is 
interesting  to  note  that  in  the  propor- 
tion of  children  of  school  age  enrolled, 
Vermont  holds  the  first  place  among 
the  states.  His  criticisms  are  mainly 
of  the  instruction  given,  the  principal 
aim  of  which,  he  says,  is  preparation 
for  the  high  school.  Considering  the 
fact  that  practically  none  of  the  rural- 

119 


120 


EDUCATION  IN  VERMONT 


school  children  enter  the  high  school, 
he  maintains  that  there  should  be  two 
courses  of  instruction  —  one  for  the 
rural  and  one  for  the  graded  town 
school.  With  the  present  course,  the 
children  of  the  countryside  are  taught 
only  to  read  indifferently,  to  write 
clumsily,  and  to  make  ordinary  calcu- 
lations with  difficulty.  The  child's 
interest  in  the  life  of  his  community  is 
weakened,  and  either  he  is  made  an 
idler,  because  he  has  not  been  taught 
to  do  work  that  is  based  upon  the 
acquirement  of  skill,  or  he  is  educated 
away  from  the  life  in  which  he  has 
grown  up.  His  face  is  turned  from  the 
duties  and  opportunities  of  his  own 
home  to  the  more  tempting  but  more 
illusory  ventures  of  a  city.  Many  will 
agree  with  the  conclusion,  that  *  some- 
thing is  radically  wrong  with  a  school 
in  an  agricultural  community  that  de- 
velops motormen,  stenographers,  and 
typewriters,  and  fails  to  develop  far- 
mers, dairymen,  and  gardeners/ 

The  recommendations  of  Professor 
Hillegas  include  the  consolidation  of 
the  smaller  schools,  the  transportation 
of  the  children  by  school  barges,  and 
new  courses  of  study,  which  should  be 
planned  by  experienced  teachers  and 
superintendents  organized  into  com- 
mittees. For  the  improvement  of  teach- 
ers already  in  service  he  suggests  that 
a  group  of  highly  trained,  capable  wo- 
men supervisors  should  spend  their 
time  in  the  schools,  assisting  the  teach- 
ers and  demonstrating  proper  meth- 
ods. The  absolute  need  of  an  increase 
in  the  salaries  of  teachers  is  empha- 
sized by  the  fact  that,  according  to  a 
recent  comparative  study  of  the  public 
school  systems  of  all  the  states,  Ver- 
mont stands  in  the  forty-third  place 
in  the  average  annual  salary  of  the 
teachers. 

There  is  much  valuable  information 
in  Dr.  Learned's  report  on  the  second- 
ary schools.  It  is  the  outcome  of  a  per- 


sonal visit  to  nearly  half  of  the  high 
schools  and  academies,  and  a  careful 
study  of  all  attainable  facts  in  regard 
to  attendance,  curriculum,  and  the 
training  of  teachers.  A  fact  which 
stands  out  prominently  and  should  be 
emphasized  is  that '  almost  without  ex- 
ception' the  teachers  'gave  the  im- 
pression of  being  high-minded,  natur- 
ally capable  and  painstaking  men  and 
women '  who  are  doing  *  honest  and 
faithful  work.'  It  is  a  matter  of  regret 
that  Dr.  Learned  has  apparently  had 
no  experience  as  a  teacher,  for  his 
position  in  regard  to  the  instruction 
given  in  the  high  schools  is  largely 
that  of  a  theorist.  He  reiterates,  for 
instance,  that  the  curriculum  should 
have  *  greater  freedom  and  elasticity 
in  order  to  meet  the  individual  pupil.' 
It  should  be  based  predominantly  on 
the  pupil's  environment.  Now  this  is 
admirable  in  theory,  but  it  would  be 
difficult  to  put  it  in  practice. 

The  economic  value  of  the  school 
training  seems  to  Dr.  Learned  to  be  of 
the  first  importance.  'It  is  a  pressing 
duty  of  the  high  schools  in  Vermont/ 
he  maintains,  for  instance,  'to  display 
fairly  the  power,  resources,  and  signifi- 
cance of  the  farm/  On  the  other  hand 
little  stress  is  laid  on  the  old  New  Eng- 
land idea  that  the  highest  aim  of  the 
school  is  the  development  of  the  intel- 
lectual powers  and  the  building  up  of 
character. 

All,  however,  will  agree  with  what 
he  says  as  to  the  special  needs  of 
training-classes  for  teachers  in  elemen- 
tary schools,  particularly  in  the  coun- 
try. His  suggestion  that  this  course 
should  be  introduced  into  more  of  the 
high  schools  will  be  welcomed,  and,  we 
trust,  acted  upon  throughout  the  coun- 
try. He  maintains  that  there  should 
be  enough  high  schools  with  these 
training  classes,  to  enable  all  those 
who  are  desirous  of  becoming  teachers 
in  the  elementary  schools  to  attend  the 


EDUCATION  IN  VERMONT 


121 


course  without  being  obliged,  as  now, 
in  most  instances,  to  leave  their  homes. 
Another  practical  reason  for  the  es- 
tablishment of  these  'regional'  high 
schools,  urged  in  the  section  devoted 
to  the  training  of  teachers,  is  that 
the  neighboring  village  schools  would 
furnish  abundant  opportunities  for 
practice-classes  for  those  who  are  in 
training.  The  establishment  of  a  new 
central  training  school  is  also  advo- 
cated, which  should  serve  the  needs  of 
the  state  in  providing  teachers  for  its 
junior  high  schools. 

The  problem  of  trade-education  — 
a  pressing  economic  as  well  as  educa- 
tional question  —  is  discussed  in  the 
report  on  the  vocational  school.  This 
school  is  practically  the  only  agency 
that  society  offers  for  the  formal  pre- 
paration of  its  youth  for  those  funda- 
mental and  necessary  vocations  upon 
which  stress  must  always  be  laid.  The 
aim  should  be,  not  the  preparation 
for  a  profession,  but  the  training  of 
youth  for  a  trade.  In  this  connection, 
attention  is  directed  to  a  remarkable 
agricultural  school  at  Lyndonville, 
which  owes  its  existence  to  the  gener- 
osity of  Mr.  Vail.  It  is  strictly  a  far- 
mer's school  and  it  aims  to  furnish  a 
line  of  training  that  will  be  of  immedi- 
ate use  in  farming  and  its  allied  indus- 
tries, as  carpentry,  blacksmithing,  and 
masonry.  Consequently,  the  students 
are  trained  to  do  farm  work  intelli- 
gently and  also  the  repairing  of  build- 
ings, wagons,  and  machinery.  Thus 
they  are  made  independent  of  any 
outside  skilled  labor,  and  are  put  in  a 
position  to  assist  their  neighbors  in 
these  directions.  For  these  special  pur- 
poses the  school  has  blacksmith  and 
carpenter  shops,  as  well  as  a  horse- 
stable,  dairy-barn,  poultry-house,  and 
root-cellar,  together  with  over  one  hun- 
dred acres  of  tillage  land  divided  into 
upland  and  lowland. 

The  report  upon  the  higher  institu- 


tions of  learning  gives  considerable 
information  about  the  three  colleges  at 
Burlington,  Middlebury,  and  North- 
field.  There  is  a  brief  historical  sketch 
of  each,  with  facts  relating  to  their 
endowment,  equipment,  curriculum, 
teaching-staff,  and  students.  The  crit- 
icism is  confined  mainly  to  the  Agri- 
cultural College  connected  with  the 
University  of  Vermont  at  Burlington. 
The  impression  made  by  this  part  of 
the  report  is  that  it  was  written  by  one 
whose  whole  interest  was  in  the  schools 
of  the  state.  The  one  thing  needed 
for  the  improvement  of  both  primary 
and  high  schools,  he  feels,  is  money 
to  increase  the  salary  of  the  teachers, 
especially  of  the  primary  schools,  in 
order  to  secure  better  teachers,  and  to 
improve  the  schoolhouses  and  their 
equipment.  Accordingly,  with  this 
need  predominating  in  his  mind,  the 
one  frequently  repeated  recommenda- 
tion in  regard  to  the  higher  institutions 
of  learning  is  that  the  state  subsidy 
should  be  withdrawn  from  them  and 
given  to  the  schools.  And  with  this 
conclusion  those  who  compiled  the 
report  agreed,  for  the  last  of  the  five 
recommendations  which  embody  the 
results  of  the  survey  is,  'Subsidies  to 
higher  education  should  cease,  the  col- 
leges being  given  a  reasonable  time  in 
which  to  rearrange  their  budgets.' 

This  does  not  mean  that  the  colleges 
are  not  helpful  to  the  state  from  an 
educational  point  of  view.  Of  Middle- 
bury,  for  instance,  it  is  said  that  'the 
work  of  the  college  is  distinctly  good/ 
that  the  'fundamental  work  is  now 
being  admirably  done.'  The  one  ab- 
sorbing aim  of  President  Thomas  is 
that  Middlebury  College  shall  be  a 
great  instrument  in  the  upbuilding  of 
Vermont.  'I  propose,'  he  said  on  one 
occasion, '  to  train  as  many  students  as 
possible  to  go  back  to  their  homes, 
filled  with  inspiration  partaking  of 
sublime  religious  faith  in  the  destiny 


EDUCATION  IN  VERMONT 


of  the  Green  Mountain  State,  and 
there  live  and  toil,  and  exercise  an  in- 
fluence which  no  man  may  measure  in 
advance.'  But  what  would  be  the 
effect  upon  the  college  if  more  than  a 
quarter  of  its  annual  income  should  be 
withdrawn  from  it  ?  Would  not  its  use- 
fulness be  terribly  crippled  for  years, 
possibly  forever?  Would  the  ad  vantage 
to  the  three  thousand  school-teachers 
of  the  addition  of  a  few  dollars  to  their 
salaries,  for  that  is  all  the  Middlebury 
subsidy  could  give  them,  justify  this 
withdrawal? 

All  who  know  the  conditions  in  Ver- 
mont recognize  'the  urgent  needs  of 
the  state  in  elementary  education,' 
but  they  do  not  feel  that  because  of 
these  needs,  the  needs  of  the  institu- 
tions of  higher  education  should  suffer. 
Their  needs  are  very  great.  To  quote 
President  Thomas  again :  *  I  see  oppor- 
tunities all  over  the  state  to  stimulate 
enterprise  and  quicken  the  life  of  the 
people,  if  only  we  had  the  means  to  do 
the  work.'  This  feature  of  the  report, 
together  with  the  repeated  strange 
statement  that  the  state  should  not 
subsidize  a  college  which  'it  does  not 
own  and  control,'  has  aroused  much 
feeling  throughout  Vermont,  and  it  is 
sincerely  to  be  hoped  that  the  useful- 
ness of  the  inquiry  will  not  be  impaired 
on  this  account. 


For,  regarded  as  a  whole,  it  has  un- 
doubtedly a  high  educational  value. 
All  having  at  heart  the  training  of  our 
children  to  make  the  best  of  their  place 
in  life  should  welcome  the  light  thrown 
upon  the  condition  of  the  elementary 
schools,  especially  those  in  rural  dis- 
tricts, and  should  act  upon  the  sug- 
gestions for  their  improvement.  It  is 
to  be  hoped  that  the  inquiry  will  give 
a  new  and  vivid  impression  of  the  in- 
fluence of  the  teacher.  This  new  and 
fresh  appreciation  of  the  significance  of 
her  duty,  second  only  to  that  of  the  par- 
ent, should  lead  to  an  improvement  in 
her  preparation  for  her  task,  and  should 
increase  the  reward  for  her  valuable 
and  painstaking  labor.  Then,  the  em- 
phasis laid  upon  the  necessity  of  the 
development  of  agricultural  instruc- 
tion is  of  great  importance.  In  view  of 
the  fact  that  we  are  seeking  all  over  the 
world  for  food  for  our  constantly  in- 
creasing millions, 'it  is  not  only  an  eco- 
nomic, but  a  national  crime  to  let  so 
much  rich,  easily  cultivable  land  lie  idle, 
not  simply  in  Vermont  but  through- 
out our  Atlantic  states.  And  the  sim- 
plest solution  of  the  great  problem  is 
clearly  shown  in  the  Carnegie  Foun- 
dation report.  It  is  to  make  by  stim- 
ulating elementary,  but  thorough,  in- 
struction an  intelligent  and  interested 
farmer  out  of  the  bright  country  boy. 


AT  SEVENTY-THREE  AND  BEYOND 


BY   U.   V.   WILSON 


I  AM  seventy-three  to-day.  That  is 
well  along  toward  the  four-score  mark. 
I  remember  that  the  Psalmist  refers 
to  the  strength  which  brings  us  to 
eighty  years  as  *  labor  and  sorrow/ 
and  yet,  curiously  enough,  I  have  no 
sensation  which  squares  with  his  dic- 
tum. To  be  sure,  I  am  not  robust.  I 
do  not  see  as  clearly  as  of  yore,  and 
Tom  avers  that  I  am  slightly  deaf. 
But  I  'm  as  full  of  the  joy  of  living  as 
ever.  There 's  more  beauty  in  the  sun- 
set than  there  used  to  be,  and  the  songs 
of  the  birds,  if  heard  more  faintly,  have 
a  sweeter  cadence.  Spring  has  never 
before  borne  such  fragrance  in  upon 
me,  nor  have  I  ever  perceived  as  great 
a  glory  in  the  autumn  or  found  more 
comfort  in  the  winter. 

If  I  have  retired  from  active  busi- 
ness, it  is  not  because  of  incapacity. 
I  notice,  indeed,  that  when  a  particu- 
larly perplexing  problem  faces  Tom, 
who  succeeded  me  at  the  store,  he 
comes  to  Father  for  advice,  and  to  this 
date  he  has  rarely  failed  to  heed  my 
counsel.  But  why  should  I  toil  on  in 
the  market-place?  My  modest  fortune 
suffices.  It  gives  me  books,  lectures, 
art,  and  the  theatre.  It  affords  me  the 
leisure  for  which  I  have  toiled  all  my 
life  long,  the  leisure  really  to  busy  my- 
self with  the  big  things  which  face  me 
as  a  man.  And  I  submit  that  there  is 
a  joy  in  it  all  that  is  very  far  removed 
from  'labor  and  sorrow.' 

Seventy-three.  Ah,  how  the  years 
are  flying!  It  seems  hardly  a  month 


from  birthday  to  birthday.  I  remem- 
ber to  have  heard  my  grandfather 
make  this  remark.  I  was  a  child  then 
and  the  words  seemed  unbelievable. 
Years  afterwards,  Father,  sitting  by 
the  fireside,  used  to  express  the  same 
sentiment  very  frequently.  I  under- 
stood it  more  perfectly  by  that  time, 
for  right  in  the  thick  of  business  strife 
the  days  were  all  too  short  for  me.  But 
now  that  I've  taken  my  place  at  the 
fireside,  and  the  shadows  seem  to  be 
lengthening,  I  understand  to  the  full 
just  how  swiftly  the  years  are  slipping 

by. 

'A  thousand  years  in  thy  sight,' 
said  one  of  old,  'are  but  as  yesterday 
when  it  is  passed  and  a  watch  in  the 
night/  That  is  God's  outlook  upon 
time.  He  has  always  lived.  He  will 
live  forever.  To  Him  there  is  no  past, 
no  future,  only  one  eternal  NOW.  It 
is  because  He  has  always  been,  that  the 
Eternal  Presence  looks  upon  a  thou- 
sand years  as  'a  watch  in  the  night/ 
And  the  longer  we  finite  beings  exist, 
so  I  take  it,  the  shorter  the  years  to 
our  view.  It  is  not  that  our  days  are 
drawing  to  an  end  that  we  have  this 
outlook, — it  is  that  they  are  receding 
from  a  beginning,  that  they  are  piling, 
one  upon  the  other,  until  each  seems 
small  in  comparison  with  the  mass.  At 
three-score  and  thirteen,  a  year  is  but 
a  seventy-third.  Indeed,  I  am.  more 
and  more  firmly  convinced  that  with 
advancing  years  one  approaches,  as 
nearly  as  a  finite  being  can,  the  point 
of  view  from  which  the  Infinite  One 
regards  time,  and  in  all  reverence  I 

123 


124 


AT  SEVENTY-THREE  AND  BEYOND 


cannot  avoid  the  conviction  that  the 
shortness  of  the  years  as  one  looks  at 
them  in  old  age  demonstrates  one's 
kinship  to  the  Almighty,  and  is  an  ear- 
nest of  unending  life. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Smithers,  who 
preaches  hell-fire  and  damnation  to  a 
little  congregation  of  people  who  are 
frightened  into  denying  themselves  the 
brightness  of  living  that  they  may  'get 
to  heaven'  sometime,  will  hardly  see 
any  logic  in  my  thought.  Deacon 
Jones  would  regard  it  as  akin  to  blas- 
phemy; but  a  quiet  game  of  whist  is 
*  gambling'  to  Deacon  Jones.  It  agon- 
izes his  soul  to  see  the  young  folks 
dance,  and  I '  ve  more  than  once  heard 
him  say  how  hard  it  is  for  'the  Lord 
to  save  an  old  man.'  These  good  peo- 
ple may  be  right,  although  it  would 
grieve  me  to  discover  it;  and  yet,  I 
can't  help  thinking  that  time  seems 
shorter  to  me  in  old  age  because  the 
years  have  brought  me  into  at  least  a 
subconscious  realization  of  my  im- 
mortality. 

The  reader  needs  not  to  be  told  that 
I  have  busied  myself  with  selling  hard- 
ware most  of  my  life  rather  than  in 
delving  into  theology  or  metaphysics. 
My  reading  has  been  limited  and  de- 
sultory, and  I  dare  not  believe  that  I '  ve 
thought  out  any  solution  for  the  great- 
est of  the  problems  that  confront  me 
in  common  with  all  my  kind.  My  in- 
timates know  me  as  a  practical  man 
and  are  kind  enough  to  credit  me 
with  more  common  sense  than,  I  fear,  I 
really  possess.  I  am  fully  conscious  of 
my  limitations;  more  so,  perhaps,  than 
these  pages  would  indicate.  Neverthe- 
less, the  very  fact  that  weeks  get  more 
and  more  like  days  to  me  as  the  years 
multiply,  and  days  seem  to  shrink  into 
hours,  warms  my  old  heart  with  what 
I  believe  to  be  an  assurance  of  unend- 
ing existence. 

That  assurance  strengthens,  too, 
when,  looking  within,  I  am  able  to  dis- 


cover no  trace  whatever  of  decay. 
That  is  tp  say,  I  feel  as  young  as  I  did 
at  forty,  at  twenty,  at  ten.  In  speak- 
ing of  age,  we  invariably  make  the 
mistake  of  thinking  only  of  the  body. 
When  I  wrote  just  now,  'I  am  seventy- 
three  to-day,'  I  meant  only,  of  course, 
that  that  is  the  age  of  my  physical 
being.  There  is  no  assurance  that  I  am 
not  centuries  older.  I  do  not  dabble 
in  the  occult,  and  cannot  express  my- 
self with  scientific  exactness.  I  feel 
very  timid  about  venturing  an  opinion 
on  matters  concerning  which  so  many 
wiser  than  I  are  in  doubt,  but  dares 
any  one  say  that  his  life  began  in  his 
mother's  womb  or  that  it  ends  at  the 
grave?  If  so,  how  does  he  know  it? 

When  I  say  that  I  do  not  feel  old,  I 
mean  I,  not  my  body.  My  body  is 
not  I.  If  it  is,  why  do  I  say  my  body? 
I  speak  of  my  hands,  my  feet,  my  eyes, 
my  tongue,  my  stomach,  just  as  I  do  of 
my  spectacles,  my  cane,  my  clothing, 
my  store.  These  things  belong  to  me. 
They  are  my  tools.  I  use  them  as  I  see 
fit  in  accomplishing  the  purposes  of 
everyday  life.  Into  the  warp  and  woof 
of  our  very  language  is  thus  woven  the 
divine  conception  of  our  being.  It  is  an 
interesting  fact  that  the  materialist 
rarely  converses  for  an  hour  without 
unconsciously  denying  his  creed.  No 
matter  what  one's  professed  faith,  his 
everyday  language  is  an  acknowledg- 
ment that,  however  closely  he  may  be 
bound  to  the  material  and  however 
dependent  thereupon,  he,  himself,  is 
not  material. 

As  the  body  ages,  and  it  ages  rapidly, 
of  course,  it  is  subject  to  a  multitude 
of  infirmities,  most  of  which  are  rare 
in  its  youth.  We  have  grown  accus- 
tomed to  associating  these  infirmities 
with  old  age,  therefore,  and  are  quite 
likely  to  view  their  presence  as  a  de- 
monstration of  advancing  years.  Such 
indeed  it  is,  but  only  in  relation  to  the 
body.  'I  feel  old,'  is  a  very  common 


AT  SEVENTY-THREE  AND  BEYOND 


125 


expression,  but  one  which  is  very  far 
from  the  exact  truth.  To  illustrate:  I 
notice  that  the  rheumatism  grips  my 
shoulder  quite  frequently  of  late, 
especially  in  damp  weather,  although 
such  an  attack  was  quite  unknown  in 
the  first  sixty  years  of  my  life.  Old 
age?  Of  the  body,  perhaps,  but  not  of 
me.  Tom  had  the  rheumatism  when 
he  was  barely  fifteen.  The  sensation 
was  to  him  precisely  what  it  is  to  me 
and  the  treatment  differed  very  little, 
if  at  all.  I  need  spectacles  now,  but 
many  children  need  them,  too.  My 
step  is  not  as  sure  as  it  used  to  be,  but 
so  far  as  I  can  observe,  the  effect  is  the 
same  as  it  would  have  been  had  some 
weakness  attacked  my  legs  fifty  years 
ago.  My  hair  is  thin  and  white,  but 
I  know  many  bald  heads  under  thirty, 
and  young  men  have  turned  gray  over 
night. 

And  so  I  might  run  through  the  list 
of  the  so-called  infirmities  of  age,  but 
it  is  enough  to  say  that  they  are  purely 
bodily  and  by  no  means  confined  to 
those  who  have  passed  the  meridian  of 
life.  They  do  not  affect  me,  myself,  in 
any  way  differently  from  what  they 
would  do  were  I  forty,  or  in  the  cradle. 
They  occasion  inconvenience,  pain, 
chagrin,  just  as  they  would  have  done 
at  any  period.  Through  it  all  I  sur- 
vive, consciously  the  same  man  that  I 
have  been  all  along.  And  it  is  this  con- 
sciousness of  an  unchanged  and  un- 
changing I,  which  gives  me  the  very 
strongest  assurance  of  the  immortality 
which  all  men  crave. 

I  do  not  deny  for  a  moment  that  my 
tastes  and  habits  have  been  greatly 
modified  during  the  years.  I  go  to  the 
theatre  more  rarely  now,  and  do  not 
enjoy  the  comedies  that  once  capti- 
vated me.  An  occasional  evening  at 
whist  quite  fills  the  place  of  the  sports 
to  which  I  was  formerly  addicted.  I 
find  an  increasing  interest  in  literature 
of  the  solid  sort,  although  my  fond- 


ness for  the  humorists  does  not  abate. 
Serious  conversation  appeals  to  me 
more  forcibly  than  the  brightness  and 
repartee  I  loved  in  my  youth.  If  my 
circle  of  friends  is  narrower  than  of 
yore,  those  within  it  are  closer  to  my 
heart.  My  love  is  the  stronger  because 
it  has  been  purged  of  its  passion  and  I 
find  it  increasingly  difficult  to  harbor 
hatred. 

But  in  all  these  changes  and  many 
others  to  which  I  might  refer  there  is 
no  sense  of  age  or  decay.  They  have 
characterized  every  stage  of  my  life. 
At  twenty  I  was  fond  of  hunting.  Five 
years  later  no  angler  was  more  enthu- 
siastic than  I.  Photography  captiva- 
ted me  at  thirty.  I  have  always  rid- 
den hobbies  and  cannot  bring  myself 
to  believe  that  the  substitution  of  one 
of  them  for  another  was  at  all  due  to 
the  period  of  life  at  which  the  change 
was  made.  There  has  been  no  sensa- 
tion of  ageing  in  it  all.  To  myself  I  still 
seem  young,  and  every  year  strength- 
ens the  conviction  that  this  sense  of 
youth  is  to  remain  forever. 

It  happens  to  some  that  bodily  decay 
reaches  a  point  which  renders  partici- 
pation in  the  activities  of  life  impossi- 
ble. The  senses  no  longer  guide.  The 
faculties  fail.  The  whole  brain  deterio- 
rates. The  unfortunate  victim  becomes 
imbecile  to  all  appearance  and  must  be 
cared  for  as  if  he  really  were.  This 
catastrophe  is  usually  associated  with 
extreme  old  age,  although  it  may  hap- 
pen at  any  time,  and  is  not  infrequently 
used  to  point  the  argument  of  the  ma- 
terialist. At  first  blush,  too,  it  seems 
to  serve  the  purpose  admirably. 

I  have  not  reached  that  deplorable 
condition.  I  pray  the  good  Father  that 
I  never  may.  My  dread  of  it  is  not 
because  of  any  fear  that  in  decrepitude 
I  shall  begin  to  feel  age.  It  arises  rather 
from  an  aversion  to  the  imprisonment 
of  myself  in  the  ruins  of  a  body  so  old 
that  it  is  tumbling  down  and  rotten. 


126 


AT  SEVENTY-THREE  AND  BEYOND 


The  tools  we  work  with  are  clumsy 
at  best.  The  windows  through  which 
we  view  the  world  are  very  small  and 
clouded.  The  acutest  of  our  senses  is 
blunt  indeed.  We  are  everywhere  de- 
barred from  light  and  sweetness  and 
beauty.  We  are  slow  and  awkward 
and  halting.  Our  ideals  are  above  and 
beyond  us.  We  fall  short  of  our  ambi- 
tions, no  matter  how  we  try.  All  this 
is  inevitable  because  the  body  in  which 
we  are  housed  and  with  which  we  labor 
is  nothing  but  matter.  If  I  am  so  cir- 
cumscribed when  my  physical  being  is 
in  comparative  vigor,  I  often  ask  my- 
self, what  darkness  will  descend  upon 
me  when  it  crumbles  into  the  ruins  of 
senility?  It  is  not  a  pleasant  question, 
except  that  it  takes  for  granted  the 
undying  youth  of  him  who  asks  it. 

4  Second  childhood/  this  tumbling 
down  of  the  body  is  called,  and  the 
term  is  entirely  accurate.  In  infancy 
and  senility  the  man  prattles  and  tot- 
ters and  must  be  cared  for  by  others. 
The  chief  difference  is  that  the  body  of 
the  baby  is  weak  because  of  its  imma- 
turity, while  that  of  the  old  man  fails 
by  reason  of  age.  In  one  the  materials 
are  being  assembled,  in  the  other  they 
are  falling  apart.  But  it  is  the  same 
man.  This  is  the  thought  that  I  hug 
to  my  soul  until  that  soul  glows  with 
the  hope  of  eternal  life.  In  infancy, 
youth,  manhood,  and  old  age,  man  is 
conscious  of  all  the  ills  due  to  his  physi- 
cal environment,  but  down  in  the 
depths  of  his  inner  self  is  the  sense  of 
unfading  youth. 

And  this  sense  is  certainly  strength- 
ened by  the  analogies  of  the  case, 
which  seem  to  show  that  a  second  man- 
hood follows  the  second  childhood. 
That  which  succeeds  the  first  is  shut  in 
by  the  body,  then  building,  and  con- 
ditioned by  it  at  every  turn.  The  sec- 
ond escapes  from  the  ruined  tenement 
to  exercise  its  functions  immediately. 
That  is  to  say,  it  sees  without  eyes, 


runs  without  feet,  and  knows  without 
a  brain.  This,  I  take  it,  is  what  the 
good  book  means  when  in  discussing 
the  resurrection  it  says,  'it  is  raised  a 
spiritual  body.' 

The  more  I  ponder  these  matters,  — 
and  at  seventy-three  one  is  intensely 
interested  in  the  unknown  realities 
which  he  is  approaching,  —  the  strong- 
er is  my  conviction  that  the  infirmities 
of  age  are  but  incidents  necessary  to 
that  largeness  of  life  which  lies  before 
me.  The  man  in  a  dungeon  does  not 
complain  when  the  windows  dim,  the 
bolts  and  chains  corrode,  the  walls 
crumble,  and  the  roof  begins  to  fall. 
These  changes  may  entail  much  incon- 
venience and  acute  pain,  but  he  wel- 
comes them  as  the  precursors  of  the 
liberty  which  means  life  to  him. 

It  is  even  so  with  me,  a  youth  shut 
up  in  an  old  body.  Failing  eyes  tell 
me  of  the  day  when  I  shall  see  what 
neither  telescope  nor  microscope  re- 
veals to  me  now.  This  dullness  of  hear- 
ing prophesies  the  hour  when  such 
harmony  as  the  masters  never  dreamed 
will  break  in  upon  me.  As  my  limbs 
fail  I  turn  to  the  time  when  my  move- 
ments will  not  be  hampered  by  legs 
and  feet.  Better  than  all,  as  I  sit  here 
trying  to  think  out  these  things,  just 
as  millions  upon  millions  of  old  men 
have  tried  before  me,  I  joy  in  the 
thought  that  when  the  brain  has  per- 
ished, I,  myself,  face  to  face  with  na- 
ked truth,  shall  know. 

To  others  this  may  seem  only  the 
vagrant  fancy  of  a  mind  already  im- 
paired by  the  ravages  of  time.  Per- 
haps there  is  little  countenance  for  it 
in  the  books.  I  do  not  doubt  that  any 
of  the  scientists  or  theologians  could 
easily  show  that  it  lacks  foundation  in 
logic.  It  satisfies  me,  however,  and  in 
a  matter  so  vitally  personal,  that  is  the 
chief  consideration  after  all.  It  enables 
me  to  endure  advancing  infirmities,  if 
not  cheerfully,  at  least  with  compo- 


N 


IN  THOSE  DAYS 


127 


sure.   Are  they  not  the  forerunners  of     fullness  of  life.  In  a  word,  my  sense  of 


immortal  health?  If  I  do  not  wish  to 
die,  I  have  no'fear  of  death,  because  I 
look  upon  it  as  only  the  removal  of  the 


youth  at  seventy-three  not  only  assures 
me  of  youth  never  ending,  but  fills  me 
with  hope  that  makes  even  extreme  old 


last  barrier  between  me  and  the  very     age  gentle  and  full  of  cheer. 


IN  THOSE  DAYS 


BY  ROBERT  M.   GAY 


RIDING  one  day  from  Baltimore  to 
New  York,  I  became  acquainted  with 
a  young  man  who  sold  gas-meters.  He 
was  a  traveling-man,  representing  a 
firm  in  Chicago,  and  had  traversed  the 
country  from  corner  to  corner  a  dozen 
times.  Within  five  minutes  after  I  had 
accommodated  him  with  a  match,  I 
had  learned  that  he  sold  gas-meters. 
He  was  very  open  about  it,  and  gladly 
told  me  how  many  he  had  sold  in  the 
last  month,  and  how  the  eighty-cent 
rate  would  affect  his  sales,  and  how 
natural  gas  might  be  piped  to  the  city 
from  West  Virginia.  Between  Balti- 
more and  Havre  de  Grace  I  learned  a 
great  deal  about  meters,  and  between 
Havre  de  Grace  and  Wilmington  a 
great  deal  about  gas.  I  began  to  see 
how  enormously  important  gas  and 
gas-meters  are.  I,  who  had  always 
hated  the  sight  of  a  gas-tank,  began  to 
feel  a  new  respect  for  one ;  after  having 
for  years  muttered  maledictions  upon 
the  gas-meter,  I  began  to  see  that  in 
some  eyes  it  might  be  a  thing  of  beauty. 

As  we  were  'leaving  Wilmington,  re- 
alizing perhaps  that  the  conversation 
had  thus  far  been  a  monologue,  the 
young  man  turned  to  me  and  asked, 
And  what  is  your  line?'  I  had  felt 
that  the  question  was  bound  to  come, 


and,  casting  about  for  the  safest  an- 
swer, had  decided  to  be  a  drummer  for 
typewriters,  my  usual  hypothetical 
profession  under  such  circumstances. 
Some  dormant  monitor  within  me,  how- 
ever, suddenly  awoke. 

'lam  a  teacher,'  I  answered,  weakly. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

'For  a  fact/  said  he,  then,  'I'd  never 
have  known  it. ' 

Since  this  was  evidently  intended  as 
a  compliment,  I  murmured  my  thanks. 

'And  how  do  you  like  teaching?'  he 
asked,  after  a  while,  forcing  an  ap- 
pearance of  interest. 

'Why,'  replied  I,  'it  might  be  worse.' 

'Not  much  money  in  it,  is  there?' 

'No.   Not  very  much.' 

There  was  again  a  pause. 

'Don't  you  find,*  he  ventured  at 
last,  'that  you, — well,  that  a  teacher 
is  at  a  —  at  a  disadvantage  with  other 
people;  that  is,  that  other  people  are 
a  —  are  a  little,  well,  a  little  afraid  in 
the  presence  of  a  ...  Oh,  I  don't  know 
how  to  put  it.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
That  there  is  a  kind  of  restraint?' 

'I  suppose,'  said  I,  'that  that  de- 
pends partly  on  the  other  people.' 

'Why,  yes,'  he  replied,  as  if  the  idea 
were  new  to  him,  'I  suppose  it  does.' 

He  fell  into  thought.    He  appeared 


128 


IN  THOSE  DAYS 


to  be  considering  something  seriously. 
There  was  certainly  a  constraint  be- 
tween us  until  he  left  me  at  Philadel- 
phia. 

This  turn  of  our  conversation  was 
no  new  thing  to  me.  *  Why,'  I  had  read 
many  years  before  in  Charles  Lamb, 
'why  are  we  never  quite  at  our  ease  in 
the  presence  of  a  schoolmaster? '  I  had 
read  it  many  a  time  with  a  sinking  at 
the  heart.  *  Because  we  are  conscious,' 
Lamb  answers  his  own  question,  'that 
he  is  not  quite  at  his  ease  in  ours.  .  .  . 
He  is  under  the  restraint  of  a  formal 
and  didactic  hypocrisy  in  company, 
as  a  clergyman  is  under  a  moral  one. 
He  can  no  more  let  his  intellect  loose 
in  society,  than  the  other  can  his  in- 
clinations. —  He  is  forlorn  among  his 
co-evals;  his  juniors  cannot  be  his 
friends.' 

I  have  the  passage  marked  with  a 
black  pencil  in  my  copy  of  the  Essays. 
J  so  marked  it  many  years  ago.  It  used 
to  worry  me  a  good  deal.  To  be  de- 
livered from  the  professorial  manner 
came  to  be  a  part  of  my  private  liturgy. 
I  shall  never  forget  my  discouragement 
when  a  red-haired  urchin  with  whom  I 
struck  acquaintance  on  the  towpath 
of  the  Morris  and  Essex  Canal  told  me 
that  he  knew  that  I  was  a  teacher,  al- 
though he  could  not  tell  why.  That 
was  in  my  second  year  of  teaching,  and 
I  felt  like  a  man  threatened  with  grad- 
ual ossification. 

In  the  boarding-school  in  which  I 
was  at  the  time  temporarily  impris- 
oned, we  teachers  were  all  haunted  by 
this  impalpable  terror.  One  of  us 
sought  to  escape  by  wearing  brilliant 
waistcoats  and  hose;  another,  by  edu- 
cating his  taste  in  liqueurs  and  cigars; 
a  third,  by  studying  the  stock-market 
reports  and  gambling  feebly  when  his 
salary  permitted. 

We  were  very  young.  On  moonlight 
nights  we  all  went  down  to  the  bridge 
on  the  edge  of  the  town  and  smoked 


our  pipes  and  sang  *  Good-night,  ladies ' 
and  danced  clog-dances,  merely  to 
prove  to  ourselves  that  no  insidious 
pedagogical  symptoms  were  as  yet  ap- 
pearing in  us.  We  cultivated  a  bluff 
manner  among  ourselves,  and  prac- 
ticed slang.  On  our  tramps  we  avoided 
the  well-traveled  roads,  as  if  a  boy 
were  a  leper  and  to  meet  one  a  con- 
tamination. As  for  myself,  I  used  to 
steal  out  into  the  back  pasture  and 
climb  up  into  an  oak  tree.  Although  I 
never  found  a  boy  up  there,  one  had 
cut  his  initials  intertwined  with  hearts 
and  other  erotic  carvings.  I  used  fur- 
tively to  go  to  the  shore  of  a  little  river 
near  the  school,  and  sit  down  among 
the  snakes  and  rhododendrons,  and 
fish.  I  have  caught  fifty  perch  and 
sunnies  there  in  an  afternoon,  return- 
ing them  all  to  their  element,  none  the 
worse  save  for  a  pricked  lip.  'I  was 
fain  of  their  fellowship,  fain ' ;  yet  even 
here  boys  went  hallooing  by  on  the 
road  behind  me  in  couples  and  packs, 
little  dreaming  that  I  lay  perdu  so  near. 
We  had  a  theory,  I  believe,  that  con- 
stant association  with  the  immature 
mind  would  end  by  stunting  ours;  yet 
we  never  spoke  of  the  fear  that  was  at 
our  hearts.  Condemned  as  we  were  to 
associate  for  some  twelve  hours  a  day 
with  the  immature  mind,  and  torn  by 
the  fear  of  which  I  have  just  spoken, 
and  the  other  fear  of  inadvertently  ac- 
quiring the  professorial  manner,  it  is 
no  wonder  if  we  gave  ourselves  up  to 
strange  excesses.  We  organized  a  base- 
ball team,  known  as  the  Sundowners 
(because  we  played  only  at  sunset), 
and  practiced  of  an  evening  before  the 
assembled  school,  which  cheered  or 
groaned  as  we  caught  or  muffed  a  ball. 
That  there  was  more  groaning  than 
cheering  did  not  deter  us;  we  were  at 
least  unbending,  combatting  the  im- 
putations which  we  feared.  We  culti- 
vated the  manly  arts  of  boxing  and 
wrestling,  and  submitted  to  having  our 


IN  THOSE  DAYS 


129 


faces  disfigured  and  our  bones  made 
sore,  rather  than  be  accused  of  effemi- 
nacy or  unseemly  dignity.  We  were 
always  at  feud  with  the  head-master  on 
the  question  of  smoking,  and  were  not 
averse  to  having  it  whispered  that  we 
were  rather  fast  when  we  were  away 
from  school. 

In  boarding-school  you  have  boys 
on  all  sides  of  you,  and  above  and  be- 
low; sometimes  in  your  midst.  You 
take  them  with  your  meals;  you  pilot 
them  to  church  and  listen  to  them  sing 
while  their  voices  are  changing;  you 
put  them  to  bed,  and  attempt  to  keep 
them  there;  in  the  drear  hour  of  night, 
when  the  stars  are  weeping,  you  fly  to 
the  end  of  the  corridor  to  convince  them 
that  the  season  is  unpropitious  for  a 
*  shirt-tail  race'  up  and  down  the  hall. 

I  used  now  and  then  to  find  'Fat' 
Hendricks  asleep  in  my  bed.  Over- 
come with  fatigue  when  far  from  his 
room,  and  happening  to  be  before  my 
door,  he  had  quietly  turned  in.  *  Horse ' 
Peddy  was  fond  of  my  tobacco,  and, 
under  pretext  of  discussing  opera  and 
horse-racing  with  me,  dropped  in  at 
all  hours  to  smoke  it.  *  Lighthouse  Liz ' 
McCutcheon,  always  hungry,  spent 
most  of  his  leisure  time  foraging.  He 
was  usually  missing  from  his  room,  and 
it  was  one  of  my  duties  to  find  him. 
On  such  occasions,  I  first  examined  the 
pantry  window,  and  next  the  vegetable 
garden.  When  sharp  set,  he  would  eat 
a  turnip  or  a  head  of  lettuce.  'Sport- 
ing Life'  Wilmer  was  also  peripatetic, 
but  his  wanderings  had  no  perceptible 
object.  One  could  lead  him  gently 
back  to  his  room  half  a  dozen  times 
during  a  study-hour;  one  could  fly  into 
a  rage  over  him,  and  thunder  threats 
and  imprecations ;  one  could  argue,  flat- 
ter, cajole;  but  he  continued  placidly 
to  wander,  singing  softly  in  a  minor  key, 
a  mark  for  flying  shoes,  rubbers,  books, 
oranges,  pillows,  out  of  every  door  that 
he  passed. 
VOL.  114  -  NO.  1 


It  was  a  busy  life,  and  we  had  little 
time  to  ponder  on  the  psychology  and 
ethics  of  teaching.  It  has  been  a  ques- 
tion with  me  ever  since  whether  our  in- 
fluence on  our  pupils  was  on  the  whole 
good  or  bad;  but  the  question  never 
occurred  to  us  then.  I  shall  never  for- 
get how,  on  the  night  of  my  arrival  at 
the  school,  fresh  from  college,  green- 
ly fresh,  as  we  sat  forlorn  on  the  little 
side  porch  with  our  feet  on  the  railing, 
I  expressed  my  conviction  that  teach- 
ing is  the  noblest  of  professions;  and 
how  T ,  the  assistant  head-mas- 
ter, young  in  years  but  old  in  guile,  re- 
plied, dryly,  'That  may  be,  as  an  ab- 
stract proposition;  but,  as  a  concrete 
case,  if  you  care  to  stay  here  long 
you'd  better  forget  it.' 

I  soon  perceived  the  force  of  his  re- 
mark. The  boys,  I  soon  learned,  were 
not  inclined  to  look  up  to  me  as  a  men- 
tor and  guide.  I  was  to  be  tolerated 
so  long  as  I  did  not  encroach  too  far 
upon  their  liberties.  Instruction  was 
to  be  confined  strictly  to  the  class- 
room. Rules  were  made  to  be  broken, 
and  an  untimely  enforcement  of  one 
was  looked  upon  as  a  breach  of  eti- 
quette. 

By  the  end  of  the  second  week,  I  had 
learned  that  discipline  was  a  kind  of 
game  in  which  the  teacher  always 
played  against  a  handicap.  He  must 
never  resort  to  subterfuge,  yet  was  al- 
ways the  object  of  subterfuge.  The 
boys  might  sneak  past  his  door  and 
peep  through  the  keyhole,  but  if  he 
were  caught  sneaking  by  their  doors  or 
peeping  through  their  keyholes,  it  was 
all  over  with  him. 

Few  of  us  stayed  long.  Three  left 
that  first  year,  suddenly,  and  were 
heard  of  no  more.  Those  who  stayed 
took  up  the  work  of  the  departed  and 
profited  by  their  mistakes.  I  some- 
times think  that  the  best  teachers,  in 
the  usual  acceptation  of  the  term, 
all  left.  Those  who  remained  learned 


130 


IN  THOSE  DAYS 


to  obtrude  their  profession  as  little  as 
might  be  upon  their  charges. 

This  all  seems  very  amusing  now, 
but  was  a  serious  matter  to  us  then. 
How  to  insinuate  knowledge  without 
an  appearance  of  the  pedagogue  was 
a  question  not  easily  answered ;  yet  we 
solved  the  problem  as  best  we  could 
according  to  our  temperaments,  or 
gave  it  up  and  left.  I  think  that  the 
teacher  who  had  the  hardest  time  of  all 
was  one  who  had  taken  courses  at  col- 
lege in  pedagogical  method.  His  dis- 
illusionment was  a  perfect  pilgrim's 
progress  for  difficulty.  He  knew  the 
psychology  of  the  classroom,  the  theo- 
ries of  attention  and  interest,  and  all 
the  best  ways  of  presenting  a  subject; 
yet  at  his  first  collision  with  a  class  he 
discovered  a  number  of  new  principles. 
The  boys  declined  to  behave  accord- 
ing to  the  textbooks.  One  day,  twenty 
brawny  youngsters  entered  his  class- 
room bearing  bouquets  of  daisies  and 
wild  parsnip  '  for  teacher ' ;  another  day 
a  boy,  who  chose  to  consider  himself 
insulted,  offered  to  fight.  The  teacher 
failed  to  rise  to  either  occasion.  He 
hesitated,  and  was  lost.  He  lingered  on 
till  nearly  Easter,  and  then  left  without 
elaborate  farewells. 

We  who  remained  behind  on  the  line 
of  battle  concluded  that  pedagogy  as  a 
science  is  useless.  So  heretical  a  con- 
clusion was  excusable.  We  lived  by 
our  wits,  learning  by  bitter  experience 
and  sly  experiment.  No  one  of  us  knew 
when  he  might  have  to  take  the  same 
road  that  the  fugitive  had  taken.  We 
had  no  illusions.  We  were  studying  the 
young  idea  in  the  rough,  and  had  dis- 
covered that  the  best  method  is  to  have 
none.  That  moral  suasion  had  suc- 
ceeded with  Jenkins  was  no  proof  that 
it  would  succeed  with  Einstein.  That 
'  campusing '  had  cured  Green's  mania 
for  wandering  out  o'  nights  did  not 
blind  us  to  the  fact  that  it  might  serve 
only  to  aggravate  Brown's  complaint. 


When  we  had  become  thoroughly 
sophisticated,  we  discovered  that  boy- 
psychology  is  really  very  simple. 
*  Stunts'  of  all  sorts,  we  found,  were 
readily  classified  under  a  few  genera. 
Hanging  the  school  dinner-bell  in  a 
tree,  which  had  seemed  a  very  original 
piece  of  humor  on  the  first  occasion, 
produced  in  us  a  sensation  of  lassitude 
on  the  sixth.  Chasing  an  imaginary 
rat  at  dead  of  night,  putting  a  dead 
snake  or  a  boxful  of  June-bugs  in  a  bed, 
stealing  the  Wednesday  or  Sunday  ice- 
cream, all  soon  lost  for  us  the  charm 
of  newness,  though  they  never  ceased 
to  throw  the  boys  into  transports  of 
felicity. 

This  conservatism  in  the  boys,  due, 
I  suppose,  to  a  general  dearth  of  imag- 
ination, helped  us  a  good  deal.  T , 

through  wide  experience,  had  developed 
clairvoyant  powers  and  could  tell  by 
the  tilt  of  a.  boy's  chin  or  the  light  in  a 
boy's  eye  just  which  in  the  category  of 
stunts  that  boy  was  about  to  attempt. 
His  prescience  was  uncanny.  He  knew, 
almost  before  the  boys  themselves,  that 
the  entire  Top  Floor  was  contempla- 
ting a  party  under  the  bridge  at  mid- 
night, or  that  the  Second  Floor  Wing 
was  playing  poker.  His  methods  of 
dealing  with  such  aberrations  were  more 
original  than  the  aberrations  them- 
selves. Once  he  fastened  a  tub  of  water 
to  the  foot  of  the  fire-escape  so  that  the 
boys,  clandestinely  descending,  might 
fall  in;  once  he  scared  McCutcheon, 
foraging  as  usual,  almost  out  of  his 
wits  by  impersonating  a  burglar  armed 
with  a  bowie  knife. 

What  the  boys  lacked  in  imagina- 
tion they  made  up  in  humor;  and  such 
an  appeal  to  their  sense  of  a  good  joke 
was  the  shortest  road  to  their  hearts. 
However  ingratiating  a  teacher's  pre- 
sence might  be,  however  awe-inspiring 
his  physique,  however  brilliant  his  ath- 
letic record,  all  went  for  little  unless 
he  was  possessed  of  a  certain  humor- 


IN  THOSE  DAYS 


131 


ous  shrewdness.  We  laughed  a  good 
deal  in  those  days,  and  wriggled  out  of 
many  a  tight  place  by  turning  a  jest. 
Discipline  came  to  be  a  contest  of  wits, 
an  opposition  of  finesse  to  finesse;  and 
the  loser,  cheerfully  swallowing  his 
chagrin,  learned  to  engineer  more 
skillfully  next  time. 

We  discovered,  too,  that,  contrary 
to  popular  impressions,  boys  are  senti- 
mental. We  played  upon  their  senti- 
mentality. We  cultivated  school-spirit; 
we  wrote  school  songs  and  yells  for 
them;  we  talked  much  of  old  Oak 
Ridge,  using  the  adjective  with  an  en- 
dearing signification;  we  prated  about 
honor;  above  all,  we  encouraged  them 
to  sing. 

I  can  hear  yet  the  direful  chorus  that 
rose  of  an  evening  from  the  side  piazza, 
where  the  entire  school  sat,  voicing  the 
aspirations  of  its  soul  in  'I've  been 
working  on  the  railroad,'  and  'Fare- 
well, farewell,  my  own  true  love,'  — 
direful,  yet  blissful  to  tired  ears  as  the 
crooning  of  babes  or  the  warbling  of 
thrushes  in  the  woods  in  June;  for,  as 
T  - ,  who  was  of  Irish  extraction, 
put  it,  'When  they're  singing,  they're 
working  the  devilment  out  of  their 
systems.'  I  can  hear  yet  the  bleat  of 
Wilder's  shrill  tenor,  and  the  boom- 
boom  of  LafFerty's  double-bass.  Close 
harmony,  the  boys  called  it;  and  they 
loved  to  put  their  heads  together  in 
painful  unison  with  upturned  eyes,  and 
give  forth  such  strains  as  would  have 
made  Pluto  very  glad  to  quite  set  free 
the  half-regained  Eurydice. 

We  of  the  faculty  sang  too,  and  with 
unction.  We  sat  on  the  floor  of  the 
veranda,  as  the  boys  did,  and  let  our 
feet  hang  off  into  space,  and  were  as 
sorry  as  they  when  the  gong  clanged 
for  study-hour.  In  the  pauses  of  the 
song  sounded  the  shrill  persistent  noc- 
turne of  the  little  frogs,  or  'peepers,' 
as  we  called  them,  in  the  stream  down 
by  the  potato-patch;  or  the  mellow 


voices  of  Henry  and  Irwin,  the  colored 
waiters,  chanting  in  the  kitchen  - 

Ah  went  an'  tole  man  lady-love 

The  dream  of  love  was  o'e'; 

She  said  no  mo',  —  jes'  slammed  the  do'  — 

I  think  that  this  is  the  hour  that  rises 
oftenest  to  my  memory. 

Subconsciously  we  of  the  faculty 
were  clinging  desperately  to  our  boy- 
hood, which  was  not  yet  by  any  means 
dimmed  by  distance.  We  all  remem- 
bered what  had  been  our  opinion  of 
teachers  and  were  seeking  to  escape 
having  that  opinion  held  of  us.  We 
had  not  yet  learned  the  strength  of 
tradition,  or  discovered  that  (if  we  re- 
mained in  the  profession)  we  could  no 
more  escape  the  fate  we  dreaded  than 
we  could  by  taking  thought  add  a  cubit 
to  our  stature.  This  awful  realization 
was  reserved  for  our  future. 

I  suppose  that  most  of  the  boys  whom 
I  taught  still  exist  somewhere.  Most 
of  them  must  be  still  alive,  for  they 
seemed  in  those  days  to  be  enjoying  ex- 
cellent health.  There  must  have  been 
some  seven  hundred  of  them.  In  mo- 
ments of  depression  I  used  to  exclaim, 
'What!  will  the  line  stretch  till  the 
crack  o'  doom?'  I  used  to  picture  my- 
self as  a  pedagogical  water-wheel,  turn- 
ing, turning,  in  the  educational  sluice 
through  which,  out  of  the  Everywhere 
into  the  Here,  a  stream  flowed,  agi- 
tated me  for  a  while,  and  disappeared 
into  the  Somewhere,  leaving  nothing 
behind  but  a  few  negligible  bubbles. 
Of  all  the  boys  not  one  has  ever  been 
president  or  governor  or  senator.  If 
one  has  written  a  novel  or  a  play,  I 
have  not  read  it.  Some  appeared  above 
the  surface  of  society  for  a  brief  period 
as  half-backs  or  third  basemen,  but 
only  to  sink  back  into  the  common 
ruck.  This,  again,  used  to  worry  me. 
It  seemed  a  reflection  upon  my  teach- 
ing. But  the  years  bring  the  philo- 
sophic mind.  One  can  but  do  what  one 
can. 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  ASSOCIATED  PRESS 


BY  AN   OBSERVER 


THE  question  of  suppressed  or  taint- 
ed news  has  in  recent  years  been  re- 
peatedly agitated,  and  reformers  of  all 
brands  have  urged  that  the  majority 
of  the  newspapers  of  the  country  are 
business-tied,  —  that  they  are  ruled 
according  to  the  sordid  ambition  of 
the  counting-house  rather  than  by  the 
untrammeled  play  of  the  editorial  in- 
tellect. Capitalism  is  alleged  to  be 
playing  ducks  and  drakes  with  the 
Anglo-Saxon  tradition  of  a  free  Press. 

The  most  important  instance  of  crit- 
icism of  this  kind  is  afforded  by  cur- 
rent attacks  upon  the  Associated  Press. 
The  Associated  Press,  as  everybody 
knows,  is  the  greatest  news-gathering 
organization  in  the  world;  it  supplies 
with  their  daily  general  information 
more  than  half  the  population  of  the 
United  States.  That  it  should  be  ac- 
cused, in  these  times  of  class  contro- 
versy and  misunderstanding,  of  being 
a  *  news  trust,'  and  of  coloring  its  news 
in  the  interest  of  capital  and  reaction, 
is  therefore  an  excessively  grave  mat- 
ter. Yet  in  the  last  six  months  it  has 
been  accused  of  both  those  things.  So 
persistent  has  been  the  assertion  of 
certain  socialists  that  the  Associated 
Press  colors  industrial  news  in  the  in- 
terest of  the  employer,  that  its  man- 
agement has  sued  them  for  libel.  That  it 
is  a  trust  is  the  contention  of  one  of  its 
rivals,  the  Sun  News  Bureau  of  New 
York,  whose  prayer  for  its  dissolution 
under  the  Sherman  law  as  a  monopoly 
in  restraint  of  trade  is  now  before  the 

132 


Department  of  Justice  in  Washington. 

To  the  writer,  the  main  questions  at 
issue,  so  far  as  the  public  is  concerned, 
seem  to  be  as  follows :  — 

1.  Is  the  business  of  collecting  and 
distributing  news  in  bulk  essentially 
monopolistic?  2.  If  it  is,  and  if  it  can 
not  be  satisfactorily  performed  by  an 
unlimited  number  of  competitive  agen- 
cies (that  is,  individual  newspapers),  is 
the  Associated  Press  in  theory  and  prac- 
tice the  best  type  of  centralized  organ- 
ization for  the  purpose? 

The  first  question  presents  little  dif- 
ficulty to  the  practical  journalist.  A 
successful  agency  for  the  gathering  of 
news  must  be  monopolistic.  No  news- 
paper is  rich  enough,  the  attention  of 
no  editor  is  ubiquitous  enough,  to  be 
able  to  collect  at  first  hand  a  tithe  of 
the  multitudinous  items  which  a  pub- 
lic of  catholic  curiosity  expects  to  find 
neatly  arranged  on  its  breakfast  table. 
Take  the  large  journals  of  New  York 
and  Boston,  with  their  columns  of  news 
from  all  parts  of  the  United  States  and 
the  world.  Their  bills  for  telegrams 
and  cablegrams  alone  would  be  prohib- 
itive of  dividends,  to  say  nothing  of 
their  bills  for  the  collection  of  the  news. 
A  public  educated  by  a  number  of 
newspapers  with  their  powers  of  ob- 
servation and  instruction  whetted  to 
superlative  excellence  by  keen  compe- 
tition would  no  doubt  be  ideal;  but  a 
journalistic  Utopia  of  that  kind  is 
no  more  feasible  than  other  Utopias. 
Unlimited  and  unassisted  competition 
between,  say,  six  newspapers  in  the 
same  city  or  district  would  be  about 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   THE   ASSOCIATED   PRESS 


133 


as  feasible  economically  as  unlimited 
competition  between  six  railway  lines 
running  from  Boston  to  New  York.  The 
need  for  a  common  service  of  foreign 
and  national  news  must  therefore  be 
admitted.  To  supply  such  a  service, 
even  in  these  days  of  especially  cheap 
telegraph  and  cable  rates  for  press  mat- 
ter, requires  a  great  deal  of  money,  and 
a  press  agency  has  a  great  deal  of  money 
to  spend  only  if  it  has  also  a  large 
number  of  customers. 

As  the  number  of  newspapers  is  lim- 
ited, it  is  clear  that  the  press  agency 
has  strong  claims  to  be  recognized  as  a 
public  service,  and  to  be  classed  with 
railways,  telephones,  telegraphs,  wa- 
terworks, and  many  other  forms  of  cor- 
porate venture  which  even  the  wildest 
radical  admits  cannot  be  subjected  to 
the  anarchy  of  unrestricted  competi- 
tion. Thus  the  simple  charge  that  the 
Associated  Press  is  a  monopoly  cannot 
be  held  to  condemn  it.  But,  to  invert 
Mr.  Roosevelt's  famous  phrase,  there 
are  bad  trusts  as  well  as  good  trusts. 
That  the  Associated  Press  is  powerful 
enough  to  be  a  bad  trust  if  those  who 
control  it  so  desire  must  be  admitted 
offhand.  It  is  a  tremendously  effective 
organization.  Its  service  is  supplied  to 
more  than  850  of  the  leading  newspa- 
pers, with  a  total  circulation  of,  prob- 
ably, about  20,000,000  copies  a  day. 

The  Associated  Press  is  the  child  of 
the  first  effort  at  cooperative  news-ga- 
thering ever  made.  Back  in  the  forties 
of  the  last  century,  before  the  Atlantic 
cable  was  laid,  newspapers  began  to 
spend  ruinous  sums  in  getting  the  earl- 
iest news  from  Europe.  Those  were  the 
days  in  which  the  first  ship-news  dis- 
patch-boats were  launched  to  meet  ves- 
sels as  they  entered  New  York  harbor, 
and  to  race  back  with  the  news  to  their 
respective  offices.  The  competition 
grew  to  the  extent  even  of  sending  fast 
boats  all  the  way  to  Europe,  and  soon 
became  extravagant  enough  to  cause 


its  collapse.  Then  seven  New  York 
newspapers  organized  a  joint  service. 
This  service,  which  was  meant  primar- 
ily to  cover  European  news,  grew  slow- 
ly to  cover  the  United  States.  News- 
papers in  other  cities  were  taken  into  it 
on  a  reciprocal  basis.  The  news  of  the 
Association  was  supplied  at  that  time 
in  return  for  a  certain  sum,  the  news- 
papers undertaking  on  their  part  to  act 
as  the  local  correspondents  of  the  Asso- 
ciation. A  reciprocal  arrangement  with 
Reuter's,  the  great  European  agency, 
followed,  whereby  it  supplied  the  As- 
sociated Press  with  its  foreign  service, 
and  the  Associated  Press  gave  to  Reu- 
ter's the  use  of  its  American  service. 

Even  so,  the  Associated  Press  did 
not  carry  all  before  it.  In  the  seven- 
ties a  number  of  Western  newspapers 
formed  the  Western  Associated  Press. 
A  period  of  sharp  competition  followed, 
but  in  1882  the  two  associations  signed 
a  treaty  of  partnership  for  ten  years. 
They  were  not  long  in  supreme  control 
of  the  field,  however.  The  Associated 
Press  of  those  days,  like  its  successor 
to-day,  was  a  close  corporation  in  the 
sense  that  its  members  could  and  did 
veto  the  inclusion  of  rivals.  As  the 
West  grew,  new  newspapers  sprang  up 
and  were  kept  in  the  cold  by  their  es- 
tablished rivals.  The  result  was  the 
United  Press,  which  soon  worked  up 
an  effective  service.  The  Associated 
Press  tried  to  cripple  it  by  a  rule  that 
no  newspaper  subscribing  to  its  service 
should  have  access  to  the  news  of  the 
Associated  Press;  but  in  spite  of  the 
rule  the  United  Press  waxed  strong 
and  might  have  become  a  really  for- 
midable competitor  had  not  the  As- 
sociated Press  been  able  to  buy  a 
controlling  share  in  it.  A  harmonious 
business  agreement  followed;  but  in 
accordance  with  the  business  methods 
of  those  days  the  public  was  not  ap- 
prised of  the  agreement  and  when,  in 
1892,  its  existence  became  known  there 


134 


THE  PROBLEM    OF   THE   ASSOCIATED   PRESS 


was  a  row  and  a  readjustment.  The 
United  Press  absorbed  the  old  Asso- 
ciated Press  of  New  York,  and  the 
Western  Associated  Press  again  be- 
came independent.  Renter's  agency 
continued  to  supply  both  associations 
with  its  European  service. 

But  the  ensuing  period  of  competi- 
tion did  not  last.  Three  years  later, 
the  Western  Associated  Press  achieve^ 
a  monopolistic  agreement  with  Reu- 
ter's,  carried  the  war  into  the  United 
Press  territory,  —  the  South  and  the 
country  east  of  the  Alleghanies,  —  got 
a  number  of  New  York  newspapers 
to  join  it,  and  effected  a  national  or- 
ganization. 

ii 

That  national  organization  is,  to  all 
intents  and  purposes,  the  Associated 
Press  of  to-day.  The  only  really  im- 
portant change  has  been  in  its  transfer- 
ence as  a  company  from  the  jurisdic- 
tion of  Illinois  to  that  of  New  York. 
This  change  was  accomplished  in  1900, 
owing  to  an  adverse  judgment  of  the 
Supreme  Court  of  Illinois.  To  grasp 
the  significance  of  that  judgment,  and 
indeed  the  current  agitation  against 
the  Associated  Press,  it  is  necessary 
to  sketch  briefly  its  rules  and  methods. 

The  Associated  Press  is  not  a  com- 
mercial company  in  the  sense  that  it 
is  a  dividend-hunting  concern.  Under 
the  terms  of  its  present  charter,  the 
corporation  '  is  not  to  make  a  profit  or 
to  make  or  declare  dividends  and  is 
not  to  engage  in  the  selling  of  intelli- 
gence nor  traffic  in  the  same.'  It  is 
simply  meant  to  be  the  common  agent 
of  a  number  of  subscribing  newspapers, 
for  the  interchange  of  news  which  each 
collects  in  its  own  district,  and  for  the 
collection  of  news  such  as  subscribers 
cannot  collect  singlehanded :  that  is, 
foreign  news  and  news  concerning  cer- 
tain classes  of  domestic  happenings. 
Its  board  of  directors  consists  of  jour- 


nalists and  publishers  connected  with 
subscribing  newspapers,  who  serve 
without  payment.  Its  executive  work  is 
done  by  a  salaried  general  manager  and 
his  assistants.  It  is  financed  on  a  basis 
of  weekly  assessments  levied  according 
to  their  size  and  custom  upon  newspa- 
pers which  are  members.  The  sum 
thus  collected  comes  to  about  $3,000,- 
000  a  year.  It  is  spent  partly  for  the 
hire  of  special  wires  from  the  telegraph 
companies,  and  partly  for  the  mainten- 
ance of  special  news-collecting  staffs. 
The  mileage  of  leased  wires  is  immense, 
amounting  to  about  22,000  miles  by 
day  and  28,000  miles  by  night.  Nor 
does  the  organization,  as  some  of  its 
critics  seem  to  imagine,  get  any  special 
privileges  from  the  telegraph  com- 
panies. Such  privileges  belonged  to  its 
early  history,  when  business  standards 
were  lower  than  they  are  now. 

The  Associated  Press  has  at  least 
one  member  in  every  city  of  any  size  in 
the  country.  That  in  itself  insures  it  a 
good  news-service;  but,  as  indicated 
above,  it  has  in  all  important  centres  a 
bureau  of  its  own.  Important  events, 
whether  fixed,  like  national  conven- 
tions, or  fortuitous,  like  strikes  or  floods 
or  shipwrecks,  it  covers  more  compre- 
hensively than  any  single  newspaper 
can  do.  Its  foreign  service  is  ubiqui- 
tous. It  no  longer  depends  upon  its 
arrangement  with  Reuter  and  other 
foreign  news-agencies :  early  in  the  pre- 
sent century  the  intelligence  thus  col- 
lected was  found  to  lack  the  American 
point  of  view,  and  an  extensive  foreign 
service  was  formed,  with  local  head- 
quarters in  London,  Paris,  and  other 
European  capitals,  Peking,  Tokyo, 
Mexico,  and  Havana,  and  with  scores 
of  correspondents  all  over  the  world. 

Enough  has  been  said  to  show  that 
its  efficiency  and  the  manner  of  its  or- 
ganization combine  to  give  the  Asso- 
ciated Press  a  distinct  savor  of  mono- 
poly. As  the  Sun  News  Bureau  and 


THE  PROBLEM   OF   THE   ASSOCIATED   PRESS 


135 


other  rivals  have  found,  it  cannot  be  ef- 
fectively competed  against.  Too  many 
of  the  richest  and  most  powerful  news- 
papers belong  to  it. 

Is  it  a  harmful  monopoly?  Its  critic's, 
as  explained  above,  are  busy  proving 
that  it  is.  They  urge  that,  being  a  close 
corporation,  it  stifles  trade  in  the  sell- 
ing of  news,  and  that  it  is  not  impartial. 

The  first  argument  is  based  upon  the 
following  facts.  Membership  in  the 
Associated  Press  is  naturally  valuable. 
An  Associated  Press  franchise  to  a 
newspaper  in  New  York  or  Chicago  is 
worth  from  $50,000  to  $200,000.  To 
share  such  a  privilege  is  not  in  human 
or  commercial  nature.  One  of  the  first 
rules  of  the  organization  is,  therefore, 
that  no  new  newspaper  can  be  admit- 
ted without  the  consent  of  members 
within  competitive  radius.  Naturally, 
that  assent  is  seldom  given.  This 
4 power  of  protest'  has  not  been  kept 
without  a  struggle.  The  law-suit  of 
1900  was  due  to  it.  The  Chicago  Inter- 
Ocean  was  refused  admission,  and  went 
to  law.  The  case  went  to  the  Supreme 
Court  of  Illinois,  which  ruled  that  a 
press  agency  like  the  Associated  Press 
was  in  the  nature  of  a  public  service 
and  as  such  ought  to  be  open  to  every- 
body. To  have  yielded  to  the  judg- 
ment would  have  smashed  the  Asso- 
ciated Press,  so  it  reorganized  under 
the  laws  of  New  York,  with  the  moral 
satisfaction  of  knowing  that  the  courts 
of  Missouri  had  upheld  what  the  Illi- 
nois court  had  condemned.  Its  new 
constitution,  which  is  that  of  to-day, 
keeps  in  effect  the  right  of  protest,  the 
only  difference  being  that  a  disappoint- 
ed applicant  for  membership  gets  the 
not  very  usefu1  consolation  of  being 
able  to  appeal  to  the  association  in  the 
slender  hope  chat  four  fifths  of  the 
members  will  vote  for  his  admission. 

The  practical  working  of  the  rule  has 
undoubtedly  been  monopolistic;  not  so 
much  because  it  has  rendered  the  Asso- 


ciated Press  a  monopoly,  but  because 
it  has  rendered  it  the  mother,  poten- 
tial and  sometimes  actual,  of  countless 
small  monopolies.  On  account  of  the 
size  of  the  United  States  and  the  di- 
verse interests  of  the  various  sections, 
there  is  in  our  country  no  daily  press 
with  a  national  circulation.  Newspa- 
pers depend  primarily  upon  their  local 
constituencies.  In  each  journalistic 
geographic  unit,  if  the  expression  may 
be  allowed,  one  or  more  newspapers 
possess  the  Associated  Press  franchise. 
Such  newspapers  have  in  the  excellent 
and  comparatively  cheap  Associated 
Press  service  an  instrument  for  mono- 
poly hardly  less  valuable  than  a  rebate- 
giving  railway  may  be  to  a  commercial 
corporation.  It  is  also  alleged  by  some 
of  its  enemies  that  the  Associated  Press 
still  at  times  enjoins  its  members 
against  taking  simultaneously  the  ser- 
vice of  its  rival. 

It  is  easy  to  argue  that  because  the 
Associated  Press  is  a  close  corporation 
it  cannot  be  a  monopoly,  and  that  those 
who  are  really  trying  to  make  a  'news 
trust'  of  it  are  they  who  insist  that  it 
ought  to  be  open  to  all  comers;  but  in 
practice  the  argument  is  a  good  deal  of 
a  quibble.  The  facts  remain  that,  as 
shown  above,  an  effective  news-agency 
has  to  be  tremendously  rich ;  that  to  be 
tremendously  rich  it  has  to  have  pros- 
perous constituents ;  and  that  the  large 
majority  of  prosperous  newspapers  of 
the  country  belong  to  the  Associated 
Press.  In  the  writer's  opinion  it  would 
be  virtually  impossible,  as  things  stand, 
for  any  of  the  Associated  Press's  rivals 
to  become  the  Associated  Press's  equal, 
upon  either  a  commercial  or  a  coopera- 
tive basis. 

in 

The  tremendous  importance  of  the 
question  of  the  fairness  of  the  Associat- 
ed Press  service  is  now  apparent.  If  it 
is  deliberately  tainted,  as  the  socialists 


136 


THE  PROBLEM   OF   THE   ASSOCIATED  PRESS 


and  radicals  aver,  there  is  virtually  no 
free  press  in  the  country.  The  question 
is  a  very  delicate  one.  Enemies  of  the 
Associated  Press  assert  in  brief  that  its 
stories  about  industrial  troubles  are 
colored  in  the  interest  of  the  employer; 
that  its  political  news  shows  a  similar 
bias  in  favor  of  the  plutocratic  party, 
whatever  that  may  be;  that,  in  fact,  it 
is  used  as  a  class  organ.  In  the  Presi- 
dential campaign  of  1912,  Mr.  Roose- 
velt's followers  insisted  that  the  doings 
of  their  candidates  were  blanketed.  In 
the  recent  labor  troubles  in  West  Vir- 
ginia, Michigan,  and  Colorado,  the 
friends  of  labor  have  made  the  same 
complaint  of  one-sidedness  in  the  in- 
terest of  the  employer. 

Not  only  do  the  directors  of  the  As- 
sociated Press  deny  all  insinuations 
of  unfairness,  but  they  argue  that  part- 
isanship, and  especially  political  parti- 
sanship, would  be  impossible  in  view 
of  the  multitudinous  shades  of  po- 
litical opinion  represented  by  their 
constituents.  They  can  also  adduce 
with  justice  the  fact  that  in  nearly 
every  campaign  more  than  one  politi- 
cal manager  has  accused  them  of  favor- 
itism, only  to  retract  when  the  heat  of 
the  campaign  was  over.  The  charge  of 
industrial  and  social  partisanship  they 
meet  with  a  point-blank  denial.  It  is 
impossible  in  the  space  of  this  paper  to 
sift  the  evidence  pro  and  con.  Pending 
action  by  the  courts  the  only  safe  thing 
to  do  is  to  look  at  the  question  in  terms 
of  tendencies  rather  than  of  facts. 

The  Associated  Press,  it  has  been 
shown,  tends  to  be  a  monopoly.  Does 
it  tend  to  be  a  one-sided  monopoly? 
The  writer  believes  that  it  does.  He  be- 
lieves that  it  may  fairly  be  said  that 
the  Associated  Press  as  a  corporation  is 
inclined  to  see  things  through  conserv- 
ative spectacles,  and  that  its  corre- 
spondents, despite  the  very  high  aver- 
age of  their  fairness,  tend  to  do  the 
same  thing.  It  could  hardly  be  other- 


wise, although  it  is  possible  that  there 
is  nothing  deliberate  in  the  tendency. 
Nearly  all  of  the  subscribers  to  the 
Associated  Press  are  the  most  respect- 
able and  successful  newspaper  pub- 
lishers in  their  neighborhoods.  They 
belong  to  that  part  of  the  community 
which  has  a  stake  in  the  settled  order 
of  things;  their  managers  are  business 
men  among  business  men;  they  have 
relations  with  the  local  magnates  of  fi- 
nance and  commerce :  naturally,  what- 
ever their  political  views  may  be  (and 
the  majority  of  the  powerful  organs  of 
the  country  are  conservative),  their 
aggregate  influence  tends  to  be  on  the 
side  of  conservatism. 

The  tendency,  too,  is  enhanced  by 
the  articles  under  which  the  Associ- 
ated Press  is  incorporated.  There  is 
special  provision  against  fault-finding 
on  the  part  of  members.  The  corpora- 
tion is  given  the  right  to  expel  a  mem- 
ber *  for  any  conduct  on  his  part  or  the 
part  of  any  one  in  his  employ  or  con- 
nected with  his  newspaper,  which  in  its 
absolute  discretion  it  shall  deem  of 
such  a  character  as  to  be  prejudicial  to 
the  interest  and  welfare  of  the  corpora- 
tion and  its  members,  or  to  justify  such 
expulsion.  The  action  of  the  members 
of  the  corporation  in  such  regard  shall 
be  final,  and  there  shall  be  no  right  of 
appeal  or  review  of  such  action.'  The 
Associated  Press  rightly  prides  itself 
upon  the  standing  of  its  correspond- 
ents. The  majority  of  them  are  drawn 
from  the  ranks  of  the  matter-of-fact 
respectable.  In  the  nature  of  their  call- 
ing they  are  not  likely  to  be  economists 
or  theoretical  politicians.  In  the  case 
of  a  strike,  for  instance,  their  instinct 
might  well  ,be  to  go  to  the  employer 
or  the  employer's  lieutenant  for  news 
rather  than  to  the  strike-leader. 

Whether  the  Associated  Press  is  a 
monopoly  within  the  meaning  of  the 
anti-trust  law,  whether  it  actually 
colors  news  as  the  socialists  aver,  must 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   THE   ASSOCIATED  PRESS 


137 


be  left  to  the  courts  to  decide.1  The 
point  to  be  noticed  here  is  that  it 
might  color  news  if  it  wanted  to,  and 
that  it  does  exercise  certain  monopolis- 
tic functions.  That  in  itself  is  a  dan- 
gerous state  of  affairs :  but  it  seems  to 
be  one  that  might  be  rectified.  The  Il- 
linois Supreme  Court  has  pointed  the 
way.  The  news-agency  is  essentially 
monopolistic.  It  has  much  in  common 
with  the  ordinary  public-utility  mono- 
poly. It  should  therefore  be  treated  like 
a  public-utility  corporation.  It  should 
be  subject  to  government  regulation 
and  supervision,  and  its  service  should 
be  open  to  all  customers.  Were  this 
done  the  Associated  Press  would  be 
altered  but  not  destroyed.  Its  useful 
features  would  surely  remain  and  its 
drawbacks  as  surely  be  lessened.  The 
right  of  protest  would  be  entirely  swept 
away;  membership  would  be  unlimit- 
ed ;  the  threat  of  expulsion  for  fault-find- 
ing would  be  automatically  removed 
'from  above  the  heads  of  members;  all 
newspapers  of  all  shades  would  be  free 
to  apply  the  corrective  of  criticism ;  and 
if  its  news  were  none  the  less  unfair, 
some  arrangement  could  presumably 
be  made  for  government  restraint. 

The  Press  Association  of  England  is 
an  unlimited  cooperative  concern.  Any 
newspaper  can  subscribe  to  it,  and 
new  subscribers  are  welcome.  Especi- 
ally in  the  provincial  field,  it  is  as  pow- 
erful a  factor  in  British  journalism  as 
the  Associated  Press  is  in  the  journal- 
ism of  the  United  States,  yet  its  very 
openness  has  saved  it  from  the  taint  of 
partiality.  To  organize  the  Associa- 
ted Press  on  the  same  lines  would,  of 
course,  entail  hardship  to  its  present 
constituents.  They  would  be  exposed 
to  fierce  local  competition.  The  value 
of  their  franchises  would  dwindle.  Such 
rival  agencies  as  exist  might  be  ruined, 
for  they  could  hardly  compete  with  the 
Associated  Press  in  the  open  market. 
But  it  is  difficult  to  see  how  American 


journalism  would  suffer  from  a  regu- 
lated monopoly  of  that  kind;  and  the 
public  would  certainly  be  benefited,  for 
it  would  continue  to  enjoy  the  excel- 
lent service  of  the  Associated  Press, 
with  its  invaluable  foreign  telegrams 
and  its  comprehensive  domestic  news; 
it  would  be  safeguarded  to  no  small 
extent  from  the  danger  of  local  or  na- 
tional news -monopolies  and  from  in- 
sidiously tainted  news. 

Such  a  reform,  if  reform  there  has  to 
be,  would,  in  a  word,  be  constructive. 
The  alternatives  to  it,  as  the  writer 
understands  the  situation,  would  be 
destructive  and  empirical.  The  organ- 
ization of  the  Associated  Press  would 
either  be  cut  to  pieces  or  destroyed. 
There  would  thus  be  a  chaos  of  ineffec- 
tive competition  among  either  cooper- 
ative or  commercial  press  agencies. 
Equal  competition  among  a  number  of 
cooperative  associations  Would,  for  rea- 
sons already  explained,  mean  compar- 
atively ineffective  and  weak  services. 
Competition  among  commercial  agen- 
cies would  have  even  less  to  recommend 
it.  The  latter  must  by  their  nature  be 
more  susceptible  to  special  influences 
than  the  cooperative  agency.  They  are 
controlled  by  a  few  business  men,  not 
by  their  customers.  Competing  com- 
mercial agencies  would  almost  inevit- 
ably come  to  represent  competing  in- 
fluences in  public  life;  while,  if  worse 
came  to  worst,  a  commercialized  '  news 
trust  *  would  clearly  be  more  dangerous 
than  a  cooperative  news  trust.  The 
great  reactionary  influences  of  business 
would  have  freer  play  upon  its  directors 
than  they  can  have  upon  the  directors 
of  an  organization  like  the  Associated 
Press.  If  it  be  decided  that  even  the  As- 
sociated Press  is  not  immune  from  such 
influences,  the  public  should,  the  writer 
believes,  think  twice  before  demanding 
its  destruction,  instead  of  its  alteration 
to  conform  with  the  modern  conception 
of  the  public-service  corporation. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


'HOWLERS' 

WHEN  summer  really  comes  and  the 
college  instructor  reaches  the  end  of  his 
strictly  official  tasks,  he  is  apt  to  find, 
if  he  be  one  of  those  unfortunates  who 
have  to  do  with  problems  of  getting 
young  men  into  one  of  those  few  insti- 
tutions which  still  adhere  to  the  fast- 
fading  tradition  of  entrance  examina- 
tions, a  certain  grim  amusement  in  his 
Sisyphean  task.  He  has  just  helped  to 
roll  one  huge  unwieldy  stone  to  the 
top,  —  and  behold  another,  huger  and 
more  unwieldy,  waiting  at  the  bottom. 
And  if  ever  man  had  cause  to  be  at  once 
elated  and  depressed,  surely  he  who 
reads  entrance  papers  may  be  said 
fairly,  in  the  words  of  one  of  these,  to 
*  scintillate  *  between  hope  and  despair. 
Especially  is  this  true  of  history.  Geo- 
graphy weird  as  a  monastic  map;  bat- 
tles as  mythical  as  those  of  Geoffrey  of 
Monmouth  ;  science  beyond  the  dreams 
of  alchemist  or  astrologist;  language 
which  takes  one  back  to  the  childhood 
of  the  world  — and  sometimes  beyond; 
cities  located  on  maps  apparently  ac- 
cording to  the  principles  of  that  amus- 
ing game  of  pinning  on  the  donkey's 
tail,  —  these  make  at  once  for  laughter 
and  for  tears. 

Consider,  in  this  light,  the  classical 
tradition  of  the  modern  world.  'Her- 
cules was  the  modle  of  Greece,  he  was 
very  strong,  he  went  into  atheletics  and 
was  excelent  so  that  he  was  the  great- 
est profesional  athelete  and  every  one 
looked  up  to  him  and  he  was  very  fa- 
mus.'  This  is  no  mere  series  of  illitera- 
cies; it  is  a  philosophy  of  scholastic  life, 
—  as  witness  further.  *  The  Academy 
was  a  place  where  the  Greek  youth 

138 


learned  to  run  races  and  play  games 
and  thus  acquired  culture.'  How  mod- 
ern it  sounds,  here  with  all  our  young 
barbarians  at  play.  Yet  beside  the 
games  was  music.  Consider  again  ths 
story  of  Jason.  'The  greatest  obstacle 
he  had  was  to  get  his  ship  launched. 
This  obstacle  was  overcome  by  a  great 
musician  who  played  the  sweetest  mu- 
sic in  the  world.  When  he  began  to 
play  the  ship  jumped  into  the  sea.' 
Here  was  a  worthy  rival  of  '  Nero  the 
Emperor  of  Rome  who  while  Rome  was 
burning  sang  an  orgy  which  he  had 
himself  composed  on  the  roof  of  his 
house.'  It  is  not  surprising,  in  view  of 
these  things,  to  learn  that  there  was  in 
Athens  'a  music-hall  which  was  called 
the  Odium,'  or  that  'Rome  had  been 
running  down  hill  for  a  long  time  and 
finally  fell.' 

Nothing  is  more  illuminating  than  a 
comparison  of  the  civilizations  of  anti- 
quity in  this  connection.  Egypt,  whose 
'  people  were  a  gay  people  who  did  not 
mingle  with  other  people '  but  confined 
themselves  chiefly  to  building  'pyra- 
mids and  sphinks,'  had  'priests  who 
were  the  highest  class,  they  were  sup- 
posed to  be  economical  and  had  to 
wash  and  shave  three  times  a  day,  the 
soldiers  on  the  other  hand  did  not  have 
much  of  anything  to  do.'  Contrast  this 
with  that  Sparta  which  was  a  '  terrible 
place  to  bring  up  a  boy,'  or  Rome, 
which  '  before  the  invasion  of  the  bar- 
barians was  a  great  place  to  have 
a  good  time.'  Nothing  in  the  ancient 
world  was  quite  like  that  curious  Greek 
marriage  custom, '  where  one  man  mar- 
ried one  woman  and  that  was  called 
monotony';  but  there  were  doubtless, 
in  every  land,  men  who  in  some  re- 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


139 


spects  resembled  'Plato  who  was  the 
wisest  man  who  ever  lived,  he  never 
worked';  even  though  few  or  none 
could  boast  of  a  Socrates  who  'suf- 
fered great  privations  but  bored  them,' 
and  who,  though  he  was  '  the  greatest 
moral  teacher  the  world  ever  saw,'  was 
'convicted  of  corrupting  the  youth  of 
Athens'  and  'died  of  drinking.' 

But  let  us  turn  from  these  darker 
glimpses  of  a  pagan  world  to  the  com- 
ing of  Christianity.  Hear  the  legend  of 
Helen.  'When  the  Christian  Era  be- 
came very  strong  and  dangerous  to  the 
King  and  Queen  of  the  Grecian  Empire 
(to  Constantine  and  Helen)  the  king 
was  not  too  much  desirous  to  do  every 
where  a  massacree  and  tyranical  opres- 
sion;  especially  the  Queen  Helen,  who 
was  a  very  Godfeared  woman.  So,  she 
plunged  into-deep  discussion  of  the 
question  of  the  Christian  Era,  and, 
naturally,  dreamed  that  she  saw  up  in 
the  "Heaven"  a  cross  —  and  after  the 
dream  she  became  a  Christian  (Orthodox 
Catholic)  and  declined  the  all  Greeks  to 
the  same.'  Hence  that '  pious  and  godly 
stunt,'  the  Crusades,  which  'furnished 
the  food  for  so  many  romances  and  bal- 
lads,' to  say  nothing  of  examination- 
paper  fiction.  Take,  for  example,  this 
admirable  piece  of  Alice  in  Wonder- 
land, in  reply  to  a  modest  inquiry  re- 
garding the  decline  of  the  crusading 
zeal:  'The  leaders  tried  to  restrict  it 
into  more  solid  (forever)  form  than  the 
political.  The  political  got  up  stronger. 
It  was  contested  by  gradually  but  I 
forget  when  it  was  in  Cadiz.'  Surely 
this  deserves  a  place  in  our  literature 
beside  the  mouse  when  it  spins. 

The  middle  ages  were,  indeed,  pecu- 
liarly prolific  in  picturesque  personali- 
ties appealing  to  the  scholastic  mind, 
from  Charlemagne,  who  'clapped  the 
climax,'  to  Edward  the  First,  whose 
'first  trouble  was  with  whales.  His 
polacy  was  to  emphasize  his  national 
character.  In  his  continental  polacy  he 


was  rather  reserve.  He  showed  himself 
a  true  worrier.'  Among  these  interest- 
ing figures  not  the  least  fascinating  was 
'Elenor  of  Aquitaine,  a  woman  who 
came  from  the  vicinity  of  what  was 
then  called  Aquitania,  where,  in  the 
ancient  days,  Csesar  and  the  inhabit- 
ants of  Aquitania  did  much  bloody 
fighting.  Elenor  was  an  inhabitant  of 
this  place  and  being  of  a  wild  and  dar- 
ing nature  she  caused  quite  a  disturb- 
ance among  the  English  kings.  She 
came  over  into  England  and  Scotland 
and  raised  disturbances,  being  the  main 
factor  herself,  although  only  a  woman. 
She  was  at  last  defeated  and  finally 
death  after  many  hardships  put  an  end 
to  her  adventurous  career.'  Fortunate- 
ly or  unfortunately  for  her,  the  'Salic 
law  by  which  no  woman  or  her  offspring 
could  have  any  right  to  the  throne '  did 
not  prevail  in  the  British  Isles. 

Nor  were  these  remarkable  institu- 
tions established  during  the  dark  ages 
less  interesting  than  its  individuals, 
that  curious  custom  of  '  transsubstan- 
tiation  by  which  allegiance  was  trans- 
ferred from  one  lord  to  another,'  and 
that  no  less  extraordinary  '  Primogeni- 
ture we  read  about  in  the  eleventh  cen- 
tury, which  was  that  all  should  die  at  a 
certain  time  and  that  God  had  some 
who  were  his  and  the  rest  must  perish.' 
Then,  too,  originated  the  cabinet  sys- 
tem of  government,  by  means  whose 
memory  should  not  be  allowed  to  die. 
'In  the  dark  Ages  of  English  history 
kings  were  accustomed  to  meet  with  a 
few  of  their  accomplices  in  a  small  room 
or  cabin,  that  is  from  French  cabinette, 
whence,  naturally  came  at  once  the 
thing  and  its  name.'  But  we  must  not 
linger  here,  not  even  to  look  more  close- 
ly into  '  the  man  or  which  was  the  home 
of  a  lord  to  geth  er  with  his  ten  aunts ' ; 
or  to  weep  over  Joan  of  Arc,  that  '  poor 
pheasant '  who  was  '  burned  to  a  steak ' ; 
or  to  wonder  over  the  fact  that  'in 
1453  on  the  fall  of  Constantinople 


140 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


there  appeared  in  a  Paris  newspaper 
the  statement  that  *  There  are  no 
longer  any  Pyrenees."  In  these  days 
when  war  wen  ton  'sponsmatically,' — 
among  conflicts  between  the  'two  class- 
es of  clergy,  regular  and  irregular/  to 
say  nothing  of  true  *  Prodestism '  or  the 
'catastrathrope'  which  ensued;  when 
Europe  was  decimated  by  the  rav- 
ages of  *  Richard  I  who  was  called  the 
Black  Death,'  —  there  is  too  much  (to 
speak  the  language  of  this  strange  dia- 
lect) that  is  *  malagious '  for  us  to  delay 
longer. 

Let  us  turn  again  to  a  happier  theme, 
and  none  is  happier,  surely,  than  Henry 
VIII,  who  *  got  a  divorce  and  then  mar- 
ried again  and  again '  until  he  *  had  five 
wives  all  told  and  this  was  the  begin- 
ning of  the  Church  of  England/  Sto- 
ries naturally  differ  about  him  even  in 
this  realm  of  unnatural  history;  but  this 
one  will  perhaps  serve  as  well  as  any. 
*  After  his  first  wife  died  he  tried  to 
marry  his  brother's  widow,  which  he 
could  not  legally  do.  The  Pope  refused 
his  application  and  Henry  took  the  law 
in  his  own  hands  and  married  her.  After 
some  years  he  fell  in  love  with  another 
and  began  to  feel  his  marriage  was  not 
right.  The  Pope  refused  to  divorce  him 
and  he  tried  to  have  the  archbishop  of 
Canterbury  get  it.  But  Becket  would  n't 
do  it.  Henry  made  a  rash  statement  and 
Becket  was  killed  by  the  courtiers.  The 
divorce  however  was  never  received.' 

It  is  of  interest  to  see  how  the  Becket 
story  is  preserved  in  the  most  unexpect- 
ed ways  and  places,  as  thus:  'John 
Pym  was  a  great  Puritan  leader. 
When  the  king  nominated  him  as  lead- 
er he  did  away  with  all  his  rash  doings, 
put  on  his  religious  gown,  gave  his 
money  to  help  the  poor  and  did  a  great 
work  among  the  people,'  —  and  so  on 
to  the  end.  This,  it  may  be  observed, 
was  a  very  different  method  from  that 
used  by  Pym's  great  contemporary, 
Cromwell,  who  *  belabored  effectually 


to  keep  the  peace.'  The  innate,  uncon- 
scious truth  of  that  ingenuous  remark 
lies  as  far  beyond  the  bounds  of  mere 
invention,  as  does  the  statement  that 
the  inventor  of  the  Popish  Plot  was  'a 
liar  born  and  bread';  or  that  the  two 
greatest  enemies  of  France  were  Glad- 
stone '  who  defeated  the  king  at  Nase- 
by,'  and  Nelson  'who  defeated  Napo- 
leon in  the  last  battle  of  the  Hundred 
Year's  War.' 

Yet  it  is,  after  all,  in  the  history  of 
their  own  country  that  these  aspiring 
youths  reach  their  greatest  heights,  and 
reveal  most  clearly  the  fact  that  the 
provincialism  of  the  nation  is  so  largely 
confined  to  certain  relatively  small  dis- 
tricts, however  wide  its  ignorance  may 
be.  No  one  outside  of  New  England 
surely  would  enumerate  Omaha  among 
the  western  states ;  no  Southerner  surely 
could  locate  Gettysburg  in  Kentucky, 
as  no  New  Englander  could  put  Louis- 
burg  in  Texas.  This  species  of  error, 
doubtless,  is  less  due  to  dull  scholars 
than  to  defective  instruction.  To  what 
the  statement  that '  formerly  men  were 
nominated  for  the  presidency  by  the 
people  but  now  they  are  nominated  by 
party  conventions '  is  due,  let  each  man 
decide  for  himself.  In  the  recurrent 
confusion  between  Andrew  Jackson 
and  Andrew  Johnson,  it  is,  perhaps, 
only  natural  that  careful  study  of  more 
recent  events  should  now  and  then  be- 
tray one  into  a  still  more  entertaining 
complication  with  Jack  Johnson. 

And  this  brings  to  our  attention, 
finally,  how  short  are  the  memories  of 
men.  Let  us  take  three  composite  lives. 
Oliver  P.  Morton  who  came  to  this 
country  to  escape  religious  persecution 
first  caused  a  great  deal  of  trouble  for 
the  Massachusetts  Puritans;  then,  hav- 
ing played  some  part  in  the  Revolu- 
tionary War,  became  ambassador  to 
England,  signed  the  Ostend  Manifesto, 
and  later  was  Vice-president  under 
Cleveland  and  a  member  of  Harrison's 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


141 


cabinet.  Still  more  remarkable  was  the 
life  of  Seward.  A  radical  Abolitionist 
of  New  York,  he  served  some  time  in 
the  House  and  the  Senate,  besides  one 
term  as  governor  of  Ohio,  became  a 
strong  advocate  of  slavery,  and  went 
to  Texas  as  the  leader  of  the  United 
States  troops.  He  was  secretary  of  war, 
the  treasury  and  state  under  Jefferson, 
Lincoln  and  Johnson  and  finally  bought 
Alaska,  known  since  as  'Seward's  Folly.* 
Longer  and  even  more  romantic  was 
the  career  of  a  certain  John  Marshall 
as  here  delineated  by  various  hands. 
Having  signed  the  Declaration  of  In- 
dependence, he  served  as  minister  to 
France  and  England,  as  a  member  of 
the  cabinets  of  Washington,  Jefferson, 
Monroe,  and  Hayes,  some  thirty  or 
thirty-five  years  as  chief  justice  of  the 
Supreme  Court,  became  the  leader  of 
a  slave  insurrection  at  Harper's  Ferry, 
and  finally  was  elected  Vice-president 
under  McKinley,  Taft,  and  Wilson, 
which  last  position  he  still  occupies,  — 
and,  with  his  experience  of  a  century 
and  a  half  of  the  Republic,  is  of  more 
than  ordinary  value  to  the  administra- 
tion, without  doubt.  In  view  of  such  a 
career  as  this  on  the  part  of  a  political 
opponent  it  is  no  wonder  that  'The 
Scientific  Republicans  are  anctious  of 
a  prosperity  and  mostly  of  a  progress 
but  the  business  Republicans  are  en- 
deavoring to  establish  a  more  stronger 
Trust/  or  that  they,  too,  may  have 
come  to  regard  a  plebiscite  as  a  'de- 
ceitful method  of  gaining  popularity 
with  the  people.' 

ACADEMIC  COURTESIES 

WITHIN  a  comparatively  short  time 
I  have  had  two  enlightening  experi- 
ences which  may  interest  your  readers. 

I  shall  permit  myself  to  preface  these 
experiences  by  the  statement  that  I 
belong  to  the  happy  class  of  professors, 
that  I  am  middle-aged,  and  that  I  have 


spent  all,  or  pen  s'en  faut,  of  my  profes- 
sional life  in  a  coeducational  university. 

I  may  add  incidentally  that  I  am  a 
woman. 

The  stage-setting  for  experience  num- 
ber one  is  a  city  in  provincial  and  be- 
nighted Spain. 

It  chanced  one  day  that  I  had  to  go 
to  the  university  library  to  copy  a  man- 
uscript. I  went  early  in  order  to  be 
there  at  the  ten  o'clock  opening  of  the 
doors.  When  I  entered  the  vestibule  I 
found  it  full  of  men  and  boys  of  every 
description.  There  were  beardless  lads 
waiting  to  finish  the  sensational  French 
story  begun  yesterday.  There  were  rag- 
ged, dirty,  unshaven  men  shivering  from 
the  night  cold  which  was  still  in  their 
bones,  pushing  their  way  to  a  place  that 
meant  more  warmth  than  was  promised 
by  the  gray  sunless  day.  There  were  a 
few  students  and  some  scholars.  All 
were  crowded  about  the  iron  grating. 
I  gave  a  hasty  glance  around  and  saw 
that  there  were  no  women,  so  I  stood 
back,  not  relishing  the  prospect  of  min- 
gling with  that  unsavory  mob. 

A  blear-eyed  attendant  came  to  un- 
lock the  grating.  At  that  moment 
some  one  spied  me  and  cried  out,  'The 
senora  first.'  I  looked  and  saw  hands 
gesticulating  and  beckoning,  and  a 
passageway  was  made.  Almost  before 
1  knew  it  I  was  inside  the  library,  and 
a  gallant,  exceedingly  shabby  gentle- 
man was  conducting  me  to  the  guar- 
dian of  manuscripts.  When  I  had  fin- 
ished my  copying  an  attendant  asked 
me  if  there  was  anything  else  he  could 
do  for  me.  I  ventured  to  ask  if  I  might 
visit  some  classes.  He  showed  no  sur- 
prise, but  took  me  immediately  to  a 
gentlemanly  person  who  accompanied 
me  to  a  classroom  and  introduced  me 
to  the  professor  at  the  desk.  Neither  cu- 
riosity nor  selfconsciousness  was  shown 
by  the  students,  although  no  foreign 
woman  had  visited  the  university  with- 
in their  memory.  My  presence  as  a  vis- 


142 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


itor  was  treated  with  the  simplicity  and 
naturalness  of  perfect  courtesy. 

Later  I  was  visiting  some  of  our 
American  universities  and  colleges  of 
the 'Atlantic  States.  Many  years  had 
passed  since  I  had  last  seen  them,  and 
the  interval  had  been  crowded  with  im- 
pressions of  foreign  institutions.  It  was 
with  peculiar  and  patriotic  pleasure 
that  I  found  myself  deeply  moved  by 
the  dignified  beauty  and  academic 
charm  of  our  own  colleges.  'We  have 
known  how  to  borrow  all  that  is  best 
from  the  old  world/  thought  I  proudly, 
'and  have  adapted  it  to  our  own  ideas 
of  progress  and  liberty.  The  courts  and 
cloisters,  the  gothic  arch  and  the  colo- 
nial column  are  indicative  of  our  rev- 
erence for  tradition  and  culture.  The 
laboratory,  the  gymnasium,  the  wide 
stretch  of  campus  and  the  spacious 
athletic  field  are  indicative  of  our  larger 
conceptions  of  life,  of  our  breadth  of 
mind,  of  our  freedom  from  prejudice.' 

In  some  such  form  I  expressed  my 
thoughts  to  the  courteous  professor 
who  chanced  to  be  my  escort  at  one  of 
the  larger  men's  colleges.  He  beamed 
sympathetically,  and  later  said,  '  What 
else  would  you  like  to  see? '  With  a  sigh 
of  content  and  anticipation,  I  replied, 
'Now  I'd  like  to  visit  some  of  the 
classes.' 

He  looked  startled,  then  embarrass- 
ed, hesitated  a  moment  and  said,  '  I  'm 
afraid  the  fellows  would  n't  stand  for 
that.' 

I  was  puzzled. 

'The  fellows?'  I  asked. 

'Yes,  the  students.  You  see  they 
might  start  to  stamping  and  cat-call- 
ing if  a  lady  came  into  the  lecture-room, 
and  that  would  break  up  the  class.' 

It  seemed  incredible.  That  I,  a  mid- 
dle-aged, sober,  respectable  professor, 
could  not  visit  a  class  studying  a  sub- 
ject in  which  I  was  particularly  inter- 
ested without  creating  a  riot.  And  this 
because —  thank  God!  —  I  chanced  to 


be  a  woman.    Was  I  really  in  America, 
in  the  twentieth  century? 

The  broad  campus  seemed  to  shrink 
to  provincial  proportions,  and  preju- 
dice narrowed  the  noble  outlines  of  the 
buildings.  It  was  incredible!  This  was 
surely  an  isolated  instance.  This  col- 
lege was  perhaps  peculiarly  unsuscep- 
tible to  broadening  influences.  I  would 
try  somewhere  else.  I  did  try,  in  four 
segregated  male  colleges,  and  every- 
where I  met  with  the  same  answer. 
Every  other  hospitality  was  shown,  but 
that  one  thing  which  I  most  wanted, 
which  had  been  the  real  object  of  my 
trip,  the  observation  of  the  teaching  of 
my  own  subject,  this  was  denied  me. 
After  I  had  fully  grasped  the  situation, 
the  humor  of  it  filled  me  with  deep,  si- 
lent laughter.  How  childish  we  still  are, 
even  in  our  educational  institutions! 
To  what  queer  little  quirks  and  contra- 
dictions are  we  subject!  How  compla- 
cently we  deck  ourselves  in  a  wornout 
prejudice  only  to  realize  suddenly  that 
it  is  worn  out  and  that  we  are  naked. 

But  I  remember  Spanish  courtesy 
with  honest  gratitude. 

THE   WIZARD  WORD 

THE  world  is  in  danger  of  being  too 
acutely  discovered.  Pretty  soon  there 
won't  be  any  Nowhere.  There  will  be 
a  road-map  through  it  for  every  tooting 
motor,  a  cloud-map  through  it  for  every 
wheeling  airship.  We  are  impelled  to 
know  and  know  and  know,  and  all  the 
time  knowledge  is  such  a  stupid  quarry 
to  be  always  hunting  down.  The  only 
real  sport  is  mystery.  Presently  neither 
sea  nor  sky  will  be  left  for  the  spirit  to 
adventure,  yet  the  imagination  must 
have  somewhere  to  sail. 

It  is  here  that  the  world  of  words 
comes  in  so  handily.  That  is  a  universe 
never  to  be  reduced  to  terms  of  sense 
and  science;  words  are  too  fraught 
with  sense  for  that.  Language  is  still 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


143 


a  place  of  sun-gleams  and  shadows,  of 
lightnings  and  half-lights,  and  things 
forgotten  and  things  to  be,  of  odors  and 
tastes  and  pictures  and  hauntings, 
whole  pageants  of  dead  dynasties 
evoked  perhaps  by  a  small  adjective. 
Words  are  so  elusive,  so  personal,  in 
their  suggestion,  that  science  will  never 
bully  all  fancy  out  of  us  so  long  as  we 
have  words  to  talk  in,  to  dream  in. 

It  is  just  in  proportion  as  words  re- 
tain their  mystery,  that  they  retain 
their  magic.  So  soon  as  they  present 
too  definite  a  picture,  odor,  taste,  they 
lose  their  wizardry.  We  may  outgrow 
our  fairy  tales,  but  there  are  few  of  us 
for  whom  some  words  do  not  always 
retain  their  witchery  of  suggestion, 
words  that  have  never  become  in  our 
minds  too  definite,  words  that  still 
glimpse  haze  and  mystery  and  the 
magic  of  ignorance.  I  would  so  much 
rather  look  into  my  heart  for  the  mean- 
ing of  a  word  than  into  the  dictionary; 
it  is  one  of  many  methods  of  defending 
one's  imagination  from  the  encroach- 
ments of  knowledge. 

Some  words  possess  a  mysterious 
spaciousness:  try  *  Homeric,'  think  it, 
pronounce  it,  and  you  will  see  in  the 
flash  of  that  adjective  men  and  women 
growing  to  god-size,  taller,  stronger, 
more  beautiful  than  any  but  Homer 
ever  thought  of,  and  you  will  see  every- 
thing in  vast  numbers,  great  herds  of 
cattle  for  the  hecatomb,  tens  of  thous- 
sands  of  men-at-arms  surging,  limitless 
spear-points  pricking  all  the  plain.  No 
fleet,  no  army,  could  be  so  big  and  vast 
as  that  one  word  Homeric. 

Another  word  that  suggests  number 
beyond  any  ciphering  is  the  word 
*  doubloon.'  Could  any  one  ever  feel 
so  rich  in  terms  of  dollars  as  in  terms  of 
doubloons?  This  is  because  nobody 
with  any  imagination  knows  how  much 
a  doubloon  is  worth,  or  wants  to,  and 
people  without  any  imagination  can 
never  feel  rich  anyway,  no  matter  how 


many  dollars  or  doubloons  they  have. 

*  Galleon'  is  a  noun  that  twins  with 
doubloon.  A  galleon  is  the  staunchest 
vessel  any  one  can  go  to  sea  in,  although 
it  is  only  a  word,  not  a  ship  any  longer. 
There's  a  splendor,  a  pride,  about  a 
galleon.  It  glides,  it  never  sails,  and 
it  always  has  favoring  winds,  it  com- 
mands them.  Nobody  can  picture  a 
galleon  with  sails  a-flap  in  a  dead  calm, 
or  with  sails  in  ribbons  in  a  gale.  A 
galleon  is  always  mistress  of  all  wea- 
thers. On  the  other  hand  a  galleon  is  not 
altogether  a  craft  for  highest  emprise, 
it's  not  what  'merchant-adventurers' 
would  sail  in.  'Merchant-adventurers,' 
—  there  is  a  word  that  fits  with  a  brawl- 
ing and  buffeting  sea,  or  deadly  tropic 
calm  and  the  sighting  of  low,  fronded 
islands,  or  the  black  rim  of  a  pirate 
boat  on  the  treacherous,  unknown 
water.  But  what  a  ring  of  rollicking 
jollity  and  dauntless  fellowship  there 
is  in  that  brave  old  compound  noun, 
merchant-adventurers!  It  is  one  of 
the  many  words  that,  fading  from  our 
vocabulary,  carry  with  them  whole 
decades  of  history.  It  lays  open  all '  the 
spacious  days  of  great  Elizabeth.'  Yet 
when  I  apply  it  to  definite  names, 
Drake,  Frobisher,  Raleigh,  instantly 
some  of  the  magic  fades.  I  want  no 
names  for  my  merchant-adventurers. 

There  are  other  words  that  echo  to 
the  vastness  of  the  Elizabethan  imagi- 
nation. 'Empery'  responds  with  the 
thundering  conquests  of  Tamburlaine, 
which  in  turn  were  but  echoes  of  the 
insatiable  soul-quest  of  Kit  Marlowe. 
The  word  to  me  spells  Marlowe,  and 
spells  Keats;  not  all  the  world  could 
supply  the  indomitable  desire  that  is 
dreamed  of  in  empery,  not  all  the 
kingdoms  of  earth  were  enough  for  the 
empery  of  Tamburlaine.  Empery  is 
richer,  vaster,  more  insatiably  desirable 
than  empire.  Empire  dwindles  to  a 
petty  exactness  beside  it.  Empire  is 
not  the  only  word  to  turn  to  magic  by 


144 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


the  addition  of  the  suggestive  suffix,  ry. 
Ry  might  be  termed  the  supernatural 
suffix,  for  it  always  has  a  connotation 
of  spirit-peopled  places.  The  word 
'glamour'  has  in  it  a  certain  degree  of 
magic,  but  change  it  to  'glamoury,'  and 
see  what  happens,  what  glimmering 
vistas  of  elfland  open  forth.  And  if  the 
y  following  the  r  be  changed  to  ie,  the 
result  has  even  more  of  wizardry, 
which  word  is  itself  an  example  of  my 
ry  argument.  Notice  the  difference  of 
degree  in  glamour,  glamoury,  glam- 
ourie,  and  in  'fairy,'  which  is  mild  in 
meaning  when  set  beside  'faerie.'  And 
is  there  any  word  in  our  tongue  so 
capable  of  evoking  the  sensations  of 
that  shivery  borderland  between  the 
known  and  the  unknowable  as  the  dis- 
syllable'eerie'? 

A  savage  place!  as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon  lover! 

The  connotation  of  words  in  ry  and 
rie  is  an  example  in  the  superlative  de- 
gree of  the  magic  of  indefiniteness,  but 
there  is  plenty  of  conjuring  power  in 
terms  which  have  no  supernatural  sug- 
gestion. All  the  romance  of  a  bygone 
period  may  often  be  better  evoked  by 
a  word  than  by  treatises  of  overdone 
historical  research. 

Often  some  word  of  wearing  apparel 
may  summon  forth  a  whole  pageant  of 
costume.  Try  wimple,  kirtle,  shift.  I 
should  have  no  idea  of  the  size  or  shape 
of  the  desired  garment,  should  be  help- 
less before  my  needle  and  scissors;  but 
in  spite  of  this  ignorance,  and,  as  I 
maintain,  because  of  it,  the  word  *  wim- 
ple' shall  always  call  up  for  me  peaked 
crown  and  flowing  veil,  and  the  canter- 
ing and  the  clinking  and  chattering  of 
all  Chaucer's  blithe  procession;  the 
word  *  kirtle'  flashes  Perdita  upon  my 
vision,  Perdita,  the  shepherdess-prin- * 
cess  weaving  her  dance;  and  'shift,'  is 
a  noun  which  crowds  upon  me  all  the 
crude,  quick  life  of  the  ballads;  for  in 


this  garment,  beneath  a  hovering  halo, 
forsaken  ladies  drowned  were  always 
floating  about  on  midnight  waters  by 
way  of  reproach  to  their  lords. 

The  innermost  luxury  of  all  sense- 
perception  is  never  experienced  from 
the  too  clearly  analyzed  sensation,  how- 
ever acute.  '  Heard  melodies  are  sweet, 
but  those  unheard  are  sweeter.'  No 
music  has  such  a  spell  for  our  feet  as 
is  implied  in  the  words  '  piping '  and 
*  fifing,'  but  few  of  us  have  ever  danced 
to  piping  or  to  fifing.  In  the  realm  of 
smell  is  any  rose  as  sweet  as  the  quaint 
word '  posy '  ?  Yet  can  you  tell  its  shape, 
or  color  or  odor?  It  is  a  spicy  mingling 
of  all  the  fragrance  of  all  sweet  gardens 
that  ever  were,  —  or  that  never  were! 

There  exists  nothing  so  toothsome 
as  the  food  and  drink  we  have  never 
tasted  and  shall  never  taste.  A  'veni- 
son pasty '  never  appeared  on  any  menu 
we  ever  read,  yet  we  know  that  we 
have  never  eaten  anything  so  savory. 
Mead,  canary,  mulled  wine,  are  drinks 
delectable.  The  mighty  goblets  of 
Valhalla  ran  with  mead,  and  from  them 
we  quaff  great  hero  draughts;  canary 
fires  all  our  veins  with  the  tingling, 
ringing  young  exuberance  of  the  Mer- 
maid Tavern;  while  mulled  wine  is  the 
most  comforting  of  toddies,  soothing 
to  sleep  after  the  cosiness  and  confi- 
dences of  midnight  slippers  and  dress- 
ing-gown. 

There  are  few  people  so  prosaic  as 
not  to  possess,  hidden  away  from  their 
own  and  others'  investigation  as  se- 
curely as  every  man's  secret  belief  in 
ghosts,  a  whole  conjuror's  chest  of 
wizard  words.  I  have  merely  mentioned 
some  of  those  nouns  which  have  for  me 
the  power  to  set  me  free  to  adventure 
the  unknown.  To  every  man  his  own 
words,  his  own  enchantments,  so  long 
as  they  have  might  to  release  from  the 
chains  of  knowledge,  and  to  unshackle 
the  imagination  for  the  spirit's  free 
adventuring. 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


AUGUST,  1914 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 


A   STAMBOUL  NIGHT'S  ENTERTAINMENT 


BY   H.   G.    DWIGHT 


As  the  caique  glided  up  to  the 
garden  gate  the  three  boatmen  rose 
from  their  sheepskins  and  caught  hold 
of  iron  clamps  set  into  the  marble  of 
the  quay.  Shaban,  the  grizzled  gate- 
keeper, who  was  standing  at  the  top 
of  the  water-steps  with  his  hands  fold- 
ed respectfully  in  front  of  him,  came 
salaaming  down  to  help  his  master  out. 

'Shall  we  wait,  my  pasha?'  asked 
the  head  kaikji. 

The  pasha  turned  to  Shaban,  as  if 
to  put  a  question.  And  as  if  to  answer 
it,  Shaban  said,  — 

The  madama  is  up  in  the  wood,  in 
the  kiosque.  She  sent  down  word  to 
ask  if  you  would  go  up  too/ 

'Then  don't  wait.'  Returning  the 
boatmen's  salaam,  the  pasha  stepped 
into  his  garden.  'Is  there  company  in 
the  kiosque  or  is  madama  alone?'  he 
inquired. 

'  I  think  no  one  is  there  —  except 
Ziimbiil  Agha,'  replied  Shaban,  follow- 
ing his  master  up  the  long  central  path 
of  black  and  white  pebbles. 

'Ziimbiil  Agha!'  exclaimed  the 
pasha.  But  if  it  had  been  in  his  mind 
to  say  anything  else  he  stooped  instead 

VOL.  114  -NO,  2 


to  sniff  at  a  rosebud.  And  then  he 
asked,  'Are  we  dining  up  there,  do 
you  know?' 

'I  don't  know,  my  pasha,  but  I  will 
find  out.' 

'Tell  them  to  send  up  dinner  any- 
way, Shaban.  It  is  such  an  evening! 
And  just  ask  Moustafa  to  bring  me  a 
coffee  at  the  fountain,  will  you?  I  will 
rest  a  little  before  climbing  that  hill.' 

'On  my  head!'  said  the  Albanian, 
turning  off  to  the  house. 

The  pasha  kept  on  to  the  end  of  the 
walk.  Two  big  horse-chestnut  trees, 
their  candles  just  starting  alight  in  the 
April  air,  stood  there  at  the  foot  pf 
a  terrace,  guarding  a  fountain  that 
dripped  in  the  ivied  wall.  A  thread  of 
water  started  mysteriously  out  of  the 
top  of  a  tall  marble  niche  into  a  little 
marble  basin,  from  which  it  overflowed 
by  two  flat  bronze  spouts  into  two 
smaller  basins  below.  From  them  the 
water  dripped  back  into  a  single  basin 
still  lower  down,  and  so  tinkled  its 
broken  way,  past  graceful  arabesques 
and  reliefs  of  fruit  and  flowers,  into  a 
crescent-shaped  pool  at  the  foot  of  the 
niche. 

The  pasha  sank  down  into  one  of 
the  wicker  chairs  scattered  hospitably 


146 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 


beneath  the  horse-chestnut  trees,  and 
thought  how  happy  a  man  he  was  to 
have  a  fountain  of  the  period  of  Sul- 
tan Ahmed  III,  and  a  garden  so  full 
of  April  freshness,  and  a  view  of  the 
bright  Bosphorus  and  the  opposite 
hills  of  Europe,  and  the  firing  West. 
How  definitely  he  thought  it  I  cannot 
say,  for  the  pasha  was  not  greatly 
given  to  thought.  Why  should  he  be, 
as  he  possessed  without  that  trouble  a 
goodly  share  of  what  men  acquire  by 
taking  thought?  If  he  had  been  lapped 
in  ease  and  security  all  his  da^s,  they 
numbered  many  more,  did  those  days, 
than  the  pasha  would  have  chosen. 
Still,  they  had  touched  him  but  lightly, 
merely  increasing  the  dignity  of  his 
handsome  presence  and  taking  away 
nothing  of  his  power  to  enjoy  his  little 
walled  world. 

So  he  sat  there,  breathing  in  the  air 
of  the  place  and  the  hour,  while  gar- 
deners came  and  went  with  their  water- 
ing-pots, and  birds  twittered  among 
the  branches,  and  the  fountain  plashed 
beside  him,  until  Shaban  reappeared 
carrying  a  glass  of  water  and  a  cup  of 
coffee  in  a  swinging  tray. 

*  Eh,  Shaban !  It  is  not  your  business 
to  carry  coffee!'  protested  the  pasha, 
reaching  for  a  stand  that  stood  near 
him. 

'What  is  your  business  is  my  busi- 
ness, pasha  'm.  Have  I  not  eaten  your 
bread  and  your  father's  for  thirty 
years?' 

'No!  Is  it  as  long  as  that?  We  are 
getting  old,  Shaban.' 

'We  are  getting  old,'  assented  the 
Albanian  simply. 

The  pasha  thought,  as  he  took  out 
his  silver  cigarette-case,  of  another 
pasha  who  had  complimented  him  that 
afternoon  on  his  youthfulness.  And, 
choosing  a  cigarette,  he  handed  the 
case  to  his  gatekeeper.  Shaban  accept- 
ed the  cigarette  and  produced  matches 
from  his  gay  girdle. 


'How  long  is  it  since  you  have  been 
to  your  country,  Shaban?' 

The  pasha,  lifting  his  little  cup  with 
its  silver  zarf,  realized  that  he  would  not 
have  sipped  his  coffee  quite  so  noisily 
had  his  French  wife  been  sitting  with 
him  under  the  horse-chestnut  trees. 
But  with  his  old  Shaban  he  could  still 
be  a  Turk. 

'Eighteen  months,  my  pasha.' 

'And  when  are  you  going  again?' 

'  In  Ramazan,  if  God  wills.  Or  per- 
haps next  Ramazan.  We  shall  see.' 

*Allah,  Allah !  How  many  times  have 
I  told  you  to  bring  your  people  here, 
Shaban?  We  have  plenty  of  room  to 
build  you  a  house  somewhere,  and  you 
could  see  your  wife  and  children  every 
day  instead  of  once  in  two  or  three 
years.' 

'Wives,  wives!  A  man  will  not  die 
if  he  does  not  see  them  every  day. 
Besides,  it  would  not  be  good  for  the 
children.  In  Constantinople  they  be- 
come rascals.  There  are  too  many 
Christians.'  And  he  added  hastily,  'It 
is  better  for  a  boy  to  grow  up  in  the 
mountains.' 

'But  we  have  a  mountain  here,  be- 
hind the  house,'  laughed  the  pasha. 

'Your  mountain  is  not  like  our 
mountains,'  objected  Shaban  gravely, 
hunting  in  his  mind  for  the  difference 
he  felt  but  could  not  express. 

'And  that  new  wife  of  yours,'  went 
on  the  pasha.  'Is  it  good  to  leave  a 
young  woman  like  that?  Are  you  not 
afraid?' 

'No,  my  pasha.  I  am  not  afraid. 
We  all  live  together,  you  know.  My 
brothers  watch,  and  the  other  women. 
She  is  safer  than  yours.  Besides,  in  my 
country  it  is  not  as  it  is  here.' 

'  I  don't  know  why  I  have  never  been 
to  see  this  wonderful  country  of  yours, 
Shaban.  I  have  so  long  intended  to, 
and  I  never  have  been.  But  I  must 
climb  my  mountain  or  they  will  think 
that  I  have  become  a  rascal  too.'  And, 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 


147 


rising  from  his  chair,  he  gave  the  Al- 
banian a  friendly  pat. 

*  Shall  I  come  too,  my  pasha?  Ziim- 
biil  Agha  sent  word — ' 

'Zumbiil  Agha!'  interrupted  the  pa- 
sha irritably.  'No,  you  need  n't  come. 
I  will  explain  to  Ziimblil  Agha.' 

With  which  he  left  Shaban  to  pick 
up  the  empty  coffee  cup. 

II 

From  the  upper  terrace  a  bridge  led 
across  the  public  road  to  the  wood.  If 
it  was  not  a  wood  it  was  at  all  events 
a  good-sized  grove,  climbing  the  steep 
hillside  very  much  as  it  chose.  Every 
sort  and  size  of  tree  was  there,  but  the 
greater  number  of  them  were  of  a  kind 
to  be  sparsely  trimmed  in  April  with  a 
delicate  green,  and  among  them  were 
so  many  twisted  Judas  trees  as  to  tinge 
whole  patches  of  the  slope  with  their 
deep  rose  bloom.  The  road  that  the 
pasha  slowly  climbed,  swinging  his 
amber  beads  behind  him  as  he  walked, 
zigzagged  so  leisurely  back  and  forth 
among  the  trees  that  a  carriage  could 
have  driven  up  it.  In  that  way,  indeed, 
the  pasha  had  more  than  once  mounted 
to  the  kiosque,  in  the  days  when  his 
mother  used  to  spend  a  good  part  of 
her  summer  up  there,  and  when  he  was 
married  to  his  first  wife.  The  memory 
of  the  two,  and  of  their  old-fashioned 
ways,  entered  not  too  bitterly  into  his 
general  feeling  of  well-being,  minis- 
tered to  by  the  budding  trees  and  the 
spring  air  and  the  sunset  view.  Every 
now  and  then  an  enormous  plane  tree 
invited  him  to  stop  and  look  at  it,  or  a 
semi-circle  of  cypresses. 

So  at  last  he  came  to  the  top  of  the 
hill,  where  in  a  grassy  clearing  a  small 
house  looked  down  on  the  valley  of  the 
Bosphorus  through  a  row  of  great 
stone  pines.  The  door  of  the  kiosque 
was  open,  but  his  wife  was  not  visible. 

The  pasha  stopped  a  moment,  as  he 


had  done  a  thousand  times  before,  and 
looked  back.  He  was  not  the  man  to  be 
insensible  to  what  he  saw  between  the 
columnar  trunks  of  the  pines,  where 
European  hills  traced  a  dark  curve 
against  the  fading  sky,  and  where  the 
sinuous  waterway  far  below  still  re- 
flected a  last  glamour  of  the  day.  The 
beauty  of  it,  and  the  sharp  sweetness 
of  the  April  air,  and  the  infinitesimal 
sounds  of  the  wood,  and  the  half-con- 
scious memories  involved  with  it  all, 
made  him  sigh.  He  turned  and  mount- 
ed the  steps  of  the  porch. 

The  kiosque  looked  very  dark  and 
unfamiliar  as  the  pasha  entered  it.  He 
wondered  what  had  become  of  Helene 
—  if  by  any  chance  he  had  passed  her 
on  the  way.  He  wanted  her.  She  was 
the  expression  of  what  the  evening  rous- 
ed in  him.  He  heard  nothing,  however, 
but  the  splash  of  water  from  a  half- 
invisible  fountain.  It  reminded  him 
for  an  instant,  of  the  other  fountain, 
below,  and  of  Shaban.  His  steps  re- 
sounded hollowly  on  the  marble  pave- 
ment as  he  walked  into  the  dim  old 
saloon,  shaped  like  a  T,  with  the  cross 
longer  than  the  leg.  It  was  still  light 
enough  for  him  to  make  out  the  glim- 
mer of  windows  on  three  sides  and  the 
square  of  the  fountain  in  the  centre, 
but  the  painted  domes  above  were  lost 
in  shadow. 

The  spaces  on  either  side  of  the  bay 
by  which  he  entered,  completing  the 
rectangle  of  the  kiosque,  were  filled 
by  two  little  rooms  opening  into  the 
cross  of  the  T.  He  went  into  the  left- 
hand  one,  where  Helene  usually  sat  — 
because  there  were  no  lattices.  The 
room  was  empty. 

The  place  seemed  so  strange  and 
still  in  the  twilight  that  a  sort  of  ap- 
prehension began  to  grow  in  him,  and 
he  half  wished  he  had  brought  up 
Shaban.  He  turned  back  to  the  second, 
the  latticed  room  — the  harem,  as  they 
called  it.  Curiously  enough  it  was 


148 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 


Helene  who  would  never  let  him 
Europeanize  it,  in  spite  of  the  lattices. 
Every  now  and  then  he  found  out  that 
she  liked  some  Turkish  things  better 
than  he  did.  As  soon  as  he  opened  the 
door  he  saw  her  sitting  on  the  divan 
opposite.  He  knew  her  profile  against 
the  checkered  pallor  of  the  lattice.  But 
she  neither  moved  nor  greeted  him. 
It  was  Ziimbul  Agha  who  did  so,  start- 
ling him  by  suddenly  rising  beside  the 
door  and  saying  in  his  high  voice,  — 

*  Pleasant  be  your  coming,  my  pasha.' 
The    pasha    had    forgotten    about 

Ziimbul  Agha;  and  it  seemed  strange 
to  him  that  Helene  continued  to  sit 
silent  and  motionless  on  her  sofa. 

*  Good  evening/  he  said  at  last.  *  You 
are  sitting  very  quietly  here  in  the  dark. 
Are  there  no  lights  in  this  place?' 

It  was  again  Ziimbul  Agha  who 
spoke,  turning  one  question  by  an- 
other :  — 

'Did  Shaban  come  with  you?' 

'No,'  replied  the  pasha  shortly.  'He 
said  he  had  had  a  message,  but  I  told 
him  not  to  come.' 

'A-ah!'  ejaculated  the  eunuch  in  his 
high  drawl.  'But  it  does  not  matter — 
with  the  two  of  us.' 

The  pasha  grew  more  and  more 
puzzled,  for  this  was  not  the  scene  he 
had  imagined  to  himself  as  he  came  up 
through  the  park  in  response  to  his 
wife's  message.  Nor  did  he  grow  less 
puzzled  when  the  eunuch  turned  to  her 
and  said  in  another  tone,  — 

'Now  will  you  give  me  that  key?' 

The  French  woman  took  no  more 
notice  of  this  question  than  she  had  of 
the  pasha's  entrance. 

'  What  do  you  mean,  Ziimbiil  Agha? ' 
demanded  the  Pasha  sharply.  'That  is 
not  the  way  to  speak  to  your  mistress.' 

'I  mean  this,  my  pasha,'  retorted 
the  eunuch,  'that  some  one  is  hiding 
in  this  chest  and  that  madama  keeps 
the  key.' 

That  was  what  the  pasha  heard,  and 


in  the  absurd  treble  of  the  black  man, 
in  the  darkening  room.  He  looked  down 
and  made  out,  beside  the  tall  figure  of 
the  eunuch,  the  chest  on  which  he  had 
been  sitting.  Then  he  looked  across  at 
Helene,  who  still  sat  silent  in  front  of 
the  lattice. 

'What  are  you  talking  about?'  he 
asked  at  last,  more  stupefied  than 
anything  else.  'Who  is  it?  A  thief? 
Has  any  one — ?'  He  left  the  vague 
question  unformulated,  even  in  his 
mind. 

'Ah,  that  I  don't  know.  You  must 
ask  madama.  Probably  it  is  one  of 
her  Christian  friends.  But  at  least  if 
it  were  a  woman  she  would  not  be  so 
unwilling  to  unlock  her  chest  for  us ! ' 

The  silence  that  followed,  while  the 
pasha  looked  dumbly  at  the  chest,  and 
at  Ziimbiil  Agha,  and  at  his  wife,  was 
filled  for  him  with  a  stranger  confusion 
of  feelings  than  he  had  ever  experi- 
enced before.  Nevertheless  he  was  sur- 
prisingly cool,  he  found;  his  pulse 
quickened  very  little.  He  told  himself 
that  it  was  n't  true  and  that  he  really 
must  get  rid  of  old  Ziimbul  after  all, 
if  he  went  on  making  such  preposter- 
ous gaffes  and  setting  them  all  by  the 
ears.  How  could  anything  so  baroque 
happen  to  him,  the  pasha,  who  owed 
what  he  was  to  honorable  fathers  and 
who  had  passed  his  life  honorably  and 
peaceably  until  this  moment?  Yet  he 
had  had  an  impression,  walking  into 
the  dark  old  kiosque  and  finding  no- 
body until  he  found  these  two  sitting 
here  in  this  extraordinary  way  —  as  if 
he  had  walked  out  of  his  familiar  gar- 
den, that  he  knew  like  his  hand,  into 
a  country  he  knew  nothing  about, 
where  anything  might  be  true.  And 
he  wished,  he  almost  passionately  wish- 
ed, that  Helene  would  say  something, 
would  cry  out  against  Ziimbiil  Agha, 
would  lie  even,  rather  than  sit  there 
so  still  and  removed  and  different  from 
other  women. 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 


149 


Then  he  began  to  be  aware  that  if 
it  were  true  —  if!  —  he  ought  to  do 
something.  He  ought  to  make  a  noise. 
He  ought  to  kill  somebody.  That  was 
what  they  always  did.  That  was  what 
his  father  would  have  done,  or  certainly 
his  grandfather.  But  he  also  told  him- 
self that  it  was  no  longer  possible  for 
him  to  do  what  his  father  and  grand- 
father had  done.  He  had  been  unlearn- 
ing their  ways  too  long.  Besides,  he 
was  too  old. 

A  sudden  sting  of  jealousy  pierced 
him  at  the  thought  of  how  old  he  was, 
and  how  young  Helene.  Even  if  he 
lived  to  be  seventy  or  eighty  she  would 
still  have  a  life  left  when  he  died.  Yes, 
it  was  as  Shaban  said.  They  were 
getting  old.  He  had  never  really  felt 
the  humiliation  of  it  before.  And  Sha- 
ban had  said,  strangely,  something  else 
—  that  his  own  wife  was  safer  than 
the  pasha's.  Still  he  felt  an  odd  com- 
passion for  Helene,  too,  —  because  she 
was  young,  and  it  was  Judas-tree  time, 
and  she  was  married  to  gray  hairs.  And 
although  he  was  a  pasha,  descended 
from  great  pashas,  and  she  was  only 
a  little  French  girl  quelconque,  he  felt 
more  afraid  than  ever  of  making  a  fool 
of  himself  before  her  —  when  he  had 
promised  her  that  she  should  be  as  free 
as  any  other  European  woman,  that 
she  should  live  her  life.  Besides,  what 
had  the  black  man  to  do  with  their 
private  affairs? 

'Ziimbiil  Agha,'  he  suddenly  heard 
himself  harshly  saying,  'is  this  your 
house  or  mine?  I  have  told  you  a  hun- 
dred times  that  you  are  not  to  trouble 
the  madama,  or  follow  her  about,  or 
so  much  as  guess  where  she  is  and  what 
she  is  doing.  I  have  kept  you  in  the 
house  because  my  father  brought  you 
into  it;  but  if  I  ever  hear  of  your  speak- 
ing to  madama  again,  or  spying  on  her, 
I  will  send  you  into  the  street.  Do  you 
hear  ?  Now  get  out ! ' 

'Aman,  my  pasha!   I  beg  you!'  en- 


treated the  eunuch.  There  was  some- 
thing ludicrous  in  his  voice,  coming  as 
it  did  from  his  height. 

The  pasha  wondered  if  he  had  been 
too  long  a  person  of  importance  in  the 
family  to  realize  the  change  in  his  po- 
sition, or  whether  he  really  — 

All  of  a  sudden  a  checkering  of  lamp- 
light flickered  through  the  dark  win- 
dow, touched  the  Negro's  black  face 
for  a  moment,  traveled  up  the  wall. 
Silence  fell  again  in  the  little  room  — 
a  silence  into  which  the  fountain 
dropped  its  silver  patter.  Then  steps 
mounted  the  porch  and  echoed  in  the 
other  room,  which  lighted  in  turn,  and 
a  man  came  in  sight,  peering  this  way 
and  that,  with  a  big  white  accordeon 
lantern  in  his  hand.  Behind  the  man 
two  other  servants  appeared,  carry- 
ing on  their  heads  round  wooden  trays 
covered  by  figured  silks,  and  a  boy 
tugging  a  huge  basket.  When  they  dis- 
covered the  three  in  the  little  room 
they  salaamed  respectfully. 

*  Where  shall  we  set  the  table?'  asked 
the  man  with  the  lantern. 

For  the  pasha  the  lantern  seemed  to 
make  the  world  more  like  the  place 
he  had  always  known.  He  turned  to 
his  wife  apologetically. 

'I  told  them  to  send  dinner  up  here. 
It  has  been  such  a  long  time  since  we 
came.  But  I  forgot  about  the  table.  I 
don't  believe  there  is  one  here.' 

'No,'  uttered  Helene  from  her  sofa, 
sitting  with  her  head  on  her  hand. 

It  was  the  first  word  she  had  spoken. 
But,  little  as  it  was,  it  reassured  him, 
like  the  lantern. 

*  There  is  the  chest,'  hazarded  Ztim- 
biil  Agha. 

The  interruption  of  the  servants  had 
for  the  moment  distracted  them  all. 
But  the  pasha  now  turned  on  him  so 
vehemently  that  the  eunuch  salaamed 
in  haste  and  went  away. 

'Why  not?'  asked  Helene,  when  he 
was  gone.  'We  can  sit  on  cushions.' 


150 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 


*  Why  not?' echoed  the  pasha.  Grate- 
ful as  he  was  for  the  interruption,  he 
found  himself  wishing,  secretly,  that 
Helene  had  discouraged  his  idea  of  a 
picnic  dinner.  And  he  could  not  help 
feeling  a  certain  constraint  as  he  gave 
the  necessary  orders  and  watched  the 
servants  put  down  their  paraphernalia 
and  pull  the  chest  into  the  middle  of  the 
room.  There  was  something  unreal  and 
stage-like  about  the  scene,  in  the  uncer- 
tain light  of  the  lantern.  Obviously 
the  chest  was  not  light.  It  was  an  old 
cypress-wood  chest  that  they  had  al- 
ways used  in  the  summer,  to  keep 
things  in,  polished  a  bright  brown,  with 
a  little  inlaid  pattern  of  dark  brown 
and  cream  color  running  around  the 
edge  of  each  surface,  and  a  more  com- 
plicated design  ornamenting  the  centre 
of  the  cover.  He  vaguely  associated 
his  mother  with  it.  He  felt  a  distinct 
relief  when  the  men  spread  the  cloth. 
He  felt  as  if  they  had  covered  up  more 
things  than  he  could  name.  And  when 
they  produced  candlesticks  and  can- 
dles, and  set  them  on  the  improvised 
table  and  in  the  niches  beside  the  door, 
he  seemed  to  come  back  again  into  the 
comfortable  light  of  common  sense. 

'This  is  the  way  we  used  to  do  when 
I  was  a  boy/  he  said  with  a  smile,  when 
he  and  Helene  established  themselves 
on  sofa  cushions  on  opposite  sides  of 
the  chest.  'Only  then  we  had  little 
tables  six  inches  high,  instead  of  big 
ones  like  this.' 

'It  is  rather  a  pity  that  we  have 
spoiled  all  that,'  she  said.  *  Are  we  any 
happier  for  perching  on  chairs  around 
great  scaffoldings  and  piling  the  scaf- 
foldings with  so  many  kinds  of  porce- 
lain and  metal?  After  all,  they  knew 
how  to  live  —  the  people  who  were 
capable  of  imagining  a  place  like  this. 
And  they  had  the  good  taste  not  to  fill 
a  room  with  things.  Your  grandfather, 
was  it?' 

He  had  had  a  dread  that  she  would 


not  say  anything,  that  she  would  re- 
main silent  and  impenetrable,  as  she 
had  been  before  Ziimbiil  Agha,  as  if 
the  chest  between  them  were  a  barrier 
that  nothing  could  surmount.  His  heart 
lightened  when  he  heard  her  speak. 
Was  it  not  quite  her  natural  voice? 

'It  was  my  great-grandfather,  the 
grand  vizier.  They  say  he  did  know 
how  to  live  —  in  his  way.  He  built  the 
kiosque  for  a  beautiful  slave  of  his,  a 
Greek,  whom  he  called  Pomegranate.' 

'Madame  Pomegranate!  What  a 
charming  name!  And  that  is  why  her 
cipher  is  everywhere.  See?'  She  point- 
ed to  the  series  of  cupboards  and  niches 
on  either  side  of  the  door,  dimly  paint- 
ed with  pomegranate  blossoms,  and  to 
the  plaster  reliefs  around  the  hooded 
fireplace,  and  to  the  cluster  of  pome- 
granates that  made  a  centre  to  the 
gilt  and  painted  lattice-work  of  the 
ceiling.  'One  could  be  very  happy  in 
such  a  little  house.  It  has  an  air  — 
of  being  meant  for  moments.  And  you 
feel  as  if  they  had  something  to  do 
with  the  wonderful  way  it  has  faded.' 
She  looked  as  if  she  had  meant  to 
say  something  else,  which  she  did  not. 
But  after  a  moment  she  added,  'Will 
you  ask  them  to  turn  off  the  water  in 
the  fountain?  It  is  a  little  chilly,  now 
that  the  sun  has  gone,  and  it  sounds 
like  rain  —  or  tears.' 

The  dinner  went,  on  the  whole,  not 
so  badly.  There  were  dishes  to  be 
passed  back  and  forth.  There  were 
questions  to  be  asked  or  comments  to 
be  made.  There  were  the  servants  to 
be  spoken  to.  Yet,  more  and  more, 
the  pasha  could  not  help  wondering. 
When  a  silence  fell,  too,  he  could  not 
help  listening.  And  least  of  all  could  he 
help  looking  at  Helene.  He  looked  at 
her,  trying  not  to  look  at  her,  with  an 
intense  curiosity,  as  if  he  had  never 
seen  her  before,  asking  himself  if  there 
were  anything  new  in  her  face,  and  how 
she  would  look  if  —  Would  she  be  like 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 


151 


this?  She  made  no  attempt  to  keep 
up  a  flow  of  words,  as  if  to  distract  his 
attention.  She  was  not  soft  either;  she 
was  not  trying  to  seduce  him,  and  she 
made  no  show  of  gratitude  toward  him 
for  having  sent  Zumbiil  Agha  away. 
Neither  did  she  by  so  much  as  an  in- 
flection try  to  insinuate  or  excuse  or 
explain.  She  was  what  she  always  was, 
perfect  —  and  evidently  a  little  tired. 
She  was  indeed  more  than  perfect, 
she  was  prodigious,  when  he  asked  her 
once  what  she  was  thinking  about  and 
she  said  Pandora,  tapping  the  chest 
between  them.  He  had  never  heard 
the  story  of  that  Greek  girl  and  her 
box,  and  she  told  him  gravely  about 
all  the  calamities  that  came  out  of  it, 
and  the  one  gift  of  hope  that  remained 
behind. 

'But  I  cannot  be  a  Turkish  woman 
long!'  she  added  inconsequently  with 
a  smile.  ' '  My  legs  are  asleep.  I  really 
must  walk  about  a  little.' 

When  he  had  helped  her  to  her  feet 
she  led  the  way  into  the  other  room. 
They  had  their  coffee  and  cigarettes 
there.  Helene  walked  slowly  up  and 
down  the  length  of  the  room,  stopping 
every  now  and  then  to  look  into  the 
square  pool  of  the  fountain  and  to  pat 
her  hair. 

The  pasha  sat  down  on  the  long  low 
divan  that  ran  under  the  windows. 
He  could  watch  her  more  easily  now. 
And  the  detachment  with  which  he  had 
begun  to  look  at  her  grew  in  spite  of 
him  into  the  feeling  that  he  was  looking 
at  a  stranger.  After  all,  what  did  he 
know  about  her?  Who  was  she?  What 
had  happened  to  her,  during  all  the 
years  that  he  had  not  known  her,  in 
that  strange  free  European  life  which 
he  had  tried  to  imitate,  and  which  at 
heart  he  secretly  distrusted?  What 
had  she  ever  really  told  him,  and  what 
had  he  ever  really  divined  of  her?  For 
perhaps  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  re- 
alized how  little  one  person  may  know 


of  another,  and  particularly  a  man  of 
a  woman.  And  he  remembered  Shaban 
again,  and  that  phrase  about  his  wife 
being  safer  than  Helene.  Had  Shaban 
really  meant  anything?  Was  Helene 
'  safe '  ?  He  acknowledged  to  himself  at 
last  that  the  question  was  there  in  his 
mind,  waiting  to  be  answered. 

Helene  did  not  help  him.  She  had 
been  standing  for  some  time  at  an  odd 
angle  to  the  pool,  looking  into  it.  He 
could  see  her  face  there,  with  the  eyes 
turned  away  from  him. 

'How  mysterious  a  reflection  is!'  she 
said.  'It  is  so  real  that  you  can't  be- 
lieve it  disappears  for  good.  How  often 
Madame  Pomegranate  must  have  look- 
ed into  this  pool,  and  yet  I  can't  find 
her  in  it.  But  I  feel  she  is  really  there, 
all  the  same  —  and  who  knows  who 
else.' 

'They  say  mirrors  do  not  flatter,'  the 
pasha  did  not  keep  himself  from  re- 
joining, 'but  they  are  very  discreet. 
They  tell  no  tales!' 

Helene  raised  her  eyes.  In  the  lit- 
tle room  the  servants  had  cleared  the 
improvised  table  and  had  packed  up 
everything  again  except  the  candles. 

'I  have  been  up  here  a  long  time,' 
she  said,  'and  I  am  rather  tired.  It  is  a 
little  cold,  too.  If  you  do  not  mind  I 
think  I  will  go  down  to  the  house  now, 
with  the  servants.  You  will  hardly 
care  to  go  so  soon,  for  Zumbiil  Agha 
has  not  finished  what  he  has  to  say  to 
you.' 

'Ziimbiil  Agha!'  exclaimed  the  pa- 
sha. '  I  sent  him  away.' 

'Ah,  but  you  must  know  him  well 
enough  to  be  sure  he  would  not  go. 
Let  us  see.'  She  clapped  her  hands. 
The  servant  of  the  lantern  immedi- 
ately came  out  to  her.  'Will  you  ask 
Ziimbul  Agha  to  come  here?'  she  said. 
'He  is  on  the  porch.' 

The  man  went  to  the  door,  looked 
out,  and  said  a  word.  Then  he  stood 
aside  with  a  respectful  salaam,  and 


152 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 


the  eunuch  entered.  He  negligently  re- 
turned the  salute  and  walked  forward 
until  his  air  of  importance  changed  to 
one  of  humility  at  sight  of  the  pasha. 
Salaaming  in  turn,  he  stood  with  his 
hands  folded  in  front  of  him. 

'I  will  go  down  with  you/  said  the 
pasha  to  his  wife,  rising.  '  It  is  too  late 
for  you  to  go  through  the  woods  in  the 
dark.' 

*  Nonsense!'  She  gave  him  a  look 
that  had  more  in  it  than  the  tone  in 
which  she  added,  *  Please  do  not.  I 
shall  be  perfectly  safe  with  four  serv- 
ants. You  can  tell  them  not  to  let  me 
run  away.'  Coming  nearer,  she  put 
her  hand  into  the  bosom  of  her  dress, 
then  stretched  out  the  hand  toward 
him.  *  Here  is  the  key  —  the  key  of 
which  Zumbiil  Agha  spoke — the  key 
of  Pandora's  box.  Will  you  keep  it  for 
me  please?  Au  revoir.' 

And  making  a  sign  to  the  servants 
she  walked  out  of  the  kiosque. 

Ill 

The  pasha  was  too  surprised,  at 
first,  to  move  —  and  too  conscious  of 
the  eyes  of  servants,  too  uncertain  of 
what  he  should  do,  too  fearful  of  doing 
the  wrong,  the  un-European,  thing. 
And  afterwards  it  was  too  late.  He 
stood  watching  until  the  flicker  of  the 
lantern  disappeared  among  the  dark 
trees.  Then  his  eyes  met  the  eunuch's. 

'Why  don't  you  go  down  too?'  sug- 
gested Zumbiil  Agha.  The  variable  cli- 
mate of  a  great  house  had  made  him 
too  perfect  an  opportunist  not  to  take 
the  line  of  being  in  favor  again.  'It 
might  be  better.  Give  me  the  key  and 
I  will  do  what  there  is  to  do.  But  you 
might  send  up  Shaban.' 

Why  not,  the  pasha  secretly  asked 
himself?  Might  it  not  be  the  best  way 
out?  At  the  same  time  he  experienced 
a  certain  revulsion  of  feeling,  now  that 
Helene  was  gone,  in  the  way  she  had 


gone.  She  really  was  prodigious!  And 
with  the  vanishing  of  the  lantern  that 
had  brought  him  a  measure  of  reas- 
surance he  felt  the  weight  of  an  un- 
cleared situation,  fantastic  but  crucial, 
heavy  upon  him.  And  the  Negro  an- 
noyed him  intensely. 

'Thank  you,  Ziimbiil  Agha,'  he  re- 
plied, 'but  I  am  not  the  nurse  of  ma- 
dama,  and  I  will  not  give  you  the  key.' 

If  he  only  might,  though,  he  thought 
to  himself  again! 

'You  believe  her,  this  Frank  woman 
whom  you  had  never  seen  five  years 
ago,  and  you  do  not  believe  me  who 
have  lived  in  your  house  longer  than 
you  can  remember!' 

The  eunuch  said  it  so  bitterly  that 
the  pasha  was  touched  in  spite  of  him- 
self. He  had  never  been  one  to  think 
very  much  about  minor  personal  re- 
lations, but  even  at  such  a  moment  he 
could  see  —  was  it  partly  because  he 
wanted  more  time  to  make  up  his 
mind  ?  —  that  he  had  never  liked  Ziim- 
biil Agha  as  he  liked  Shaban,  for  in- 
stance. Yet  more  honor  had  been  due, 
in  the  old  family  tradition,  to  the  for- 
mer. And  he  had  been  associated  even 
longer  with  the  history  of  the  house. 

'My  poor  Zumbiil,'  he  uttered  mus- 
ingly, '  you  have  never  forgiven  me  for 
marrying  her.' 

'My  pasha,  you  are  not  the  first  to 
marry  an  unbeliever,  nor  the  last.  But 
such  a  marriage  should  be  to  the  glory 
of  Islam,  and  not  to  its  discredit.  Who 
can  trust  her?  She  is  still  a  Christian. 
And  she  is  too  young.  She  has  turned 
the  world  upside  down.  What  would 
your  father  have  said  to  a  daughter- 
in-law  who  goes  shamelessly  into  the 
street  without  a  veil,  alone,  and  who 
receives  in  your  house  men  who  are  no 
relation  to  you  or  to  her?  It  is  not 
right.  Women  only  understand  one 
thing,  to  make  fools  of  men.  And  they 
are  never  content  to  fool  one.' 

The  pasha,  still  waiting  to  make  up 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 


153 


his  mind,  let  his  fancy  linger  about 
Zumbiil  Agha.  It  was  really  rather 
absurd,  after  all,  what  a  part  women 
played  in  the  world,  and  how  little  it 
all  came  to  in  the  end!  Did  the  black 
man,  he  wondered,  walk  in  a  clearer, 
cooler  world,  free  of  the  clouds,  the  iri- 
descences, the  languors,  the  perfumes, 
the  strange  obsessions,  that  made  oth- 
ers walk  so  often  like  madmen?  Or 
might  some  tatter  of  preposterous  hu- 
manity still  work  obscurely  in  him? 
Or  a  bitterness  of  not  being  like  other 
men?  That  perhaps  was  why  the  pasha 
felt  friendlier  toward  Shaban.  They 
were  more  alike. 

'You  are  right,  Zumbiil  Agha,'  he 
said.  'The  world  is  upside  down.  But 
neither  the  madama  nor  any  of  us 
made  it  so.  All  we  can  do  is  to  try  and 
keep  our  heads  as  it  turns.  Now,  will 
you  please  tell  me  how  you  happened 
to  be  up  here?  The  madama  never 
told  you  to  come.  You  know  perfect- 
ly well  that  the  customs  of  Europe 
are  different  from  ours,  and  that  she 
does  not  like  to  have  you  follow  her 
about.' 

'What  woman  likes  to  be  followed 
about?'  retorted  the  eunuch  with  a  sly 
smile.  'I  know  you  have  told  me  to 
leave  her  alone.  But  why  was  I  brought 
into  this  house?  Am  I  to  stand  by  and 
watch  dishonor  brought  upon  it  sim- 
ply because  you  have  eaten  the  poison 
of  a  woman?' 

*  Zumbiil  Agha,'  replied  the  pasha 
sharply,  'I  am  not  discussing  old  and 
new  or  this  and  that,  but  I  am  asking 
you  to  tell  me  what  all  this  speech  is 
about.' 

'Give  me  that  key  and  I  will  show 
you  what  it  is  about,'  said  the  eunuch, 
stepping  forward. 

But  the  pasha  found  he  was  not 
ready  to  go  so  directly  to  the  point. 

'Can't  you  answer  a  simple  ques- 
tion?' he  demanded  irritably,  retreat- 
ing to  the  farther  side  of  the  fountain. 


The  reflection  of  the  painted  ceil- 
ing in  the  pool  made  him  think  of 
Helene  —  and  Madame  Pomegranate. 
He  stared  into  the  still  water  as  if  to 
find  Helene's  face  there.  Was  any  other 
face  hidden  beside  it,  mocking  him? 

But  Ziimblil  Agha  had  begun  again, 
doggedly:  — 

'I  came  here  because  it  is  my  busi- 
ness to  be  here.  I  went  to  town  this 
morning.  When  I  got  back  they  told 
me  that  you  were  away  and  that  the 
madama  was  up  here,  alone.  So  I  came. 
Is  this  a  place  for  a  woman  to  be  alone 
in  —  a  young  woman,  with  men  work- 
ing all  about  and  I  don't  know  who, 
and  a  thousand  ways  of  getting  in  and 
out  from  the  hills,  and  ten  thousand 
hiding  places  in  the  woods?' 

The  pasha  made  a  gesture  of  impa- 
tience, and  turned  away.  But  after 
all,  what  could  one  do  with  old  Ziim- 
biil?  He  had  been  brought  up  in  his 
tradition.  The  pasha  lighted  another 
cigarette  to  help  himself  think. 

'Well,  I  came  up  here,'  continued  the 
eunuch,  'and  as  I  came  I  heard  ma- 
dama singing.  You  know  how  she 
sings  the  songs  of  the  Franks.' 

The  pasha  knew.  But  he  did  not  say 
anything.  As  he  walked  up  and  down, 
smoking  and  thinking,  his  eye  caught 
in  the  pool  a  reflection  from  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  where  the  door  of  the 
latticed  room  was  and  where  the  cy- 
press-wood chest  stood  as  the  servants 
had  left  it  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 
Was  that  what  Helene  had  stood  look- 
ing at  so  long,  he  asked  himself?  He 
wondered  that  he  could  have  sat  be- 
side it  so  quietly.  It  seemed  now  like 
something  dark  and  dangerous  crouch- 
ing there  in  the  shadow  of  the  little 
room. 

'I  sat  down,  under  the  terrace,'  he 
heard  the  eunuch  go  on,  '  where  no  one 
could  see  me,  and  I  listened.  And  after 
she  had  stopped  I  heard  — ' 

'  Never  mind  what  you  heard,'  broke 


154 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 


in  the  pasha.    'I  have  heard  enough.' 

He  was  ashamed — ashamed  and  re- 
solved. He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  play- 
ing the  spy  with  Zlimbul  Agha.  And 
after  all  there  was  a  very  simple  way 
to  answer  his  question  for  himself.  He 
threw  away  his  cigarette,  went  for- 
ward into  the  little  room,  bent  over 
the  chest,  and  fitted  the  key  into  the 
lock. 

Just  then  a  nightingale  burst  out 
singing,  but  so  near  and  so  loud  that 
he  started  and  looked  over  his  shoul- 
der. In  an  instant  he  collected  himself, 
feeling  the  black  man's  eyes  upon  him. 
Yet  he  could  not  suppress  the  train  of 
association  started  by  the  impassioned 
trilling  of  the  bird,  even  as  he  began 
to  turn  the  key  of  the  chest  where  his 
mother  used  to  keep  her  quaint  old 
silks  and  embroideries.  The  irony  of 
the  contrast  paralyzed  his  hand  for  a 
strange  moment,  and  of  the  difference 
between  this  spring  night  and  other 
spring  nights  when  nightingales  had 
sung.  And  what  if,  after  all,  only 
calamity  were  to  come  out  of  the  chest, 
and  he  were  to  lose  his  last  gift  of  hope! 
Ah!  He  knew  at  last  what  he  would 
do!  He  quickly  withdrew  the  key  from 
the  lock,  stood  up  straight  again,  and 
looked  at  Ziimbul  Agha. 

'Go  down  and  get  Shaban,'  he  or- 
dered, 'and  don't  come  back.' 

The  eunuch  stared.  But  if  he  had 
anything  to  say  he  thought  better  of 
uttering  it.  He  saluted  silently  and 
went  away. 

IV 

The  pasha  sat  down  on  the  divan 
and  lighted  a  cigarette.  Almost  imme- 
diately the  nightingale  stopped  singing. 
For  a  few  moments  Ziimbiil  Agha's 
steps  could  be  heard  outside.  Then  it 
became  very  still.  The  pasha  did  not 
like  it.  Look  which  way  he  would 
he  could  not  help  seeing  the  chest  —  or 
listening.  He  got  up  and  went  into 


the  big  room,  where  he  turned  on  the 
water  of  the  fountain.  The  falling 
drops  made  company  for  him,  and  kept 
him  from  looking  for  lost  reflections. 
But  they  presently  made  him  think 
of  what  Helene  had  said  about  them. 
He  went  out  to  the  porch  and  sat  down 
on  the  steps.  In  front  of  him  the  pines 
lifted  their  great  dark  canopies  against 
the  stars.  Other  stars  twinkled  be- 
tween the  trunks,  far  below,  where  the 
shore  lights  of  the  Bosphorus  were. 
It  was  so  still  that  water  sounds  came 
faintly  up  to  him,  and  every  now  and 
then  he  could  even  hear  nightingales 
on  the  European  side.  Another  night- 
ingale began  singing  in  his  own  woods 
—  the  nightingale  that  had  told  him 
what  to  do,  he  said  to  himself.  What 
other  things  the  nightingales  had  sung 
to  him,  years  ago!  And  how  long  the 
pines  had  listened  there,  still  strong 
and  green  and  rugged  and  alive,  while 
he,  and  how  many  before  him,  sat  under 
them  for  a  little  while  and  then  went 


away 


\ 


Presently  he  heard  steps  on  the  drive 
and  Shaban  came,  carrying  something 
dark  in  his  hand. 

'What  is  that?'  asked  the  pasha,  as 
Shaban  held  it  out. 

'A  revolver,  my  pasha.  Ziimbul 
Agha  told  me  you  wanted  it.' 

The  pasha  laughed  curtly. 

*  Ziimbiil  made  a  mistake.  What  I 
want  is  a  shovel,  or  a  couple  of  them. 
Can  you  find  such  a  thing  without  ask- 
ing any  one?' 

'Yes,  my  pasha,'  replied  the  Alban- 
ian promptly,  laying  the  revolver  on 
the  steps  and  disappearing  again.  And 
it  was  not  long  before  he  was  back  with 
the  desired  implements. 

'We  must  dig  a  hole,  somewhere, 
Shaban,'  said  his  master  in  a  low  voice. 
'  It  must  be  in  a  place  where  people  are 
not  likely  to  go,  but  not  too  far  from 
the  kiosque.' 

Shaban  immediately  started  toward 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 


155 


the  trees  at  the  back  of  the  house.  The 
pasha  followed  him  silently  into  a 
path  that  wound  through  the  wood.  A 
nightingale  began  to  sing  again,  very 
near  them  —  the  nightingale,  thought 
the  pasha. 

'He  is  telling  us  where  to  go/  he 
said. 

Shaban  permitted  himself  a  low 
laugh. 

'I  think  he  is  telling  his  mistress 
where  to  go.  However,  we  will  go  too/ 
And  they  did,  bearing  away  to  one 
side  of  the  path  till  they  came  to  the 
foot  of  the  tall  cypress. 

'This  will  do,'  said  the  pasha,  'if  the 
roots  are  not  in  the  way.' 

Without  a  word  Shaban  began  to 
dig.  The  pasha  took  the  other  spade. 
To  the  simple  Albanian  it  was  nothing 
out  of  the  ordinary.  What  was  extra- 
ordinary was  that  his  master  was  able 
to  keep  it  up,  soft  as  the  loam  was  un- 
der the  trees.  The  most  difficult  thing 
about  it  was  that  they  could  not  see 
what  they  were  doing,  except  by  the 
light  of  an  occasional  match.  But  at 
last  the  pasha  judged  the  ragged  ex- 
cavation of  sufficient  depth.  Then  he 
led  the  way  back  to  the  kiosque. 

They  found  Ziimbul  Agha  in  the 
little  room,  sitting  on  the  sofa  with  a 
revolver  in  either  hand.  * 

'I  thought  I  told  you  not  to  come 
back!'  exclaimed  the  pasha  sternly. 

'Yes,'  faltered ^the  old  eunuch,  'but 
I  was  afraid  something  might  happen 
to  you.  So  I  waited  below  the  pines. 
And  when  you  went  away  into  the 
woods  with  Shaban,  I  came  here  to 
watch.'  He  lifted  a  revolver  signifi- 
cantly. 'I  found  the  other  one  on  the 
steps.' 

'Very  well,'  said  the  pasha  at  length, 
more  kindly.  He  even  found  it  in  him 
at  that  moment  to  be  amused  at  the 
picture  the  black  man  made,  in  his  se- 
date frock  coat,  with  his  two  weapons. 
And  Ziimbul  Agha  found  no  less  to 


look  at,  in  the  appearance  of  his  mas- 
ter's clothes.  '  But  now  there  is  no  need 
for  you  to  watch  any  longer,'  added 
the  latter.  '  If  you  want  to  watch,  do 
it  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill.  Don't  let 
any  one  come  up  here.' 

'On  my  head,'  said  the  eunuch.  He 
saw  that  Shaban,  as  usual,  was  trusted 
more  than  he.  But  it  was  not  for  him 
to  protest  against  the  ingratitude  of 
masters.  He  salaamed  and  backed  out 
of  the  room. 

When  he  was  gone  the  pasha  turned 
to  Shaban :  — 

'This  box,  Shaban  —  you  see  this 
box?  It  has  become  a  trouble  to  us, 
and  I  am  going  to  take  it  out  there.' 

The  Albanian  nodded  gravely.  He 
took  hold  of  one  of  the  handles,  to 
judge  the  weight  of  the  chest.  He  lift- 
ed his  eyebrows. 

'Can  you  help  me  put  it  on  my 
back  ?'  he  asked. 

'Don't  try  to  do  that,  Shaban.  We 
will  carry  it  together.'  The  pasha  took 
hold  of  the  other  handle.  When  they 
got  as  far  as  the  outer  door  he  let  down 
his  end.  It  was  not  light.  'Wait  a 
minute,  Shaban.  Let  us  shut  up  the 
kiosque,  so  that  no  one  will  notice  any- 
thing.' He  went  back  to  blow  out  the 
candles.  Then  he  thought  of  the  foun- 
tain. He  caught  a  last  play  of  broken 
images  in  the  pool  as  he  turned  off  the 
water.  When  he  had  put  out  the  lights 
and  had  groped  his  way  to  the  door 
he  found  that  Shaban  was  already  gone 
with  the  chest.  A  drop  of  water  made 
a  strange  echo  behind  him  in  the  dark 
kiosque.  He  locked  the  door  and  hur- 
ried after  Shaban,  who  had  succeeded 
in  getting  the  chest  on  his  back.  Nor 
would  Shaban  let  the  pasha  help  him 
till  they  came  to  the  edge  of  the  wood. 
There,  carrying  the  chest  between 
them,  they  stumbled  through  the  trees 
to  the  place  that  was  ready. 

'Now  we  must  be  careful,'  said  the 
pasha.  'It  might  slip  or  get  stuck.' 


156 


IN  THE  PASHA'S  GARDEN 


'But  are  you  going  to  bury  the  box 
too?'  demanded  Shaban,  for  the  first 
time  showing  surprise. 

'Yes,'  answered  the  pasha.  And  he 
added,  'It  is  the  box  I  want  to  get 
rid  of.' 

'It  is  a  pity,'  remarked  Shaban  re- 
gretfully. 'It  is  a  very  good  box. 
However,  you  know.  Now  then!' 

There  was  a  scraping  and  a  muffled 
thud,  followed  by  a  fall  of  earth  and 
small  stones  on  wood.  The  pasha  won- 
dered if  he  would  hear  anything  else. 
But  first  one  and  then  another  nightin- 
gale began  to  fill  the  night  with  their 
April  madness. 

'Ah,  there  are  two  of  them,'  remark- 
ed Shaban.  'She  will  take  the  one  that 
says  the  sweetest  things  to  her.' 

The  pasha's  reply  was  to  throw  a 
spadeful  of  earth  on  the  chest.  Shaban 
joined  him  with  such  vigor  that  the 
hole  was  soon  very  full. 

'We  are  old,  my  pasha,  but  we  are 
good  for  something  yet,'  said  Shaban. 
'  I  will  hide  the  shovels  here  in  the 
bushes,'  he  added,  'and  early  in  the 
morning  I  will  come  again,  before  any 
of  those  lazy  gardeners  are  up,  and 
fix  it  so  that  no  one  will  ever  know.' 

There  at  least  was  a  person  of  whom 
one  could  be  sure!  The  pasha  realized 
that  gratefully,  as  they  walked  back 
through  the  park.  He  did  not  feel  like 


talking,  but  at  least  he  felt  the  satis- 
faction of  having  done  what  he  had  de- 
cided to  do.  He  remembered  Zumbiil 
Agha  as  they  neared  the  bottom  of  the 
hill.  The  eunuch  had  not  taken  his 
commission  more  seriously  than  it  had 
been  given,  however,  or  he  preferred 
not  to  be  seen.  Perhaps  he  wanted  to 
reconnoitre  again  on  top  of  the  hill. 

'I  don't  think  I  will  go  in  just  yet,' 
said  the  pasha  as  they  crossed  the 
bridge  into  the  lower  garden.  'I  am 
rather  dirty.  And  I  would  like  to  rest 
a  little  under  the  chestnut  trees.  Would 
you  get  me  an  overcoat  please,  Shaban, 
and  a  brush  of  some  kind?  And  you 
might  bring  me  a  coffee,  too.' 

How  tired  he  was !  And  what  a  short 
time  it  was,  yet  what  an  eternity,  since 
he  last  dropped  into  one  of  the  wicker 
chairs !  He  felt  for  his  cigarettes.  As  he 
did  so  he  discovered  something  else  in 
his  pocket,  something  small  and  hard 
that  at  first  he  did  not  recognize.  Then 
he  remembered  the  key  —  the  key.  .  .  . 
He  suddenly  tossed  it  into  the  pool  be- 
side him.  It  made  a  sharp  little  splash, 
which  was  reechoed  by  the  dripping 
basins.  He  got  up  and  felt  in  the  ivy 
for  the  handle  that  shut  off  the  water. 
At  the  end  of  the  garden  the  Bos- 
phorus  lapped  softly  in  the  dark.  Far 
away  in  the  woods  the  nightingales  were 
singing. 


MOTHERHOOD  AND  THE  STATE 


BY  ALBERT  JAY  NOCK 


WHILE  I  was  dining  with  a  friend  in 
a  New  York  restaurant  not  long  ago, 
a  little  family  of  five — father,  mother, 
and  three  children  —  came  in  and  took 
the  next  table.  The  parents  were  very 
young,  hardly  out  of  the  twenties  appa- 
rently, and  there  could  not  have  been 
much  more  than  two  years  between 
the  oldest  child  and  the  youngest.  The 
children  were  clearly  quite  accustomed 
to  their  parents :  their  manners  did  not 
reflect  the  nursery,  and  the  mother 
looked  after  them  with  the  indefinable 
tact  and  handiness  that  mark  a  person 
born  to  his  trade.  She  gave  the  impres- 
sion of  a  great,  free  natural  talent  for 
motherhood,  as  specific  and  unmistak- 
able as  Turgenieff's  talent  for  writing  or 
Rembrandt's  for  painting.  Altogether, 
the  sight  of  the  little  group  was  as 
pleasant  and  reviving  an  experience  as 
one  could  have. 

After  looking  at  them  a  long  time, 
my  friend  remarked,  *I  tell  you,  that 
woman  is  earning  her  living!'  There 
was  no  doubt  about  it.  One  who  can 
ply  a  trade  the  year  round  and  put  the 
indisputable  stamp  of  a  master  on  each 
day's  work  turned  out,  may  be  held 
entitled  to  a  living  at  least,  and  per- 
haps also  some  measure  of  gratitude 
from  a  world  which  is  not  overblessed 
with  efficiency.  The  thought  occurred 
to  me  that  if  I,  for  instance,  could  write 
and  edit  as  well  as  this  woman  was  do- 
ing the  work  of  motherhood,  I  should 
expect  to  hear  from  my  publishers  and 
the  public.  And,  in  fact,  I  should  hear 


promptly  from  both.  I  mention  this 
economic  comparison  because  there  is  a 
significance  in  it  which  will  appear  later. 
For  this  little  woman  who  was  earn- 
ing her  living,  earning  it  by  the  inspired 
work  of  genius,  was  not  hearing  from 
her  employers  or  from  the  public  in  any 
substantial  sense.  Her  husband  gave 
her  a  living,  no  doubt,  and  yet  could 
one  say  that  her  husband  employed  her 
to  bear  and  rear  children  as  my  pub- 
lishers employ  me  to  write  and  edit? 
Hardly.  Collaterally,  her  work  brought 
him,  I  hope,  such  affectional  gratifica- 
tion that  he  felt  that  he  had  his  money's 
worth;  but  the  economic  profit  of  her 
work,  the  thing  that  she  should  be  paid 
for,  flowed  elsewhere.  He  got  none  of 
it.  In  fact,  one  must  conceive  quite 
an  improbable  combination  of  circum- 
stances to  bring  him  even  a  return  of 
one  twentieth  of  one  per  cent  on  his  in- 
vestment in  all  three  children.  To  be- 
gin with,  he  was  evidently  well-to-do, 
so  probably  he  would  never  need  a  re- 
turn or  expect  one.  Moreover,  two  of 
the  three  children  were  girls;  and  while 
we  may  hope  for  a  day  soon  coming  in 
which  girls  will  have  an  equal  oppor- 
tunity to  work  and  earn  money  and 
keep  what  they  earn,  girls  are  compara- 
tively a  poor  investment  at  present. 
Considering  the  initial  cost  of  a  place 
to  live,  or  commutation  of  its  interest 
in  the  form  of  rent,  and  counting  in  up- 
keep and  improvements  with  the  over- 
head charge  for  food,  clothing,  and  edu- 
cation, it  is  plain  that  the  young  father 
had  no  chance,  in  the  world,  of  econo- 
mic profit  or  even  of  getting  any  of  his 

157 


158 


MOTHERHOOD  AND  THE  STATE 


money  back.  Nor  is  this  an  exceptional 
case.  Children  are  seldom  an  economic 
asset  nowadays  as  they  were  in  times 
by  no  means  out  of  memory,  when  the 
family  was  a  self-dependent  group. 
Oftener  than  not,  they  are  a  liability. 

And  yet  there  is  an  economic  profit 
flowing  from  them  somewhere,  for  they 
have  a  potential  wealth-producing 
power.  The  three  children  we  were  con- 
sidering will  have  some  kind  of  ability 
or  labor  to  sell,  and  largely  by  reason  of 
their  mother's  genius  for  motherhood 
it  is  likely  to  be  of  a  rather  high  order. 
Who  will  profit  by  this?  Most  cer- 
tainly the  State.  Our  common  remark 
that  a  child-bearing  woman  has  'done 
something  for  her  country '  shows  how 
much  truer  our  instincts  are  than  our 
practical  interpretation  of  them.  This 
little  woman  was  working  for  the  State, 
turning  her  superb  genius  to  the  bene- 
fit of  the  State  in  a  unique  and  indis- 
pensable service;  and  yet  she  is  paid  for 
it  only  indirectly,  or  rather,  not  paid  for 
it  at  all,  since,  gloze  the  fact  as  you  will 
with  whatever  sentimental  talk  about 
*  sharing'  or  the  *  spending  partner/  it 
remains  a  fact  that  what  she  gets  from 
her  husband  is  not  pay  but  largesse. 

This  does  not  seem  fair  or  self-re- 
specting or  at  all  calculated  to  encour- 
age good  work.  I  take  it  that  when 
some  of  our  socialist  friends  proclaim 
that  child-bearing  and  child-rearing 
are  the  State's  most  intimate  concern, 
they  have  a  proposition  which  logically 
is  sound  to  the  core.  If  so,  the  State 
should  pay  for  the  service,  and  pay  for 
it  in  some  kind  of  rough  proportion  to 
its  value.  No  one  would  minimize  the 
afiectional  delights  of  parenthood,  but 
yet  it  seems  a  niggardly  policy  for  the 
State  to  capitalize  them  in  order  to 
get  out  of  paying  its  debts  for  services 
rendered.  Why  should  the  State  take 
a  mercenary  advantage  of  this  little 
woman's  delight  in  her  talent  for  child- 
rearing,  any  more  than  my  employers, 


for  instance,  take  advantage  of  my 
pleasure  in  writing?  Some  inkling  of 
this  unfairness  has  been  getting  into  a 
good  many  minds  lately.  Some  nations, 
frightened  into  recognition  of  it  by  a 
falling  birth-rate,  have  put  a  bounty 
on  children.  Our  nation  has  here  and 
there  made  a  timid  beginning,  such  as 
it  is,  with  mother's  pensions.  But  these 
are  chiefly  for  poor  widows  with  depen- 
dent children;  hence  the  principle  is  ob- 
scured and  nothing  has  got  very  far. 

Probably  one  reason  is  because  it 
is  so  hard  to  see  how  a  compensation 
for  motherhood  should  be  paid.  If  all 
mothers  were  like  this  one,  it  would  be 
a  simple  matter.  The  best  way  to  com- 
pensate Turgenieff,  Michael-Angelo, 
Beethoven,  Edison,  would  be  to  hand 
over  the  money  and  think  no  more 
about  it.  Any  attempt  to  direct  their 
genius  would  be  a  hindrance  and  no 
help.  All  they  need  is  to  be  let  alone; 
and  this  is  quite  so  too  with  this  little 
mother.  Her  genius,  interest,  and  de- 
votion to  her  trade  could  be  relied  on  to 
produce  the  best  results,  and  give  the 
State  its  money's  worth  in  full  of  future 
citizenship. 

II 

But  all  mothers  are  not  like  this,  any 
more  than  all  writers  are  like  Tur- 
genieff. In  fact,  so  far  as  my  observa- 
tion goes,  first-class  talent  for  mother- 
hood is  quite  as  rare  and  precious  as 
first-class  talent  for  writing.  I  am 
aware  that  in  making  this  statement 
one  steps  on  burning  ground,  yet  I  be- 
lieve that  if  one  counted  up  the  num- 
ber of  people  engaged  in  the  trade  of 
motherhood  and  the  number  engaged 
in  the  trade  of  writing,  the  proportion 
of  genius  would  be  found  to  run  about 
the  same  in  both.  Nay  more,  I  believe 
the  proportion  of  those  who  are  accept- 
ably doing  what  we  may  call  the  jour- 
neyman-work of  motherhood  is  no 
higher  than  of  those  who  are  accept- 


MOTHERHOOD  AND  THE  STATE 


159 


ably  doing  the  journeyman- work  of 
literature.  These  are  they  who  in  both 
trades  are  working  conscientiously, 
with  the  affections  deeply  engaged,  but 
more  or  less  incompetently.  Now,  if 
the  State  contemplated  paying  writers, 
it  certainly  would,  and  perhaps  should, 
take  this  fact  into  account.  In  the 
great  majority  of  cases,  it  would  have 
to  administer  the  compensation  in 
some  less  direct  way  in  order  to  avoid 
doing  more  harm  than  good. 

Just  so  with  motherhood.  The  State 
imperatively  needs  a  birth-rate.  It 
must  have  citizens.  Mothers  bear  and 
rear  citizens;  hence  mothers  should  be 
paid  for  the  service.  So  far,  so  good. 
But  if  the  State  is  paying  for  citizens 
it  should  have  something  more  than 
the  mere  raw  material  of  citizenship. 
It  may  fairly  ask  for  a  certain  average 
training  and  discipline;  and  this  is  pre- 
cisely what  the  great  majority  of  jour- 
neyman-mothers are  unqualified  to 
provide.  It  is  only  our  turbid  and  mawk- 
ish sentiment  about  motherhood  that 
prevents  our  seeing  how  unreasonable 
it  is  to  expect  this  of  them,  —  the  sen- 
timent that  keeps  us  continually  con- 
fusing a  biological  function  with  a  so- 
cial talent.  Suppose  all  men  could  write : 
still  we  could  all  see  the  absurdity  of 
supposing  that  more  than  one  in  a  hun- 
dred million  could  write  the  Annals  of 
a  Sportsman,  or  one  in  ten  thousand 
ever  even  be  taught  how  to  report  a 
fire  in  a  fashion  to  satisfy  the  most 
lenient  city  editor.  But  we  do  not  see 
the  equivalent  absurdity  of  assuming 
that  if  every  woman  could  be  a  mother 
(and  probably  the  number  of  sterile 
women  in  the  United  States  is  no  great- 
er than  that  of  illiterates),  she  would 
be  ipso  facto  able  to  turn  out  an  order 
or  quality  of  work  that  presupposes 
either  genius  or  considerable  ability.1 

The  mischief  wrought  by  this  confusion, 
whereby  we  cast  a  monstrous  and  crushing  bur- 
den on  incompetent  women,  is  truly  lamentable. 


However,  women  unquestionably 
have  what  our  friends  the  economists 
call  a  *  natural  monopoly'  of  mother- 
hood, and  their  work  is,  with  negligible 
exceptions,  about  as  good  as  they  can 
make  it.  The  most  pathetic  sight,  I 
think,  in  a  world  which  rather  indus- 
triously specializes  in  pathetic  sights, 
is  the  grim  acquiescence  of  so  many 
women  in  a  lifetime  of  work  for  which 
they  are  not  fit,  and  their  heroic  effort 
to  make  an  inflexible  conscientiousness 
do  duty  for  the  genius  or  the  ability 
which  they  do  not  possess.  There  are 
compensations  in  this,  too,  as  there 
always  are  in  processes  of  discipline 
and  abnegation.  The  work  of  these 
women,  unsatisfactory  as  it  may  be,  is 
better  than  we  with  our  blundering  so- 
cial arrangements  based  on  impossible 
sentimental  expectations,  ever  deserve. 
But  life  enforces  discipline  enough  even 
when  we  make  it  as  easy  for  each  other 
as  we  can;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that 
the  State  would  secure  a  far  better 
quality  of  citizenship  if  it  offered  terms 
that  took  more  account  of  human  hap- 
piness and  did  not  virtually  prescribe 
such  a  dreadful  sacrifice  of  body  and 
soul. 

in 

But  again,  how?  Direct  payment  for 
motherhood,  as  we  saw,  is  perhaps  im- 
practicable except  in  a  few  special 
cases.  Well,  then,  why  not  attack  the 
problem  at  the  other  end,  by  lightening 
the  mother's  labor?  If  we  cannot  see 
our  way  to  give  her  more  pay,  we  can 
give  her  less  work.  If  we  cannot  fur- 
nish straw,  we  may  at  least  cut  down 
the  tale  of  bricks  to  a  minimum.  The 
best  compromise  at  present  appears 

Its  outcome  in  New  York  City  can  be  partly 
judged  by  a  remarkable  pamphlet  called  The 
City  where  Crime  is  Play,  the  report  of  a  unique 
survey  of  juvenile  life,  made  by  the  People's  In- 
stitute. I  wish  all  my  readers  would  write  to  the 
Institute,  70  Fifth  Ave.,  for  a  copy,  —  it  is  free, 
—  and  read  it  carefully.  —  THE  AUTHOR. 


160 


MOTHERHOOD  AND  THE  STATE 


to  be  for  the  State  to  give  opportunity 
whereby  the  mother  may  be  relieved 
of  labor  and  responsibility  in  child- 
rearing,  as  far  as  possible,  and  left  free 
with  a  larger  portion  of  her  life  to  regu- 
late and  occupy  as  she  sees  fit.  This 
does  not  settle  the  State's  debt  to  her, 
but  it  goes  so  far  toward  it  that  the 
State  would  no  doubt  find  her  a  com- 
plaisant and  delighted  creditor. 

Proposals  of  this  kind  have  been 
made  by  the  socialists  and  are  invari- 
ably met  with  a  cry  of  distress  over  the 
'institutional  child'  whose  fate  of  be- 
ing state-bred  instead  of  parent-bred 
makes  him  as  it  were  a  monster  unto 
many.  I  cannot  see  the  logic  of  this; 
not  because  of  any  tenderness  toward 
socialism,  for  I  have  none,  but  because 
of  the  fact,  which  those  who  talk  in 
this  way  apparently  overlook,  that  our 
children  are  state-bred  to  a  great  ex- 
tent already.  Probably  the  truth  is 
that  when  we  speak  of  the  institutional 
or  state-bred  child  we  think  at  once 
of  reformatories,  almshouses,  work- 
houses and  the  like.  We  do  not  think 
of  public  schools  as  State  institutions. 
Yet  that  is  precisely  what  they  are;  and 
every  child  who  attends  one  is  an 
institutional  child.  Our  public-school 
system  is  the  first  effort  by  the  State 
to  afford  the  mother  a  partial  measure 
of  the  very  relief  we  are  talking  about. 
In  establishing  the  public  schools,  the 
State  had  not  perhaps  full  sight  of  this 
object;  yet  their  establishment  tend- 
ed directly  and  powerfully  toward  it. 
Now,  while  the  public-school  system 
has  come  in  for  a  great  deal  of  criticism 
lately,  one  observes  with  interest  that 
the  complaint  is  always  that  it  does  not 
do  enough,  does  not  touch  the  child's 
life  at  enough  points.  We  never  hear 
complaint  that  the  schools  are  usurping 
the  function  of  the  mother  or  'under- 
mining the  home'  —  to  borrow  a 
phrase  much  used  by  our  conservative 
friends.  The  public-school  system  has 


been  greatly  extended  in  our  day:  at 
one  end  by  the  kindergarten  and  at  the 
other  by  vocational  training,  manual 
training,  trade-schools,  continuation 
schools,  and  so  on.  Every  one  thinks 
that  the  schools  should  go  yet  further. 
No  one,  so  far  as  I  know,  thinks  that 
they  should  be  restricted  or  abolished, 
— as  it  seems  one  should  think  if  one's 
concern  about  the  institutional  child 
were  logical  or  even  intelligent. 

Well,  then,  why  not  resolutely  ex- 
tend the  public-school  system  to  its 
logical  length?  This  would  not  only 
satisfy  every  one  who  complains  of  the 
system's  present  inefficiency,  but  would 
also  incidentally  be  the  largest  practi- 
cable step  the  State  can  take  toward 
readjusting  its  iniquitous  business  rela- 
tions with  the  mothers  who  serve  it. 
The  school  now  represents  only  a  cer- 
tain limited  type  of  activities,  but  the 
limitation  is  purely  arbitrary.  There 
is  no  natural  reason  why  the  school 
should  not  be  a  centre  where  all  sorts 
of  opportunities  for  intellectual,  social, 
and  industrial  improvement  are  of- 
fered. On  the  contrary,  it  seems  most 
natural  and  logical  that  the  school 
should  include  all  possible  factors  of 
education  such  as  are  now  furnished 
separately  by  various  types  of  muni- 
cipal and  commercial  institutions  — 
libraries,  parks,  playgrounds,  model 
gardens,  gymnasiums,  theatres,  moving 
pictures,  auditoriums,  trade-schools, 
business-schools,  apprenticeships.  It  is 
natural,  too,  that  such  an  opportun- 
ity-centre should  be  available  all  day 
and  every  day  in  the  year.  The  lim- 
itation of  a  six-hour  day  and  an  eight- 
month  year  is  purely  arbitrary. 

By  this  simple  and  strictly  logical 
enlargement  of  our  conception  of  the 
public  school,  we  should  get  what 
amounts  to  a  new  type  of  municipal 
institution.  One  could  say  a  great  deal 
about  the  general  value  of  such  an  in- 
stitution as  compared  with  our  pre- 


MOTHERHOOD  AND  THE  STATE 


161 


sent  schools,  but  we  are  concerned,  for 
the  purposes  of  this  paper,  only  with  its 
reactions  upon  motherhood.  We  can 
trace  these  best,  possibly,  by  consider- 
ing such  a  practical  example  as  the 
public-school  system  of  Gary,  Indiana, 
the  only  one,  so  far*  as  I  am  aware, 
in  which  this  radical  development  has 
been  carried  out  in  practice.  The  fable 
conveys  a  salutary  warning  to  well- 
meaning  outsiders  who  'in  quarrels 
interpose ' ;  nevertheless  I  must  suggest 
to  the  feminists  and  socialists  that, 
in  consistently  overlooking  the  Gary 
schools,  they  are  losing  some  very  fine 
campaign  material. 

Children  are  taken  in  the  Gary  schools 
at  the  age  of  six  weeks,  which  is  almost 
as  soon  as  the  mother  can  be  about. 
The  domestic-science  classes  need  the 
babies  to  practice  on,  —  if  this  phrase 
does  not  suggest  vivisection  or  some- 
thing of  the  kind.  They  get  the  ad- 
vantage of  the  best  equipment  and  the 
best  care,  and  there  are  never  half 
enough  babies  to  go  around.  Gary 
could  take  care  of  half  the  babyhood 
of  Indiana  in  its  several  schools.  The 
limit  of  school  age  is  lifetime.  You  can 
go  to  school  as  long  as  you  live.  That 
is  to  say,  adults  may  and  do  use  the 
schools  as  freely  as  children,  and  there 
are  inducements  for  them  to  do  so. 
The  schools  comprise  every  possible 
opportunity  for  industrial  and  cultural 
training,  and  moreover,  they  are  social 
centres  in  a  complete  sense.  Every- 
thing that  happens  in  town  is  scheduled 
there.  The  parks,  gymnasiums,  libra- 
ries, public  meetings,  —  everything,  so 
far  as  I  could  see,  except  churches,  is  . 
there;  everything  free  and  wide  open 
from  eight  in  the  morning  until  ten- 
thirty  at  night,  and  all  the  year  round. 
It  is  impossible  to  go  into  details  of 
management  and  administration.  The 
object,  in  a  word,  is  not  to  provide  mere 
instruction,  be  it  ever  so  diversified, 
but  to  provide  a  complete  life,  a  super- 
VOL.  114  -  NO.  2 


abundance  of  opportunity  for  every 
sort  of  good  employment.  The  system 
depends  on  nothing  but  gravitation, 
the  purely  natural  tendency  which 
every  one  has  to  cleave  to  the  better 
thing  rather  than  the  worse,  when  the 
two  are  put  in  free  competition,  to 
bring  and  hold  children  to  these  op- 
portunities. And  it  works  perfectly; 
just  as  any  one  with  a  true  insight  into 
human  nature  might  know  it  would. 
There  is  no  problem  of  truancy  and 
no  problem  of  juvenile  leisure.  Every 
moment  of  the  day  the  school  is  in 
competition  with  the  street  and  alley, 
the  vacant  lot,  freight-yard,  pool-room, 
and  saloon;  and  it  wins  without  effort. 

Now,  surely  we  can  see  at  once  the 
inevitable  reaction  of  this  upon  all 
classes  of  mothers.  Take  first  the  born 
genius  for  motherhood  whom  we  have 
been  considering.  Gravitation  takes 
her  children  to  the  school  a  good  deal 
of  the  time,  —  but  it  takes  her  there 
too.  She  enters  the  life  of  her  children 
and  lives  it  with  them,  sweetening  and 
tempering  it  not  only  for  them  but  for 
all  other  children  with  whom  she  is 
brought  in  contact;  thus  extending  the 
scope  of  her  genius  beyond  the  limits 
of  her  own  family  in  an  effortless  and 
natural  way,  with  the  aid  of  innumer- 
able facilities  which  she  could  not  oth- 
erwise have;  and  thereby  enhancing 
the  value  of  her  service  to  the  State. 

Then  the  journeyman-mother,  she 
of  the  vast  and  pitiful  majority  whose 
natural  affection  is  sound  but  whose 
ability  is  slight  and  weak,  she  too  is 
interested,  but  only  by  her  affectional 
side.  She  may  relinquish  as  much  ini- 
tiative and  executive  responsibility 
as  she  chooses,  and  be  free  to  devote 
herself  to  her  children  with  that  por- 
tion of  her  nature  only  which  is  profit- 
able for  them.  Then  the  unnatural 
mother  (though  why,  why  in  the  name 
of  reason  and  justice  do  we  call  her 
unnatural  ?  Is  it  unnatural  that  women, 


162 


MOTHERHOOD  AND  THE  STATE 


poor  souls !  any  more  than  men,  should 
not  all  like  the  same  kind  of  work?), 
the  mother  to  whom  children  are  an 
accident,  a  nuisance,  or  a  calamity, 
may  be  relieved  from  a  crushing  bur- 
den and  her  offspring  kept  from  the 
profound  misfortune  of  her  rearing. 
The  depraved  and  vicious  mother  may 
have  her  influence  as  far  as  possible 
counteracted,  and  her  opportunities 
for  harm  sharply  limited.  The  poverty- 
stricken  or  over-weighted  mother  may 
go  about  her  toil  with  a  lighter  heart, 
conscious  that  her  children  are  having 
a  better  chance  than  she  could  ever 
give  them.  Then,  finally,  the  feminist 
mother,  who  wants  economic  indepen- 
dence and  a  larger  place  on  the  social 
or  political  stage,  may  go  about  her 
enterprise  cheered  by  the  agreeable 
thought  that  the  State,  which  has  been 
so  long  the  unimpressionable  and 
stodgy  object  of  her  spirited  atten- 
tions, at  last  is  measurably  'squaring* 
her  and  enabling  her  children  'to  live 
their  own  lives'  as  largely  and  profit- 
ably, perhaps,  as  she  is  living  hers. 


IV 

And  what,  finally,  is  the  reaction  on 
the  home?  I  could  answer  that  question 
better  if  I  knew  what  it  means  in  the 
mind  of  those  who  ask  it.  When  people 
speak  of  the  home  as  though  the  term 
were  one  of  precision  and  definiteness, 
like  speaking  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral 
or  the  House  of  Representatives,  I  con- 
fess that  I  cannot  follow  them.  When 
they  declare  that  this  or  that  *  menaces 
the  home'  or  *  disrupts  the  home,'  I 
can  only  reply,  *  Possibly;  —  but  first 
tell  me  what  you  mean  by  the  home, 
and  then  I  will  tell  you  what  I  think.' 
If  home  is  a  place,  it  is  practically  non- 
existent in  a  nation  of  migrants  like 
ourselves.  Few  Americans  have  ever 
had  the  fortune  to 
Nattre,  vivre  et  mourir  dans  la  m6me  maison, 


or  are  even  sensible  of  the  nostal- 
gic charm  pervading  this  profound  and 
admirable  verse  of  Sainte-Beuve.  If 
home  means  a  house,  I  point  to  the 
millions  of  Eastern  desert-wanderers 
who  have  never  heard  of  a  house.  If  it 
means  a  household,  a  group  of  people 
whom  choice  in  marriage  plus  the  acci- 
dent of  birth  has  segregated,  I  call  at- 
tention to  two  things.  First,  that  the 
household  was  never  organized  with 
reference  to  children  and  is  now  less  so 
than  ever.  It  is  organized  with  refer- 
ence to  adults.  There  is  relatively  little 
opportunity,  little  doing,  for  children 
in  the  household.  This  is  inevitable 
and  cannot  be  changed.  Second,  that 
we  should  carefully  distinguish  between 
the  economic  and  sentimental  reasons 
for  the  solidarity  of  the  household. 

Formerly,  when  the  household  was 
a  self-dependent  economic  unit,  these 
reasons  were  in  a  sense  interrelated. 
Well  within  the  memory  of  men  now 
living,  all  the  washing,  cooking,  bak- 
ing, butchering,  canning,  preserving, 
gardening,  tailoring,  haircutting,  car- 
pet-weaving, dyeing,  candle-making, 
soap- boiling,  and  so  on  through  the 
long  subsidiary  list  of 'chores,'  —  all 
were  done  in  the  household.  There  was 
an  immense  unifying  and  cementing 
power  in  this.  Members  of  a  family 
got  at  and  knew  each  other  by  that 
noblest  side  of  character  that  express- 
es itself  in  cooperative  work.  They 
learned  compromise,  adjustment,  self- 
surrender;  and  their  love  for  those 
from  whom  and  with  whom  they 
learned  could  not  help  increasing. 
This  school  was  an  unmercifully  hard 
one,  but  it  carried  incentives  to  mutual 
affection  and  esteem  as  great  as  the 
Nertchinsk  mines  or  Libby  Prison  car- 
ried for  their  graduates,  or  as  any  hard, 
unyielding  situation  carries  for  those 
who  make  common  cause  against  it. 
And  here  probably,  we  have  the  one 
drop  of  truth  in  all  the  ocean  of  ver- 


MOTHERHOOD   AND   THE   STATE 


163 


biage  which,  from  Payne's  song  down 
to  last  night's  anti-suffrage  speech,  has 
weltered  round  the  name  of  home. 

But  when  the  economic  character 
of  the  household  changed,  these  ce- 
menting and  unifying  influences  dis- 
appeared. Regret  them  as  we  may, 
they  are  gone.  No  power  can  restore 
them.  No  power  can  reproduce  the 
precise  sentiment  which  grew  from 
them.  Two  graduates  of  Libby  Prison 
will  always  feel  a  deep  and  peculiar 
regard  for  each  other,  but  they  cannot 
bequeath  that  regard  to  their  sons  and 
still  less  to  their  grandsons!  At  the 
present  time  we  have  the  possibility 
(and  of  course  in  most  cases,  the  fact) 
of  a  distinct  affectional  life  obtaining 
between  members  of  a  household.  But 
where  affection  obtains,  it  must  now 
obtain  per  se.  It  is  no  longer  sustained 
and  shaped  by  the  household's  econo- 
mic circumstances,  since  the  house- 
hold is  no  longer  an  economic  unit. 

If  I  were  asked  therefore  whether  or 
not  the  State  is  likely  to  'disrupt  the 
home'  by  pushing  its  public-school 
system  to  the  limit  of  logical  develop- 
ment, I  should  be  very  sure,  sure  as 
one  can  be  of  any  matter  which  one 
judges  before  the  fact,  that  it  would 
not.  A  household  pervaded  by  a  dis- 
interested affectional  life  lived  and  en- 
joyed for  its  own  sake,  —  well,  nothing 
can  disrupt  that  —  it  is  bomb-proof; 
and  any  situation  short  of  that  will  be 
cleared  and  improved,  it  seems  to  me, 
by  encouraging  the  children  to  culti- 
vate outside  the  home  such  measure 
of  affectional  life  as  they  cannot,  for 
whatever  reason,  cultivate  at  home. 
Loving  unlovely  people  and  unlovely 
things  is  up-hill  work,  too  much  for  the 
initial  practice  of  a  child's  tender  fibre, 
and  he  should  not  have  it  to  do.  It  is 
work  for  the  mature  and  toughened 
moral  sinew.  And  really,  it  is  not  im- 
portant that  a  child  should  love  this 
particular  person  or  that;  the  import- 


ant thing  is  that  he  should  learn  to 
lave.  And  he  will  learn  this  best  where 
his  opportunities  are  best:  best  of  all 
from  the  genius  for  motherhood,  and 
next  best  from  the  journeyman-mother 
whose  responsibility  is  permitted  to 
end  with  imparting  that  lesson,  as  the 
only  one  she  is  in  any  degree  quali- 
fied to  teach.  From  any  other  order 
of  parenthood  it  is  unlikely  that  he 
will  learn  much  about  the  great  power 
and  philosophy  of  love.  Better  by  far 
that  his  affectional  life  should  develop 
among  the  contacts  and  incentives  to 
disinterested  sentimental  attachments , 
which  he  would  find  abounding  in  the 
new  type  of  public  school. 

Experience  shows  how  wise  it  is  to 
leave  the  settlement  of  all  this  kind  of 
thing  which  we  adults  find  so  knotty 
and  debatable,  to  the  instinct  of  the 
children  themselves.  Of  such  is  the 
kingdom  of  heaven,  —  free  to  move  in 
the  midst  of  opportunity,  they  will  al- 
ways go  where  it  is  best  for  them  to  be. 
This  is  their  divine,  inerrant  wisdom, 
so  uncomprehended  of  our  logic-worn 
souls.  The  children  of  the  genius  or  the 
journeyman-mother  will  spend  much 
time  at  home,  almost  as  much  perhaps 
as  at  the  school,  —  enough,  at  any  rate, 
to  get  its  unadulterated  advantages. 
Children  in  the  other  categories  (pace 
the  feminist  mother  for  cavalierly  lump- 
ing her  off  with  the  unnatural  and 
vicious, —  it  is  by  way  of  logic  not  of  in- 
sult) will  perhaps  go  home  no  more  than 
to  eat  and  sleep.  If  so,  so  best:  best 
for  them,  and  for  the  household  whose 
organization  virtually  excludes  them. 
•  Every  consideration  of  self-interest 
seems  to  point  to  the  complete  develop- 
ment of  the  public-school  system;  and 
in  its  development  the  State  would 
find  itself  for  the  first  time  approxi- 
mating fair  play  with  the  army  of 
motherhood  which  is  giving  it  an  in- 
dispensable and  at  present  wholly  un- 
requited service. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD 


BY   SAMUEL   McCHORD   CROTHERS 


IN  the  troubled  history  of  Ireland 
the  villain  was  the  Absentee  Landlord. 
Nothing  good  "was  ever  said  of  him. 
He  was  a  parasite  for  whom  no  apo- 
logy could  be  made.  The  sum  of  his  in- 
iquities was  that  he  enjoyed  property 
without  assuming  any  of  the  responsi- 
bilities that  belonged  to  it. 

In  England  he  might  be  an  excellent 
member  of  society,  conscious  of  the  du- 
ties of  a  citizen  and  neighbor.  But  his 
occasional  visits  to  his  estates  across 
St.  George's  Channel  were  not  even  for 
the  purpose  of  collecting  his  rents  — 
that  he  left  to  his  agents.  With  some 
careless  companions  he  would  spend 
a  rollicking  fortnight  or  two  among 
his  tenantry,  receive  their  'God  bless 
you's,'  for  nothing  at  all,  and  then  re- 
turn to  the  serious  business  of  life. 

All  this  was  very  reprehensible,  and 
justifies  the  reproaches  which  have 
been  visited  on  absentee  landlordism. 
The  pleasures  of  the  absentee  landlord 
were  wicked  pleasures,  because  they 
were  gained  at  the  expense  of  others. 
But  this  is  not  to  deny  that  they  were 
real  pleasures.  Property  plus  respon- 
sibility is  a  serious  matter.  Irrespon- 
sible ownership  is  a  rose  without  a 
thorn.  If  we  can  come  by  it  honestly 
and  without  any  detriment  to  others, 
we  are  to  be  congratulated. 

The  most  innocent  form  in  which 
this  unmoral  pleasure  can  be  enjoyed 
is  in  the  ownership  of  an  abandoned 
farm.  Of  course  one  must  satisfy  his 
social  conscience  by  making  sure  that 

164 


the  agricultural  derelict  was  abandoned 
for  good  cause,  and  that  the  former 
owner  bettered  his  condition  by  mov- 
ing away.  In  the  mountain  regions  of 
New  England  it  is  not  difficult  to  find 
such  places.  At  the  gate  of  the  hill 
farm  the  genuine  farmer  stands  aside 
and  says  to  the  summer  resident,  *  After 
you.' 

To  one  who  possesses  a  bit  of  such 
land,  the  charm  lies  in  the  sense  of  ir- 
responsibility. One  can  without  com- 
punction do  what  he^will  with  his  own, 
with  the  comfortable  assurance  that 
no  one  could  do  much  better.  This  is 
particularly  consoling  when  one  pro- 
poses to  do  nothing  but  let  it  alone. 

When  as  an  absentee  landlord  I  run 
up  to  my  ragged,  unkempt  acres  on  a 
New  Hampshire  hilltop,  I  love  to  read 
the  book  of  Proverbs  with  their  insist- 
ence on  sleepless  industry. 

*I  went  by  the  field  of  the  slothful 
.  .  .  and  lo !  it  was  all  grown  over  with 
thorns ;  and  nettles  had  covered  the  face 
thereof  and  the  stone  wall  thereof  was 
broken  down.' 

What  a  perfect  description  of  my 
estate! 

*  Then  I  saw  and  considered  it  well.  I 
looked  upon  it  and  received  instruc- 
tion .  .  .' 

The  sluggard  saith,  *  Yet  a  little  sleep 
and  a  little  slumber,  a  little  folding  of 
the  hands  in  sleep.  So  shall  poverty 
come  as  one  that  travelleth.' 

I  say,  How  true !  If  I  had  to  make  my 
living  by  farming,  these  words  would 
stir  me  to  agricultural  effort.  But  as 
it  is,  they  have  a  soothing  sound.  If  my 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD 


165 


neighbor  does  n't  like  the  wild  black- 
berries, that  is  his  misery,  not  mine.  I 
prefer  the  picturesque,  broken-down 
wall  to  his  spick-and-span  one. 

If  he  asks  why,  I  will  not  reason 
with  him;  for  does  not  the  proverb 
say,  *  The  sluggard  is  wiser  in  his  own 
conceit  than  seven  men  that  can  render 
a  reason.' 

That  is  the  way  I  feel.  I  propose  for 
several  weeks  in  the  year  to  be  a  slug- 
gard with  all  the  rights  and  privileges 
appertaining  thereto. 

'The  sluggard  will  not  plough  by 
reason  of  the  cold,  therefore  in  harvest 
he  shall  have  nothing/ 

My  experience  confirms  this.  But 
then  I  did  not  expect  to  have  anything. 

'By  much  slothfulness  the  building 
decayeth.' 

This  also  I  observe,  not  without  a 
certain  measure  of  quiet  satisfaction. 
The  house  is  not  what  it  used  to  be. 
How  much  less  stiff  and  formal  every- 
thing is  under  the  mellowing  influence 
of  time.  Nature  corrects  our  tenden- 
cy to  deal  too  exclusively  in  straight 
lines.  What  an  improvement  has  come 
with  that  slight  sag  in  the  roof.  How 
much  more  lovable  the  shingles  are 
than  in  their  self-assertive  youth.  What 
an  artist  the  weather  is  in  the  matter  of 
staining.  It  is  an  Old  Master  retouch- 
ing the  work  of  the  village  painter. 
Nature  is  toning  down  the  mistakes  of 
man.  A  little  sleep  and  a  little  slum- 
ber, and  the  house  will  cease  to  be  a 
blot  on  the  landscape. 

I  should  not  like  to  feel  that  way  all 
the  year,  for  I  am  a  great  believer  in 
the  industrial  virtues  when  they  keep 
their  place.  When  I  observe  people 
who  feel  that  way  all  the  time,  I  feel 
like  remonstrating  with  them.  When  I 
observe  people  who  never  feel  that 
way,  I  do  not  remonstrate  with  them 

-  it  would  do  no  good.  But  I  like 
now  and  then  to  escape  from  their 
company. 


ii 

All  this  leads  naturally,  I  hope,  to 
the  consideration  of  the  question  which 
I  should  like  to  present  to  the  open- 
minded  reader  —  namely,  the  use  of 
history  for  a  person  who  does  not  as- 
pire to  be  a  professional  historian. 

A  recent  congress  of  historians  was 
congratulated  on  the  progress  that  had 
been  made  *  since  history  ceased  to  be 
a  pleasant  branch  of  literature  and  had 
become  the  work  of  eager  and  consci- 
entious specialists.' 

Over  the  painstaking  work  of  these 
scientific  specialists  we  may  rejoice  just 
as  we  rejoice  over  the  advance  in  inten- 
sive agriculture.  And  yet  I  should  be 
sorry  to  think  that  history  as  a  pleas- 
ant branch  of  literature  is  to  be  alto- 
gether prohibited  in  the  interest  of  in- 
tellectual industrialism. 

I  suppose  the  eager  specialists  would 
not  approve  of  Thomas  Fuller's  ac- 
count of  the  way  in  which  he  approach- 
ed History. 

'We  read  of  King  Ahasuerus  that, 
having  his  head  troubled  with  much 
business  and  finding  himself  so  indis- 
posed that  he  could  not  sleep,  he  caus- 
ed the  records  to  be  brought  in  to  him, 
hoping  thereby  to  deceive  the  tedious- 
ness  of  the  time,  and  that  the  pleas- 
ant passages  in  the  Chronicles  would 
either  invite  slumber  or  enable  him  to 
endure  waking  with  less  molestation. 
We  live  in  a  troublesome  and  tumult- 
uous age,  and  he  needs  to  have  a  soft 
bed  who  can  sleep  soundly  nowadays 
amidst  so  much  loud  noise  and  many 
impetuous  rumors.  Wherefore  it  seem- 
eth  to  me  both  a  safe  and  cheap  re- 
ceipt to  procure  quiet  and  repose  to 
the  mind  which  complains  of  want  of 
rest,  to  prescribe  the  reading  of  His- 
tory. Great  is  the  pleasure  and  the  pro- 
fit thereof.' 

Let  not  this  Ahasuerus  theory  of 
History  offend  the  scientific  historian. 


166 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD 


There  is  no  more  real  conflict  than 
there  is  between  the  scientific  farmer 
and  the  city  worker  who  finds  his  re- 
creation in  an  abandoned  farm. 

Conduct,  said  Matthew  Arnold  more 
than  once,  is  three  fourths  of  life.  Let 
us  be  in  a  generous  mood  and  not  hag- 
gle over  fractions.  Let  us  say  that  con- 
duct is  nine  tenths  of  life;  the  other 
tenth  consists  in  having  a  good  time. 
In  like  manner,  let  us  admit  that  nine 
tenths  of  history  is  a  serious  study;  the 
other  tenth  is  pure  recreation.  Then 
let  us  follow  the  example  of  the  old- 
time  clergyman  and  not  allow  our- 
selves to  be  cheated  out  of  our  tithe. 

Our  work-a-day  life  is  lived  among 
our  contemporaries.  All  our  actions 
are  consciously  related  to  them,  —  un- 
less one  happens  to  be  a  very  young 
author  who  is  writing  a  masterpiece 
for  the  admiration  of  Posterity.  Now, 
among  our  contemporaries,  matters  are 
so  arranged  that  one  thing  always  leads 
to  another  thing.  Not  only  every  act 
but  every  thought  involves  responsibil- 
ity, and  our  contemporaries  are  always 
reminding  us  of  these  relations. 

If  you  manifest  an  interest  in  a  phil- 
anthropic movement,  the  next  thing 
that  happens  is  that  some  one  presents 
you  with  a  subscription  paper.  You  are 
expected  to  'make  good.' 

That  phrase  is  disconcerting.  It  in- 
dicates that  nothing  stands  alone.  We 
are  involved  in  an  endless  chain.  A 
good  word  is  not  its  own  excuse  for 
being.  It  is  a  promise  to  pay,  and  it 
is  possible  that  when  it  comes  due  we 
may  not  be  prepared  to  meet  our  obli- 
gations. 

After  a  while  we  are  in  danger  of  be- 
coming Malthusians.  It  seems  as  if  the 
population  of  duties  increased  faster 
than  the  means  of  moral  subsistence. 
It  is  all  very  well  to  say, '  Look  out  and 
not  in.'  But  when  we  do  so  we  must 
expect  to  hear  the  next  admonition, 
'Lend  a  hand.'  When  both  hands  are 


full,  looking  out  ceases  to  be  a  pleasure. 

It  is  in  the  attempt  at  self-protec- 
tion that  the  danger  to  our  intellectual 
and  emotional  spontaneity  comes.  The 
man  who  finds  it  increasingly  difficult 
to  make  both  ends  meet,  morally 
speaking,  begins  to  economize  in  his 
thinking  and  feeling.  He  does  not 
wish  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  new 
thoughts  that  might  involve  new  ex- 
penditures. He  will  not  intrude  him- 
self on  ideals  that  are  above  his  station 
in  life. 

In  the  hand-to-mouth  struggle  for 
existence  he  cuts  off  all  luxuries  and 
develops  a  standardized  intelligence. 
This  makes  him  safe  but  uninteresting. 
That  does  not  matter  to  him,  so  long 
as  he  is  young,  for  then  he  is  at  least 
interesting  to  himself.  But  after  a 
time  even  that  solace  fails  him.  His 
state  is  that  indicated  in  the  familiar 
reports  of  the  stock  market,  —  '  Nar- 
row, Dull  and  Firm.' 


in 

When  one  is  in  danger  of  falling  into 
such  a  habit  of  mind,  it  needs  no  skilled 
physician  to  advise  a  complete  change. 
Geographical  change  is  not  sufficient, 
for  the  traveler  is  likely  to  carry  his 
sense  of  responsibility  with  him.  What 
he  needs  is  to  get  away  from  his  con- 
temporaries, so  that  he  can  exercise 
freely  faculties  which  he  has  seldom 
used.  In  his  own  generation  he  cannot 
avoid  responsibility  for  'doing  some- 
thing' about  everything  he  sees  to  be 
true.  Let  him  then  for  his  soul's 
health  get  now  and  then  into  a  period 
of  time  where  there  is  nothing  for  him 
to  do  but  to  see  what  is  going  on.  He 
can  thus  entertain  ideas  with  a  care- 
free mind. 

Several  years  ago  I  was  pleased  to 
see  a  proposal  of  a  minister  in  a  Penn- 
sylvania valley  for  utilizing  the  rota- 
tion of  the  earth  for  reducing  the  cost 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD 


167 


of  travel.  His  notion  of  the  law  of 
gravitation  seemed  more  simple  than 
that  of  most  men  of  science  in  these 
days.  His  idea  seemed  to  be  that  a  few 
miles  above  the  earth  it  is  a  negligible 
factor,  and  that  rising  in  a  balloon  one 
could  be  at  rest  while  the  globe  whirled 
round  beneath  him.  All  the  traveler 
had  to  do  was  to  adopt  a  policy  of 
watchful  waiting.  When  Pekin  or  Sa- 
marcand  came  into  view,  he  would  de- 
scend and  make  himself  at  home. 

In  travel  through  space  there  may  be 
an  objection  to  this  plan  on  the  score 
of  practicability.  But  it  expresses  pre- 
cisely the  way  in  which  we  may  make 
excursions  into  the  past.  All  we  have 
to  do  is  to  detach  ourselves  from  the 
present,  and  there  we  are.  We  may 
drop  down  into  any  century  which  at- 
tracts our  attention.  We  find  interest- 
ing people  who  are  doing  interesting 
things.  We  may  listen  to  their  talk  and 
share  their  enthusiasms. 

In  order  to  get  the  full  measure  of 
enjoyment,  we  should  have  acquaint- 
ances at  various  places  with  whom  we 
are  on  visiting  terms,  or,  better  still, 
have  a  little  place  of  our  own  to  which 
we  can  retire.  A  person  who  is  living 
all  the  time  in  the  twentieth  century 
cannot  get  on  sympathetic  terms  with 
bandits  and  bigots  and  other  interest- 
ing characters  whom  he  would  like  to 
know.  Either  he  disapproves  of  them 
or  they  disapprove  of  him.  But  when 
we  drop  into  a  past  generation,  such 
things  do  not  matter. 

I  remember  how  in  the  Excelsior 
Society  we  used  to  debate  the  ques- 
tion, 'Was  the  execution  of  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots  justifiable? '  Sometimes 
we  thought  it  was,  and  sometimes  we 
thought  it  was  n't.  We  changed  sides 
in  the  most  shameless  fashion.  We 
knew  that  she  had  been  executed  long 
ago,  and  that  no  mistakes  which  we 
might  make  would  do  any  harm. 

And  there  was  the  question,*  Was  the 


career  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte  bene- 
ficial to  Europe?'  I  reveled  in  the  con- 
tradictory facts  that  we  could  discover. 
Nothing  Napoleonic  was  alien  to  us  of 
the  Excelsior  Society.  It  gave  us  some- 
thing to  talk  about.  But  had  I  been  liv- 
ing in  France  in  the  time  of  Napoleon, 
I  should  not  have  had  these  fine  and 
stimulating  pleasures.  There  would 
have  been  only  one  'side  to  this  inter- 
esting question.  To  argue  that  the 
career  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte  was  not 
beneficial  to  Europe  would  not  have 
been  beneficial  to  me. 

The  pleasures  of  the  absentee  land- 
lord are  those  to  which  the  ordinary 
historian  is  often  indifferent.  He  is 
like  the  man  with  the  megaphone  in 
the  'Seeing  New  York'  motor  bus.  He 
tells  us  what  we  ought  to  see,  and  keeps 
moving.  He  is  interested  in  the  se- 
quence of  events.  Now,  we  may  find 
much  more  pleasure  in  getting  ac- 
quainted with  people  whom  we  meet 
in  their  own  homes.  In  such  a  case  it 
is  better  to  get  off  the  bus  and  find  our 
own  way  about. 

Indeed  a  history  may  be  so  written 
as  not  to  take  us  away  from  our  own 
time  at  all.  It  may  be  simply  the  pro- 
jection of  familiar  contemporary  ideas 
upon  the  past. 

I  have  a  book  published  in  the  early 
didactic  period  of  the  nineteenth  cent- 
ury which  illustrates  a  certain  way  of 
imparting  historical  information.  It 
was  written  with  the  laudable  inten- 
tion of  making  history  interesting  to 
people  who  didn't  want  to  venture  into 
the  Unfamiliar.  The  author  thought 
that  if  the  patriarchs  were  conceived 
of  as  New  England  selectmen,  their 
lives  could  be  made  as  interesting  as 
if  they  were  New  England  selectmen. 
And  I  am  not  sure  but  that  he  suc- 
ceeded. The  book  is  divided  into  two 
parts :  a  conversation  with  Adam  cov- 
ering the  space  of  930  years,  and  an 
interview  with  Noah  giving  an  account 


168 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD 


of  the  Deluge  and  the  other  events 
with  which  he  was  familiar.  They  are 
represented  as  nice  old  gentlemen  ra- 
ther formal  in  their  language  and  strict- 
ly orthodox  in  their  opinions.  Adam 
speaks  hopefully  of  Methuselah,  who, 
he  says, '  must  be  now  about  fifty-seven 
years  old  and  is  a  discreet  and  well- 
principled  youth.'  He  was  very  much 
disturbed  over  the  radical  views  of  the 
Tubal-Cains.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
book  that  would  indicate  that  either 
Adam  or  Noah  had  been  out  of  Con- 
necticut. 

IV 

A  similar  criticism  may  be  made  in 
regard  to  many  historical  monographs. 
Some  particular  thing  with  which  we 
are  perhaps  too  well  acquainted  is 
treated  historically.  It  is  shown  to  be 
the  same  in  all  ages.  This  may  be  per- 
fectly true,  but  it  does  not  serve  to 
transport  us  into  the  realms  of  gold. 
That  is  the  way  I  felt  about  The  His- 
tory of  Influenza,  which  I  have  not  read 
thoroughly.  The  author,  it  is  needless 
to  say,  was  a  physician,  who,  instead 
of  giving  an  account  of  the  influenzas 
he  had  known,  treated  his  subject  his- 
torically. After  one  has  followed  in- 
fluenza from  the  Greeks  and  Romans, 
through  the  Dark  Ages,  the  Renais- 
sance, and,jthe  Protestant  Reformation, 
human  history  seems  one  prolonged 
sneeze. 

The  same  effect  is  produced  on  my 
mind  when  a  historian,  starting  with  a 
modern  political  or  economic  theory, 
attempts  to  explain  everything  that 
has  happened  in  past  ages  by  his  for- 
mula. I  may  be  interested  in  the  facts 
which  he  chooses  to  illustrate  his  the- 
sis; but  I  cannot  help  thinking  of 
the  facts  which  he  leaves  out  because 
they  do  not  fit  into  his  scheme.  They 
were  very  much  alive  once.  My  heart 
yearns  for  these  non-elect  infants. 

When  one  turns  from  the  inevitable 


sequences  and  fore-ordained  uniformi- 
ties of  the  historian  with  one  idea,  to 
the  experience  of  a  single  day,  there 
is  a  sense  of  intellectual  confusion  and 
of  emotional  exhilaration.  All  sorts  of 
things  are  happening  at  the  same  tune. 
We  are  dealing  with 

Reckoning  time  whose  million'd  accidents 
Creep  in  'twixt  vows  to  change  decrees  of  kings, 
Tan  sacred  beauty,  blunt  the  sharp' st  intents, 
Divert  strong  minds  to  the  course  of  alt 'ring 
things. 

In  ordinary  life  we  have  to  shut  our 
eyes  to  these  millioned  accidents  lest 
we  be  distracted  from  our  proper  work. 
We  have  to  simplify  the  universe  to 
an  absurd  degree.  We  cannot  indulge 
in  the  Shakespearean  hospitality  of 
thought,  and  we  warn  off  irrelevant 
ideas  with  the  notice,  'No  admission 
except  on  business.' 

We  are  like  passengers  on  a  street 
car  when  the  car  collides  with  a  butch- 
er's cart.  They  resent  having  to  put 
their  names  in  a  little  book  in  order  to 
be  haled  into  court  as  witnesses.  It  was 
not  their  butcher's  cart. 

But  in  our  excursions  into  the  past 
there  is  no  necessity  for  such  economy 
of  attention.  We  are  in  holiday  mood 
and  are  resolved  to  do  no  manner  of 
work.  Having  no  axe  to  grind  and  no 
appointments  to  keep,  we  can  indulge 
our  idle  curiosity.  We  mingle  freely 
with  the  crowd,  ready  to  see  whatever 
is  going  on.  And  we  are  willing  to  see 
it  as  the  crowd  sees  it,  and  not  as  the 
responsible  tax-payer  allows  himself  to 
scrutinize  current  events,  anxious  to 
know  who  is  to  pay  for  the  damage.  In 
order  to  get  into  sympathetic  relations 
with  men  of  another  generation  we 
must  share  their  prejudices  and  their 
ignorance  of  what  is  to  happen  next. 
Only  thus  do  we  live  their  lives. 

Suppose  you  were  to  meet  Columbus 
on  his  return  from  his  second  voyage, 
and  were  to  say,  'Admiral,  I  am  proud 
to  meet  the  discoverer  of  America.* 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD 


169 


This  would  be  a  tactless  way  of  begin- 
ning the  conversation.  He  would  reply 
stiffly,  'Sir,  you  have  the  advantage 
of  me.' 

It  would  be  a  mean  advantage  to 
take  of  a  simple-minded  sailor.  You 
know  what  he  has  discovered,  and  he 
does  n't.  Your  mind  is  full  of  the  Pil- 
grim Fathers  and  George  Washington 
and  the  Louisiana  Purchase  and  the 
Monroe  Doctrine  and  all  sorts  of  mat- 
ters which  were  alien  to  his  intention. 
You  relate  his  voyage  to  posthumous 
history  in  which  he  had  no  interest, 
while  you  refuse  to  enter  into  his  en- 
thusiasms about  the  Crusades  and  the 
Holy  Sepulchre  and  the  marvelous 
shores  of  Cipango.  Nor  would  you  be 
able  to  share  his  disappointment  at 
not  being  able  to  deliver  in  person 
his  letter  of  introduction  to  the  Grand 
Khan. 

If  you  wish  to  become  acquainted 
with  John  Calvin  it  would  be  a  mis- 
take to  take  for  granted  that  he  was  a 
Calvinist,  for  the  chances  are  that  the 
only  Calvinists  with  whom  you  are 
acquainted  are  of  Scotch  or  Scotch- 
Irish  extraction.  Their  national  traits 
obscure  the  figure  of  the  youthful 
French  jurist  who,  while  he  was  still  in 
his  twenties,  published  a  radical  book 
called  The  Institutes  of  the  Christian 
Religion. 

Take  up  the  book  as  it  comes  fresh 
from  the  press.  You  learn  what  you 
can  about  him.  They  say  he  was  a  very 
precocious  lad,  and  in  his  thirteenth 
year  got  an  appointment  as  chaplain 
to  a  bishop.  But  by  the  time  he  was 
twenty  he  had  become  skeptical,  had 
entered  the  profession  of  law,  and  had 
made  a  reputation  among  jurists.  A 
little  later  he  distinguished  himself  by 
publishing  a  commentary  on  Seneca. 
Now  he  has  turned  to  religious  sub- 
jects. It's  a  way  these  clever  young 
fellows  have.  They  advance  revolution- 
ary opinions  of  their  own  at  a  time 


when  they  should  be  listening  to  their 
elders. 

If  you  are  an  Englishman  of  the  mod- 
erate school  you  will  find  the  young 
man's  way  of  putting  things  is  quite 
'frenchy.'  These  Frenchmen  are  bril- 
liant but  not  safe;  they  have  a  way  of 
carrying  their  arguments  to  logical 
conclusions  which  it  may  not  be  ex- 
pedient for  us  to  reach. 

If  you  can  read  Calvin's  Institutes 
with  some  thrill  of  fear  lest  you  be  car- 
ried away  by  dangerous  novelties,  it  is 
a  sign  that  you  have  dropped  into  the 
year  1536. 

Our  pleasure  in  observing  the  chang- 
ing fashions  of  our  own  day  is  marred 
by  the  feeling  that  we  are  in  some  de- 
gree responsible  for  them.  If  they  are 
absurd  we  cannot  smile  genially  upon 
them  for  fear  that  this  should  be  inter- 
preted as  approval.  On  the  other  hand, 
if  we  criticize  the  latest  fashion  in  dress 
or  in  thought  it  only  proves  that  we  are 
not  so  young  as  we  once  were.  It  is  a 
a  great  relief  to  get  where  we  may  be 
spectators  of  the  comedy. 

When  I  go  to  an  exhibition  of  pic- 
tures which  purports  to  be  the  last 
word  of  the  new  art,  I  am  not  free  in 
my  judgment.  I  am  told  that  the  artist 
is  not  portraying  any  outward  scene, 
but  is  only  painting  the  state  of  his 
own  mind.  I  hasten  away  for  fear  that 
my  mind  may  get  into  that  state  also. 
It  is  an  ignoble  fear  of  contagion. 

Then  I  take  up  the  Sentimental 
Magazine  for  1773-74.  The  editor  feels 
that  pure  sentimentality  is  to  be  the 
final  thing  in  literature.  It  must  have 
an  organ  of  its  own.  He  guarantees 
that  every  number  of  the  new  mag- 
azine will  force  the  tears  of  sensibility 
from  the  reader's  eyes. 

I  have  no  responsibility  for  this  liter- 
ary force-pump.  I  only  want  to  see  how 
it  works.  If,  after  sufficient  priming, 
the  tears  of  sensibility  come,  it  will  be 
well.  If  they  do  not  come,  I  shall  feel 


170 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD 


no  self-reproach.  At  least  I  shall  enjoy 
thinking  of  the  tears  which  other  peo- 
ple have  shed  over  these  pages.  I  do 
not  have  to  keep  up  with  the  fashion 
in  sentimentality. 


To  one  who  lives  among  his  contem- 
poraries all  the  time  there  is  something 
irritating  in  the  perpetual  opposition 
of  special  interest  to  moral  progress. 
The  monotonous  answer  to  every  ap- 
peal for  relief  from  an  ancient  wrong  is 
that  the  agitation  is  '  bad  for  business.' 
Now,  it  is  evident  that  no  change  is 
ever  possible  without  disturbing  some- 
body's business. 

I  find  satisfaction  in  dropping  into 
the  year  1675  and  taking  up  a  little 
pamphlet,  The  Discovery  of  Witches,  by 
Mathew  Hopkins,  witch-finder,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  whole  kingdom.  I  can 
read  Mathew  Hopkins's  plea  for  the 
restoration  of  his  business  without  any 
irritation.  I  can  really  get  his  point  of 
view.  Mathew  Hopkins  was  not  a  fa- 
natic or  a  theorist.  He  was  a  business- 
like person  who  had  taken  up  the  trade 
of  witch-finding  as  another  man  might 
be  a  plumber.  He  was  not  an  extremist. 
He  utterly  denied  that  the  confession 
of  a  witch  was  of  any  validity,  if  it  was 
drawn  from  her  by  torture  or  violence. 
It  is  the  practical  side  of  witchcraft 
that  interests  him.  When  he  took  up 
the  business  of  witch-finding  it  was  on 
a  sound  basis  and  offered  a  living  for 
an  industrious  and  frugal  practitioner. 
But  now  the  business  is  in  a  bad  way. 
Whatever  pedple  may  think,  there  is 
no  money  in  it. 

How  pathetic  is  the  statement  of 
present-day  conditions.  ^Mr.  Hopkins 
*  demands  but  twenty  shillings  a  town, 
and  doth  sometimes  ride  twenty  miles 
for  that,  and  hath  no  more  for  his 
charges  thither  and  back  again  (and  it 
may  be  stayes  a  weeke  there)  and  finds 


there  three  or  four  witches,  or  it  may 
be  but  one.  Cheap  enough!  And  this 
is  the  greate  sum  he  takes  to  maintain 
his  companie,  with  three  horses ! ' 

That  touch  of  honest  sarcasm  makes 
me  understand  Mathew  Hopkins.  He 
is  so  sure  that  something  is  wrong,  and 
so  impervious  to  any  considerations  not 
connected  with  shillings  and  pence. 
That  the  business  depression  was  con- 
nected with  a  great  intellectual  revo- 
lution did  not  occur  to  him.  How  pale 
all  rationalistic  arguments  must  have 
seemed  to  a  man  with  three  horses 
eating  their  heads  off  in  his  stables! 

That  which  gives  the  sense  of  reality 
to  our  daily  living  is  the  multitude  of 
little  events  which  make  up  the  day. 
We  are  not  absorbed  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  one  great  public  event.  There 
are  chance  acquaintances,  casual  hap- 
penings, changing  points  of  view.  We 
meet  people  who  know  people  whom 
we  have  known.  If  the  meeting-place 
be  far  from  home  we  are  agreeably 
surprised,  and  greet  one  another  as  if 
we  had  been  long-lost  friends.  We 
compare  our  impressions  and  indulge 
in  reminiscences.  We  perhaps  indulge 
in  a  little  myth-making.  As  we  recall 
half-forgotten  incidents  they  assume 
an  endearing  familiarity.  Most  of  our 
conversation  consists  of  the  compari- 
sons of  one  half  view  with  another  half 
view. 

The  sense  of  really  living  in  another 
age  comes  in  the  same  homely  way.  A 
chance  allusion  does  more  than  a  la- 
bored description.  We  must  begin  with 
*  small  talk'  before  we  can  feel  at  home. 
The  volumes  of  the  Nicene,  Ante-Ni- 
cene,  and  Post-Nicene  Fathers  are  not 
attractive  reading  to  one  who  looks  at 
them  in  the  mass.  But  if  you  are 
fortunate  enough  to  stumble  upon  a 
letter  written  by  St.  Basil  the  Great 
to  his  friend  Antipater,  the  Governor 
of  Cappadocia,  you  will  at  once  feel 
that  a  Church  father,  even  though  a 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD 


171 


saint,  is  quite  human.  Basil  is  writing, 
not  about  heresies  but  about  pickled 
cabbage,  which  his  friend  Antipater 
had  recommended  for  its  health-giving 
qualities.  He  has  heretofore  been  preju- 
diced against  it  as  a  vulgar  vegetable, 
but  now  that  it  has  worked  such  won- 
ders with  his  friend  he  will  esteem  it 
equal  to  the  ambrosia  of  the  gods  — 
whatever  that  may  be.  This  is  an  ex- 
cellent introduction  to  St.  Basil.  Start- 
ing the  conversation  with  pickled  cab- 
bage, we  can  easily  lead  up  to  more 
serious  subjects. 

If  it  happens  that  we  can  make  any 
little  discovery  of  our  own  and  find  it 
confirmed  by  somebody  in  a  previous 
generation,  it  puts  us  at  our  ease  and 
forms  a  natural  means  of  approach.  It 
is  always  wise  to  provide  for  such  in- 
troductions to  strangers.  Thus,  though 
I  am  not  a  smoker  I  like  to  carry 
matches  in  my  pocket.  One  is  always 
liable  to  be  accosted  on  the  street  by 
some  one  in  need  of  a  light.  To  be 
able  to  give  a  match  is  a  great  luxury. 
It  forms  the  basis  for  a  momentary 
friendship. 

One  is  often  able  to  have  that  same 
feeling  toward  some  one  who  would 
otherwise  be  a  mere  historical  per- 
sonage. My  acquaintance  with  Lord 
Chesterfield  came  about  in  that  way. 
Several  years  ago  I  wrote  an  essay  for 
the  Atlantic  Monthly  on  'The  Hundred 
Worst  Books.'  For  a  place  in  the  list  I 
selected  a  book  in  my  library  entitled 
Poems  on  Several  Occasions,  published 
in  1749,  by  one  Jones,  a  poet  whose 
name  was  unknown  to  me  till  I  pe- 
rused his  verse.  The  pages  were  so  fresh 
that  I  cherished  the  belief  that  I  was 
the  only  reader  in  a  century  and  a  half. 
I  had  the  pride  of  possession  in  Jones. 

It  was  some  time  after  that  I  came 
across,  in  Walpole's  letters,  an  allusion 
to  my  esteemed  poet.  It  seems  that 
Colley  Gibber,  when  he  thought  he  was 
dying,  wrote  to  the  Prime  Minister 


'recommending  the  bearer,  Mr.  Henry 
Jones,  for  the  vacant  laurel.  Lord  Ches- 
terfield will  tell  you  more  of  him.' 

I  was  never  more  astonished  in  my 
life  than  when  I  visualized  the  situa- 
tion, and  saw  my  friend  Jones  'the 
bearer '  of  a  demand  for  the  reversion 
to  the  laureateship. 

It  seemed  that  Walpole  was  equally 
surprised,  and  when  he  next  met  Lord 
Chesterfield  the  eager  question  was, 
Who  is  Jones  >  and  why  should  he  be 
recommended  for  the  position  of  poet 
laureate?  Lord  Chesterfield  answered, 
'A  better  poet  would  not  take  the  post 
and  a  worse  ought  not  to  have  it.'  It 
appears  that  Jones  was  an  Irish  brick- 
layer and  had  made  it  his  custom  to 
work  a  certain  number  of  hours  accord- 
ing to  an  undeviating  rule.  He  would 
lay  a  layer  of  brick  and  then  compose  a 
line  of  poetry,  and  so  on  till  his  day's 
task  was  over.  This  accounts  for  the 
marvelous  evenness  of  his  verse. 

This  was  but  a  small  discovery  but 
it  gave  a  real  pleasure,  for  should  I 
meet  my  Lord  Chesterfield  he  and  I 
would  at  once  have  a  common  interest. 
We  both  had  discovered  Jones,  and 
quite  independently. 


VI 

Let  no  one  think  that  these  little 
irresponsible  excursions  into  the  past 
are  recommended  as  a  substitute  for 
the  painstaking  and  systematic  work  „ 
of  the  historian.  They  are  not.  But  they 
have  a  value  of  their  own,  and  may 
possibly  induce  a  state  of  mind  that  is 
salutary.  For  there  are  times  when  the 
historian  gets  beyond  his  depth  and 
finds  it  impossible  to  reduce  his  mate- 
rial to  an  orderly  and  consistent  narra- 
tive. The  best  historian  is  sometimes 
in  the  plight  of  the  author  of  the  Book  of 
Mormon,  when  he  tried  to  disentangle 
the  history  of  his  vague  tribes.  For 
page  after  page  he  pursues  his  theme, 


172 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD 


but  it  becomes  more  and  more  com- 
plicated. 

'  Now  there  were  many  records  kept 
of  the  proceedings  of  this  people,  by 
many  of  this  people  which  are  particu- 
lar and  very  large  concerning  them. 
But  behold  a  hundredth  part  of  the 
proceedings  of  this  people,  yea  the  ac- 
count of  the  Lamanites  and  of  the  Ne- 
phites  and  their  wars  and  contentions 
and  dissensions  and  their  preaching, 
and  their  prophecies  and  their  build- 
ing of  ships  and  building  of  temples 
and  synagogues,  and  their  sanctuaries 
and  their  righteousness  and  their  wick- 
edness and  their  robbings  and  plunder- 
ings  and  all  manner  of  abominations, 
cannot  be  contained  in  this  work.  But 
behold  there  are  many  books,  and 
many  records  of  every  kind,  and  they 
have  been  chiefly  kept  by  the  Nephites.9 

There  you  have  the  real  difficulty  in 
writing  a  history  of  the  Lamanites. 
There  may  be  plenty  of  material,  but 
so  long  as  it  was  collected  by  the 
Nephites  it  is  impossible  to  get  the 
Lamanitist  point  of  view.  For  myself 
1  confess  that  I  could  spare  the  gener- 
alized accounts  of  these  tribal  wars,  if 
I  could  come  in  contact  with  a  single 
Lamanite,  even  of  low  degree,  and  find 
out  what  he  was  thinking  about.  A 
personal  acquaintance  with  a  particu- 
lar individual  would  make  'the  pro- 
ceedings of  this  people'  seem  more 
real. 

The  civil  wars  of  England  seem  real 
to  us  because  we  can  become  acquainted 
with  the  people  who  fought  one  an- 
other. We  see  the  feud  between  Puritan 
and  Cavalier  at  its  beginnings,  and  can 
watch  its  growth.  Even  in  the  time  of 
Queen  Bess  we  see  that  all  is  not  affec- 
tion. We  enter  a  church  and  hear  the 
preacher  allude  to  the  Queen  as  'that 
untamed  heifer.'  As  we  go  out  we  say, 
*  That  will  make  trouble.'  And  so  it  did. 
Not  very  long  after,  we  hear  a  Pres- 
byterian zealot,  when  he  is  asked  if 


certain  great  persons  are  not  pillars  of 
the  church,  reply,  'Yes,  caterpillars.' 
That  is  not  the  kind  of  answer  that 
turneth  away  wrath.  It  is  the  multipli- 
cation of  exasperating  speeches  and  ac- 
tions which  at  last  brings  the  parties 
to  blows.  There  are  things  which  can- 
not be  arbitrated,  chiefly  because  there 
are  so  many  of  them. 

When  we  take  up  the  book  of  Judges 
and  read  of  heroes  like  Samson  and 
Gideon,  we  seem  to  be  peering  into 
dim  far-away  times.  But  there  is  a  short 
story  that  welcomes  us  into  the  do- 
mestic life  of  the  day.  It  begins  at  the 
beginning,  or  rather  in  the  midst,  of  a 
family  misunderstanding.  'There  was 
a  man  of  Mount  Ephraim,  whose  name 
was  Micah.  And  he  said  unto  his 
mother,  The  eleven  hundred  shekels  of 
silver  .  .  .  about  which  thou  cursedst 
and  spakest  of  also  in  mine  ears,  behold, 
the  silver  is  with  me,  I  took  it.  And  his 
mother  said,  Blessed  be  thou  of  the 
Lord,  my  Son.'  The  mother  in  her  first 
excitement  felt  that  she  had  wholly 
dedicated  the  eleven  hundred  shekels 
unto  the  Lord  for  a  graven  image  and 
a  molten  image.  But  no  comment  is 
made  on  the  fact  that  she  actually 
took  two  hundred  shekels  of  the  re- 
stored silver  and  gave  them  to  the 
founder  who  made  thereof  a  graven 
image  and  a  molten  image,  which  were 
perfectly  satisfactory.  Somehow  that 
bit  of  thrift  opens  the  way  to  a  pleas- 
ant acquaintance  with  the  good  man 
of  Mount  Ephraim.  We  are  interest- 
ed in  the  family  economics.  When,  a 
while  after,  he  is  able  to  set  up  a  priv- 
ate chaplain,  we  rejoice.  A  young  Le- 
vite  from  Beth-lehem-judah  passes  by 
and  Micah  bargains  with  him. 

'And  Micah  said  unto  him,  whence 
comest  thou?  And  he  said  unto  him, 
I  am  a  Levite  of  Beth-lehem-judah 
and  I  go  to  sojourn  where  I  may  find 
a  place.  And  Micah  said  unto  him, 
Dwell  with  me  and  be  unto  me  a  father 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD 


173 


and  a  priest,  and  I  will  give  thee  ten 
shekels  of  silver  by  the  year  and  a  suit 
of  apparel  and  thy  victuals.' 

We  feel  sure  that  the  ten  shekels 
were  a  part  of  the  saving  of  nine  hun- 
dred shekels,  owing  to  the  unexpected 
reduction  in  graven  images  and  molten 
images.  We  rejoice  with  Micah  when 
he  exclaims, '  Now  know  I  that  the  Lord 
will  do  me  good,  seeing  I  have  a  Levite 
to  my  priest.'  And  we  share  his  indig- 
nation when  the  children  of  Dan  tempt 
the  Levite  by  a  call  to  a  larger  sphere 
of  usefulness,  and  he  takes  with  him 
the  precious  images. 

'The  children  of  Dan  said  unto 
Micah,  What  aileth  thee? 

'And  he  said,  Ye  have  taken  away 
my  gods,  which  I  made,  and  the  priest, 
and  ye  are  gone  away :  and  what  have  I 
more.  And  what  is  this  that  ye  say 
unto  me,  What  aileth  thee?' 

'And  the  children  of  Dan  said  unto 
him.  Let  not  thy  voice  be  heard  among 
us  lest  angry  fellows  run  upon  thee  and 
thou  lose  thy  life  with  the  lives  of  thy 
household.  And  the  children  of  Dan 
went  their  way,  and  when  Micah  saw 
that  they  were  too  strong  for  him  he 
turned  and  went  back  unto  his  own 
house.' 

Micah  was  not  a  great  person  at  all. 
He  was  only  an  average  man.  But  he 
can  be  vividly  realized.  In  the  dim 


ages  before  there  was  a  king  in  Israel 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  human  nature 
there.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  drop  into  the 
house  in  the  hill  country  of  Ephraim 
and  talk  about  ephods  and  teraphim, 
and  the  price  of  graven  images,  and  the 
salary  of  young  Levites,  and  the  ini- 
quities of  the  children  of  Dan.  When 
our  interest  in  these  topics  of  conver- 
sation is  exhausted  we  can  come  back 
at  once  to  the  current  events  of  the 
twentieth  century. 

After  all,  the  test  of  a  vacation  is  the 
renewed  zest  with  which  we  take  up 
our  work  on  our  return.  The  person 
who  lives  among  his  contemporaries 
all  the  time  has  no  idea  what  interest- 
ing people  they  are.  They  appear  even 
romantic  when  one  returns  to  them 
from  a  short  trip  abroad.  There  is  a 
moment  before  we  begin  again  to  do 
things,  when  we  have  leisure  to  see 
things. 

Of  course  we  must  take  up  our  re- 
sponsibilities again.  Our  serious  busi- 
ness with  our  contemporaries  is  to  im- 
prove their  conditions,  their  morals, 
and  their  manners.  We  do  not  have  too 
much  time  for  this  work.  But  before 
we  begin  again  the  attempt  to  make 
them  what  they  ought  to  be,  we 
may  enjoy  the  moment  when  we  have 
enough  freshness  of  vision  to  see  them 
as  they  are. 


VICTORIAN  HYPOCRISY 


BY   ANNIE   WINSOR   ALLEN 


FROM  1837  to  1901,  as  we  all  know, 
a  woman  was  the  Queen  of  England. 
From  1837  to  1901,  all  good  English 
and  American  magazines,  newspapers, 
and  novels,  were  edited  with  the  idea 
of  pleasing  women,  of  being  suitable 
to  the  home,  and  of  meeting  the  eyes 
of  young  persons  without  doing  harm. 
Conversation,  likewise,  for  all  decent 
people,  was  guarded,  and  cultivated 
adults  did  not  talk  even  among  them- 
selves in  a  way  unsuitable  for  the 
ears  of  young  people.  Of  course  men, 
among  themselves,  were  never  so  care- 
ful; nevertheless  the  conversation  of  a 
group  of  English  or  American  gentle- 
men during  most  of  that  period  was 
such  as  Frenchmen,  Germans,  Italians, 
and  Spaniards  dubbed  '  hypocritical.' 

Suddenly  this  has  changed. 

What  caused  this  prevailing  tone  of 
protection  and  solicitude  through  those 
sixty  years  and  more?  Was  it  hypo- 
crisy? And  what  was  its  consequence? 
Did  it  have  any  effect  upon  actual  be- 
havior? Did  it  benefit  in  any  way  the 
three  generations  which  submitted  to 
it,  and  shall  we  lose  anything  by  this 
startling  change  which  has  rapidly 
come  over  magazine,  newspaper,  novel, 
and  conversation  since  Queen  Victoria 
died? 

Definitely  in  America,  since  about 
1898,  when  the  Lexow  Vice  Commit- 
tee's activities  were  openly  reported  in 
the  New  York  newspapers,  youth  has 
been  increasingly  treated  as  a  negli- 
gible portion  of  the  reading  public,  the 

174 


home  has  ceased  to  be  protected  by 
editors,  and  women  are  supposed  to 
read  whatever  men  read.  That  young 
girl's  witticism,  'These  are  books  I 
would  not  let  my  mother  read,'  had 
been  perpetrated  already  in  the  late 
nineties.  Parents  must  now  contrive 
and  enforce  a  new  procedure  to  protect 
youth  if  it  is  to  be  kept  fresh  and 
sound-hearted.  Publishers'  etiquette 
and  even  drawing-room  etiquette  have 
ceased  to  help,  —  for  woman  has  sud- 
denly been  taken  out  of  the  category 
of  the  sheltered,  and  youth,  which 
shared  her  cloister,  is  overlooked. 

By  a  curious  irony  the  commanding 
word  'Victorian'  has  come  to  connote 
flabby  and  futile,  prudish  and  trite, 
grandmotherly  and  sentimental.  'Vic- 
torian, in  sooth!  What  stuff  is  this  of 
which  to  make  victors!'  The  epoch 
has  been  divided  into  hopelessly  un- 
interesting periods  —  Early- Victorian, 
Middle- Victorian,  and  Later-Victor- 
ian: the  first,  the  sentimental  period; 
the  second,  the  trite  period;  and  the 
third,  the  futile  period.  This  view  of 
the  nineteenth  century  was  pronounced 
in  the  late  nineties  by  it-matters- 
not-whom.  It  was  hailed  with  delight 
and  gayly  reechoed  back  and  forth 
among  the  prevalent  writers  and  talkers 
of  the  day.  A  wasted  century,  grown 
old  along  with  the  frumpy  Queen  who 
dominated  it,  seemed  to  them  much 
miscalled  by  that  ludicrously  senti- 
mental name,  dotingly  chosen  for  her 
at  her  coronation. 

This  is  one  view.  Here  is  another. 
This  talking  of  a  whole  era  as  if  its  men 


VICTORIAN  HYPOCRISY 


175 


were  cast  in  one  mould  like  dolls  from  a 
factory  is  easy  but  inaccurate.  For  of 
course  we  all  know  that,  by  Galton's 
law  of  natural  production,  there  are 
at  each  epoch  (that  is  to  say,  in  any 
given  year)  five  groups  among  sincere, 
highly  developed  persons,  in  each  of 
which  great  men  may  appear. 

Group  A  is  very  small:  it  comprises 
the  seers,  who  see  ahead,  and  around, 
above,  below;  always  they  are  two 
generations  ahead  of  their  own  time; 
they  arouse  the  youth  who  are  to  be 
the  A's  and  B's  of  the  next  generation. 
Group  B  is  the  numerous  advance 
guard,  the  van,  not  actually  ahead,  but 
seeming  a  little  in  advance;  its  mem- 
bers spread  the  ideas  of  the  seers  who 
aroused  their  own  youth,  and  invent, 
for  the  fulfillment  of  those  good  tid- 
ings, new  customs  that  embody  them. 
Group  C  is  the  great  mass  of  earnest 
pilgrims,  —  the  many  who  keep  fully 
abreast  of  the  times;  their  foremost 
ranks  are  indistinguishable  from  the 
van,  but  they  follow,  in  general,  ideas 
inspired  by  the  great  ones  of  their 
fathers'  youth  and  customs  crystall- 
ized by  their  own  fathers.  Somewhat 
they  are  all  touched  and  swayed  by 
the  van  of  their  own  time.  Not  infre- 
quently they  even  struggle  in  a  rush 
of  enthusiasm  to  keep  up  with  it.  On 
the  whole,  however,  they  incline  to 
seek  to  teach  to  their  children  by  rote 
whatever  they  learned,  and  their  hin- 
dermost  members  are  indistinguishable 
from  members  of  the  next  group,  D, 
the  numerous  reluctants,  who  are  al- 
ways a  little  behind;  these  are  moved 
mostly  by  the  ideals  of  their  great- 
grandfathers, and  would  cling  if  they 
could  to  the  customs  set  by  their 
grandfathers :  that  is,  they  have  taken 
implicitly  what  was  taught  them  by 
rote  in  their  youth,  and  have  been  un- 
touched by  the  great  ones  of  their  own 
youth.  Last  comes  Group  E,  the 
stragglers  and  adventurers  who  are 


frankly  without  inspiration  for  a  pil- 
grimage, but  are  in  it  for  what  they  can 
get  out  of  it;  they  call  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  others  '  hypocrisy  and  cant.' 

Besides  all  these  sincere  persons, 
of  course,  there  is  another  body,  not 
really  on  pilgrimage  at  all.  These  are 
they  (who  shall  say  how  many?)  who 
are  moved  simply  by  a  weak  desire  to 
make  life  easy  for  themselves.  They 
conform  outwardly,  so  far  as  need  be, 
for  comfort  and  a  quiet  life;  and  the 
rest  of  the  time  they  simply  follow  their 
primitive  selfish  impulses.  These  are 
the  real  hypocrites,  though  they,  also, 
call  all  enthusiasts  hypocrites.  They 
are  definitely  more  often  moved  by 
jealousy  than  by  admiration,  by  sus- 
picion than  by  faith. 

Furthermore,  in  addition  to  all  these 
persons  who  are  measurably  on  a  par 
in  development,  there  are  irregular 
companies  innumerable.  Even  in  the 
most  forward  communities  of  the  most 
forward  nations  you  always  find  indi- 
viduals and  groups  who  reproduce  in 
actual  personal  development  the  men 
of  any  previous  evolutional  era  you 
may  be  looking  for:  cave-men,  tent- 
dwellers,  Romans,  mediseval  barbari- 
ans, children  of  the  Renaissance,  gen- 
tlemen of  the  eighteenth  century,  all 
dwelling  in  New  York,  all  using  elec- 
tric lights,  and  wearing  tan  shoes,  and 
speaking  some  part  of  the  English  lan- 
guage. They  dwell  in  one  spot  in  the 
three  dimensions  of  space,  but  in  the 
fourth  dimension  of  time,  there,  where 
the  pilgrims  are  marching,  these  groups 
and  individuals  are  so  far  apart  as  to 
be  often  out  of  sight  of  each  other. 

Frequently  even  one  and  the  same 
man  (less  frequently  a  woman)  is  in 
different  eras  in  different  aspects,  and 
seldom  are  whole  families  all  in  the 
same  evolutional  group.  Curiously 
too,  among  people  belonging  actually 
in  racial  development  all  to  the  same 
evolutional  era,  you  will  find  one  and 


176 


VICTORIAN  HYPOCRISY 


another  who  have  stopped  in  personal 
development,  wholly  or  in  some  por- 
tion, at  five  years  old — at  eleven  —  at 
seventeen  —  or  at  thirty,  and  so  forth. 
Few  indeed  go  on  developing  a  year's 
worth  for  every  year  they  live;  hence, 
at  seventy,  few  have  gained  seventy 
years  of  experience  and  growth. 

These  people  often  appear  to  be  real- 
ly in  different  evolutional  eras,  because 
in  a  sketchy  sort  of  way  the  develop- 
ment of  the  individual  follows  the  de- 
velopment of  the  race.  So  it  happens 
that  frequently  when  a  man  does  not 
live  up  to  the  mass-standards  and  calls 
them  hypocritical,  he  belongs  really  to 
an  earlier  age,  or  has  not  yet  grown  up. 

Therefore  it  is  clear  that  when  we 
talk  of  the  'present  generation'  we 
generally  mean  a  comparatively  small 
fraction  of  the  whole  nation.  We 
mean  either  the  van  or  the  main  body 
(or  both  taken  together)  of  the  domi- 
nant minds,  the  sincere,  highly  devel- 
oped people  who  voice  their  ideas  and 
form  public  opinions  and  conduct. 

Now,  in  any  given  year,  the  present 
generation  which  dominates  it  has  al- 
ready passed  its  thirtieth  birthday. 
Thus,  though  a  new  generation  is  born 
every  thirty  years,  each  generation 
lives  sixty  years  at  the  very  least,  and 
no  generation  begins  to  dominate  be- 
fore itself  is  thirty  years  old  and  the 
next  generation  has  begun  to  be  born. 

When  Victoria,  a  girl  of  eighteen, 
came  to  the  throne,  the  *  present  gener- 
ation' was  the  Early- Victorian,  born 
about  1780.  Her  own  generation,  the 
Mid- Victorian,  was  born  about  1810. 
The  next,  the  Late- Victorian,  began 
(with  her  own  children)  about  1840, 
and  the  next,  the  Post- Victorian,  now 
the  present  generation,  saw  the  world 
first  about  1870,  let  us  say. 

A  generation's  ideas  and  customs, 
its  dreams  and  achievements,  thoughts 
and  fulfillments,  lie  recorded  in  its  best 
literature,  where  the  few  great  ones  and 


their  lesser  voiceful  brothers  have  said 
their  say.  These,  in  the  Victorian  age, 
were  poets,  novelists,  and  essayists. 
Taking  one  of  each  sort  for  each  gen- 
eration we  may  fairly  choose  for  the 
Early- Victorians,  Wordsworth,  Scott, 
and  Hazlitt;  for  the  Mid- Victorians, 
Tennyson,  Dickens,  and  Carlyle;  for 
the  Late- Victorians,  Browning,  George 
Eliot,  and  Huxley;  and  for  the  Post- 
Victorians,  perhaps  Masefield,  Wells, 
and  Shaw.  (Not  the  much  greater  Kip- 
ling, because  he  is  a  young  Late-Victo- 
rian, a '  lap-over '  —  born  in  1865  at  the 
very  end  of  his  own  generation,  but 
really  too  early  to  be  Post-Victorian.) 

In  order  to  understand  the  epoch 
from  its  youth  up,  we  must  include 
one  more  generation,  the  Pre- Victorian, 
which  formed  the  youth  of  the  Early- 
Victorian.  This  is  perhaps  the  most 
influential  of  all  the  five.  And  here 
we  cannot  take  prose-writers,  for  the 
novel  and  the  essay  were  still  toddling, 
and  earnest  men  still  used  poetry  to 
speak  their  burning  thoughts.  Goethe, 
Byron,  and  Shelley,  these  were  the 
men  who  gave  greatest  impetus  to  the 
Victorian  era. 

Byron  roused  the  dormant  power  of 
personal  passion  in  men's  hearts.  Shel- 
ley disclosed  above  their  heads  the 
wondrous  spheres  on  spheres  of  disem- 
bodied beauty,  pure  fire  of  freedom,  and 
love  of  spiritual  perfections.  Goethe 
drew  forth  woman,  dazzled  and  breath- 
less with  the  joy  of  a  new-found  soul, 
and  showed  her  a  wide  expanse  of 
splendid  possibility.  Chivalry  had 
nominally  queened  her,  but  never  had 
voice  of  man  given  her  such  breadth 
and  richness  and  spirituality  of  infin- 
ite meaning.  Even  in  her  own  inner- 
most secret  dreams  there  had  not  been 
a  faint  mirage  of  such  significance  for 
herself.  Germany  accepted  it  as  a 
dream  and  an  allegory;  but  America, 
being  in  the  habit  of  practical  per- 
formance promptly  sequent  on  each 


VICTORIAN  HYPOCRISY 


177 


ideal,  acted  upon  her  belief,  and  Eng- 
land strove  to  do  so,  too. 

On  such  soaring  magniloquent  ideas, 
bred  of  the  French  Revolution,  were 
the  Early- Victorians  formed.  By  such 
personalities  were  they  dominated.  Un- 
der this  triple  inspiration  to  personal 
passion,  flame-like  spirituality,  and  the 
magnification  of  woman,  the  Early- 
Victorians  developed;  and lo, at  the]mo- 
ment  when  they  were  most  dominant, 
a  lovely,  modest  young  girl  ascended 
an  actual  throne  in  the  first  kingdom 
of  the  world  and  became  an  arbiter 
of  manners  for  all  English-speaking 
peoples. 

ii 

^What  manners  had  the  Early- Vic- 
torians beheld  in  their  youth?  In  1810, 
a  young  lady  in  New  York's  best  so- 
ciety refused  to  spend  the  winter  in 
New  York  because,  being  lately  be- 
trothed, she  must  wear  a  large  minia- 
ture of  the  young  gentleman  round  her 
neck  and  endure  coarse  and  embar- 
rassing jokes  whenever  she  appeared. 
General  Washington  may  be  seen,  in 
the  pencil  sketches  by  John  Trumbull, 
comfortably  sitting  in  church  with  his 
arm  around  a  young  lady's  waist,  nor 
was  she  kith  or  kin  to  him.  Read  the 
familiar  memoirs  of  the  reign  of  George 
IV,  infer  what  the  manners  and  conver- 
sation must  then  have  been,  and  ask 
yourself  seriously  how  comfortable  you 
would  have  felt  in  the  midst  of  them. 

The  Early-Victorians  thought  these 
manners  unfit  for  the  presence  of  a 
young  girl.  They  adjusted  their  de- 
meanor to  shield  her.  In  consequence, 
there  arose  from  the  court  of  Victoria 
an  expectation  of  decorum,  serene  and 
assured,  for  every  man  or  woman  of 
sensitive  fibre.  A  winnowing  wind, 
with  quiet,  gleaning  hand  of  selection 
and  rejection,  passed  over  all  England 
and  America,  through  every  drawing- 
room  and  across  every  printing-press, 

VOL.  114  -NO.  2 


gently  up  and  down  the  thoroughfare. 
No  one  even  smoked  on  the  streets. 
Without  outcry  or  indignation  the 
change  was  wrought,  and  decent  folk 
could  go  about  unabashed.  Of  course, 
indecency  and  cruelty,  barbarism  and 
selfishness,  did  not  suddenly  die :  they 
lived,  and  thought  the  change  an  aw- 
ful bore.  Delicacy,  sympathy,  civiliza- 
tion, and  generosity  were  the  accepted 
standard,  and  those  who  by  nature  had 
them  or  longed  to  have  them,  found 
encouragement  all  about.  And  so  the 
Early- Victorians  impressed  propriety 
upon  the  rising  generation  of  Mid- 
Victorians. 

Then,  when  the  Mid-Victorians 
came  to  live  their  own  lives,  of  course, 
they  put  into  detailed  practice  the 
ideas  and  lessons  they  had  learned 
from  the  Pre- Victorians  and  the  Early- 
Victorians.  Religion,  ethics,  philoso- 
phy, poetry,  and  philanthropy  were 
their  chief  interests.  They  took  them- 
selves seriously,  —  as  all  of  us  do.  The 
accomplishment  of  the  Mid- Victorians 
was  substantial,  but  perhaps  the  most 
amazing  thing  about  them  was  that 
their  van  actually  impressed  its  stand- 
ards on  the  many  in  its  own  genera- 
tion. This  was  the  fruitage  of  what 
Shelley,  Byron,  and  Goethe  had  plant- 
ed. By  their  fruits  they  may  be  known. 
They  did  their  work,  —  passed  the  Re- 
form Bill  in  England,  freed  the  slaves 
in  America,  made  intemperance  a  dis- 
grace, established  a  general  expectation 
toward  betterment,  and  recorded  in 
novel,  poem,  and  essay  their  innumer- 
able aspirations  and  discoveries.  It 
was  a  marvelous  harvest-home.  Then 
first,  through  niceties  and  restrictions, 
women  and  girls  could  go  freely  among 
even  strange  men,  wrapped  in  their  de- 
licate reserve,  and  gradually  because  of 
decorums  so  quietly  conceived  and  en- 
forced, the  free  intellectual  and  busi- 
ness intercourse  of  men  and  women  be- 
came serenely  possible. 


178 


VICTORIAN  HYPOCRISY 


Thus  were  created  those  fine  pro- 
ducts of  the  Victorian  age  which  have 
made  the  noble  liberty  of  American  wo- 
men possible;  they  are  the  unchartered 
guild  of  modern  gentlemen.  Even  to- 
day, though  so  much  fine  work  has 
been  marred,  no  man,  looking  round  a 
roomful  or  a  earful  of  people,  knows 
how  many  such  men  may  be  in  it.  And 
because  he  cannot  guess  how  many 
there  are  who  will  resent  indecency,  no 
man  not  in  liquor  dares  openly  to  in- 
sult or  annoy  a  woman.  This  multi- 
plied perhaps,  the  band  of  hypocrites, 
for  'Hypocrisy  is  the  tribute  that  vice 
pays  to  virtue ' ;  there  came  to  be  pre- 
valent a  recognition  that  however  in- 
convenient and  unnatural  good  con- 
duct may  be  for  one's  self,  it  is  liked  by 
the  race  at  large  —  in  others,  at  least. 

But  the  total  strength  of  a  potent 
tendency  cannot  be  measured  by  count- 
ing noses.  We  must  ask,  not  what  per 
cent  were  vicious  or  virtuous,  but  how 
strong  was  the  influence  of  each.  The 
contribution  of  each  age  to  future  pro- 
gress depends  upon  the  vigor  of  the  van. 
It  is  they  always  who  set  the  standard. 
If  they  create  hypocrites  by  setting  a 
standard  of  achievement  so  high  that 
others  of  their  time  can  only  talk  about 
it  and  pretend  to  it,  then  their  contri- 
bution is  indeed  notable.  What  they 
do  breaks  the  record.  Then  the  aston- 
ishing happens.  Just  as  in  athletics 
and  horse- trotting  the  record  of  one 
generation  becomes  in  a  mysterious 
process  of  development  the  common- 
place of  the  next,  so  the  standard  of  the 
van  in  any  one  age  tends  presently  to 
become  the  practice  of  the  many. 

The  enforcement  of  those  nice  max- 
ims of  civilized  society  has  actually  in- 
creased the  number  of  more  civilized 
persons  in  the  rising  generation.  Grant- 
ing that  about  four  in  each  nice  fam- 
ily grow  up  nice,  we  get  the  number  of 
nice  people  doubled  in  each  generation, 
—  that  is,  eight  times  as  many  now 


as  when  Victoria  came  to  the  throne. 

Thus  they  did  their  splendid  work, 
did  those  Mid- Victorians.  Devotedly 
they  raised  their  children  in  a  shielded 
atmosphere  as  in  an  enchanted  gar- 
den, taught  them  new  inhibitions,  and 
hoped  to  see  in  them  the  return  of  the 
Golden  Age.  Their  impressive  convic- 
tion, their  large  passionate  way  of  be- 
lieving, carried  assurance  to  the  young 
minds  which  they  formed,  and  the 
main  body  of  Late- Victorians  grew  up 
implicitly  trusting  in  what  they  had 
been  so  generously  taught.  But  these 
Late- Victorians  did  not  understand 
the  primitive  simple  reasons  for  their 
own  niceties,  and  therefore  had  not  a 
live  fire  of  conviction  in  their  action. 
Inevitably,  their  children,  the  Post- 
Victorians,  looked  and  doubted.  The 
religious  sanction  which  had  been  used 
to  enforce  action  on  the  unwilling  and 
weak-willed,  had  concealed  the  practi- 
cal reasons.  Therefore,  when  religion 
slackened  as  it  did,  the  children  said, 
'There  is  no  reason.'  And  because  they 
did  not  know  why  their  parents  were 
silent  on  so  many  subjects,  they  sup- 
posed the  subjects  must  be  thought 
disgraceful;  yet  that  could  not  be  dis- 
graceful which  was  so  natural.  They 
had  been  taught  to  reverence  nature. 

When  the  Mid-Victorians  had  seen 
their  ideals  of  character  blossoming  in 
each  other,  they  had  been  exuberantly 
appreciative.  But  their  children,  bred 
to  think  such  character  simply  a  duty, 
were  '  disillusioned '  when  they  discov- 
ered that  every  one  has  faults.  Intro- 
spection was  a  new  method  in  1830. 
By  1870  it  had  become  worn  and  un- 
wholesome. At  last,  beginning  to  grow 
up  in  the  '90's,  the  Post- Victorians 
announced  that,  'The  ten  command- 
ments are  mere  conventionalities/  The 
reason  they  said  this  so  boldly  and  un- 
expectedly is  after  all  not  far  to  seek. 
One  lesson  which  the  Mid-Victorians 
had  taught  passionately  was  the  prin- 


VICTORIAN  HYPOCRISY 


179 


ciple  of  individual  liberty.  This  their 
children,  the  Late- Victorians,  believed 
implicitly.  Seeing  no  slaves  to  free,  for 
they  mostly  were  unobservant  of  the 
laboring  world,  they  applied  the  sacred 
principle  of  liberty  to  the  nearest  per- 
sons at  hand:  they  freed  their  own 
children. 

in 

At  this  inopportune  moment,  —  or 
shall  we  call  it  opportune?  —  science, 
urged  on  by  the  Darwinian  theory, 
shook  a  finger  of  doubt  in  the  face  of 
every  creed,  and  every  code.  It  was 
then  that  the  Late-Victorians  lost  con- 
fidence because  they  had  not  under- 
stood what  had  been  taught  them. 
They  sighed :  '  We  do  not  know  what  is 
true;  we  will  teach  our  children  no- 
thing; we  will  leave  each  to  work  out 
his  own  personality;  we  will  impress  our 
views,  our  hopes,  our  ancient  faiths,  on 
no  man, — not  even  on  a  child.  Only, 
pray  God,  we  may  not  lose  hold  upon 
our  own  faith  before  our  time  has  come 
to  die!'  So  they  have  struggled  on; 
some  have  won  out;  some  have  fainted 
by  the  way;  some  have  taken  up  with 
the  new  ignorance  and  tried  to  be  hap- 
py, self-confident,  and  materialistic. 
What  the  parents  did,  the  schools  did 
also,  and  throughout  all  America,  at 
any  rate,  the  greater  part  of  a  whole 
generation  abjured  responsibility. 

Certes,  it  is  the  first  generation, 
since  time  was,  that  sought  not  to  im- 
part a  rule  of  life  to  its  offspring.  All 
animals  so  impart.  It  is  a  law  of  na- 
ture. Nor  could  this  generation  really 
break  the  law,  earnestly  as  it  tried. 
By  the  strength  of  its  determination 
not  to  impress  itself  on  others,  it  did 
so  impress  itself.  It  not  only  taught 
that  *  it  is  presumption  to  tell  another 
what  he  must  do,'  but  carried  convic- 
tion of  sincerity  by  practicing  it. 

This  is  another  view  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  How  did  a  century 


which  can  sincerely  be  so  described, 
get  to  be  called  sentimental,  trite,  and 
futile,  grandmotherly,  prudish,  and 
flabby?  How  can  a  century  which  nur- 
tured sweeter  manners  and  finer  mor- 
als, which  elevated  woman  and  culti- 
vated sympathetic  imagination,  be  so 
derided.  Who  so  described  it?  The 
latest  Late-Victorians  and  the  earli- 
est Post-Victorians;  those  children  who 
were  set  adrift  some  thirty  years  or  so 
ago,  — '  because  no  man  is  wise  enough 
to  direct  the  life  of  another.' 

The  children  born  in  the  '70's,  '80's, 
and  '90's  are  now  Post- Victorian  men 
and  women  in  early  middle  life,  who 
begin  to  feel  that  dominance  belongs  to 
them.  What  will  they  do  with  it?  By 
what  power,  and  with  what  leave,  will 
they  dominate?  What  is  their  creed 
and  code?  The  mass  of  them  have  been 
bred  to  'develop  their  own  personal- 
ity,' they  have  learned  to  question 
every  creed  and  code,  every  custom 
and  convention,  from  the  veriest  pri- 
meval truism  to  the  latest  ingenious 
error.  They  have  no  manual  of  princi- 
ples, arranged  by  genus  or  species,  and 
divided  into  essential,  non-essential, 
subordinate,  and  principal,  —  health- 
ful, harmless,  and  noxious,  —  by  which 
they  may  identify  a  new  specimen  in 
ideas  and  even  approximate  to  a  guess 
at  its  probable  value.  They  have  not 
even  an  arrangement  of  pegs  and  boxes 
with  samples  and  labels  pasted  on  each, 
by  which  they  may  sort  out  new  no- 
tions as  a  grocer  does,  and  know  at 
least  where  to  find  them  again.  In  con- 
sequence, they  are  singularly  open  to 
believe  the  assertions  of  any  one  who 
speaks  with  assurance  and  thinks  he 
knows  what  he  is  talking  about.  They 
have  been  cast  out  naked  into  the  wide 
universe  by  scrupulous,  unnatural  par- 
ents who  imagined  they  were  obedient 
to  the  command  of  the  gods  and  were 
doing  a  splendid  service  to  civilization. 
Perhaps  they  were. 


180 


VICTORIAN  HYPOCRISY 


These  Post-Victorians  go  unimped- 
ed. They  have  a  single  creed,  the  bro- 
therhood of  man;  and  a  single  code,  the 
duty  of  service.  The  creed  is  identical 
with  that  of  the  French  Revolution. 
The  call  of  the  French  Revolution 
was  to  insistence  on  individual  rights. 
This  insistence  worked  out  completely 
all  the  good  it  could  do  through  two 
generations,  until  in  the  third,  among 
the  Late- Victorians,  it  came  to  a  reduc- 
tio  ad  absurdum,  'Every  man,  every 
woman,  even  every  child,  has  the  per- 
sonal right  to  choose  his  own  life  and 
to  live  after  his  own  convictions  ac- 
cording to  his  own  impulses/  Then 
the  mass  of  serious  persons  in  America 
were  back  at  an  inclination  which 
would  have  swiftly  slid  us  down  again 
into  savagery. 

But  belief  in  the  brotherhood  of  man 
and  in  the  call  to  personal  service 
doubtless  will  save  us,  —  as  it  saved 
the  world  before,  when  primitive  Chris- 
tianity rescued  what  ancient  civiliza- 
tion had  proved  incompetent  to  save. 
In  fulfilling  the  one  duty  of  service  we 
shall  continue  to  progress.  But  how  is 
the  present  generation  to  know  what  is 
true  service? 

Most  women  in  polite  society  just 
now  have  no  clear  principles;  'I  won- 
der,'—  '  I  guess/  — 'I  think,'  — 'I 
wish  I  knew/  —  *I  have  a  theory/  are 
their  commonest  phrases  in  expressing 
ideas,  and '  I  believe '  has  come  to  mean 
'I  think  it  likely/  Perhaps  most  men 
in  the  same  society  are  equally  vague 
in  their  minds,  though  their  habit  of 
speech  continues  more  positive.  Said 
an  intelligent,  sweet-natured,  clean- 
living,  loyal  Episcopalian  youth  not 
long  ago,  'The  creed?  What  do  I  mean 
when  I  say  "7  believe"!'  —  (Thought- 
fully and  carefully.)  —  'I  mean,  "I  be- 
lieve with  all  my  heart  and  soul  and 
mind  "  the  first  article.  And  after  that 
—  in  the  others  —  I  mean  gradually 
less  and  less;  it  "peters  out,"  till  to- 


ward the  end  it  just  means  "May  be 
it's  so/" 

In  general  the  characteristic  mental 
attitude  in  educated  America  to-day 
ranges  from  a  '  restless  neutrality  to  an 
anxious  credulity/  through  a  more  or 
less  troubled  incertitude.  The  crystal 
clarity  of  opinion,  the  passionate  con- 
viction of  belief,  habitual  in  the  Mid- 
Victorian,  burns  now  only  in  single  per- 
sons. The  community  mind  has  it  not. 
Then  earnest  men  knew,  they  were  cer- 
tain; and  what  men  thought,  women 
thought  too.  Then  'I  believe*  was  a 
ringing,  convinced  credo;  now  it  is  a 
tentative  puto,  a  sort  of  pragmatic  wil- 
lingness to  believe.  The  serious  mind- 
ed of  the  present  day  have  not  lost 
faith  —  they  never  had  it.  They  were 
not  given  a  chance  to  have  it. 


IV 

Do  the  surviving  Late- Victorians, 
the  present  still-young  generation  of 
grandparents,  realize  that  around  them 
moves  and  works  a  whole  generation 
which  does  not  know  Emerson,  never 
read  Tennyson,  has  not  heard  of  Mrs. 
Gaskell,  and  despises  George  Eliot? 
Every  book  which  inspired  the  Mid- 
Victorians  is  'outworn/  it  is  'a  back 
number'  to  the  Post- Victorians.  What 
have  they  read?  They  may  have  read 
Trollope,  George  Meredith,  and  Thom- 
as Hardy,  those  doubting  Late-Victor- 
ians. Many  of  them  have  read  nothing 
published  before  1890,  and  practically 
none  go  back  of  1870.  This  means  that 
they  have  read  chiefly  what  is  expound- 
ed by  Wells,  Shaw,  Chesterton,  Gals- 
worthy, and  Masefield,  not  to  mention 
Robert  W.  Chambers.  Now,  such  liter- 
ature, coming  into  the  reader's  mind 
after  what  preceded  it,  frequently  took 
its  place  as  refreshing  and  novel.  But 
suppose  you  have  read  nothing  else, 
what  has  Meredith  or  Hardy  to  tell 
you  about  the  conduct  of  your  own  af- 


VICTORIAN  HYPOCRISY 


181 


fairs,  what  precious  secrets  of  civiliza- 
tion do  they  transmit?  How  will  Wells, 
Shaw,  and  Galsworthy  do  for  rulers 
of  life?  What  laws  do  they  expound? 
What  inspirations  do  they  offer? 

This  generation  has  not  even  been 
bred  to  throw  over  tradition.  It  has  no 
idea  what  traditions  are.  Since  about 
1880,  the  general  confusion  of  thought 
seems  to  have  kept  careful  thinkers  si- 
lent. In  the  '90's  the  stragglers,  adven- 
turers, and  irresponsibles  of  the  latest 
Late-Victorian  era  were  the  conspic- 
uous writers  of  books,  and  now  in  the 
first  years  of  the  Post-Victorian  era  the 
same  condition  seems  still  to  prevail. 

Oscar  Wilde,  for  instance,  began 
about  1890,  in  a  truly  Late-Victorian 
manner,  to  invade  the  helpless  fold  of 
the  ignorant  Late- Victorian  generation. 
A  Late-Victorian  straggler  and  adven- 
turer he  was ;  decadent  we  may  rightly 
call  him,  for  he  was  of  the  generation 
which  saw  the  last  rays  of  the  great 
light  still  gleaming  and  he  might  have 
followed  the  gleam.  Kipling  did.  Stev- 
enson did.  But  they  said  old  things;  he 
said  a  new  thing.  The  practical  out- 
come of  his  subversive  point  of  view 
translated  by  himself,  not  into  pretty 
words  but  into  primitive  practice,  ter- 
rified the  British  public;  but  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  most  people  in  cultivated 
England  really  understood  what  had 
happened  or  saw  the  direct  relation 
between  his  iridescent  words  and  his 
obviously  ugly  deeds.  The  fact  is  that 
in  deeds  there  are  few  kinds  to  choose 
from,  and  once  one  gives  up  the  better, 
one  is  promptly  landed  in  the  worse. 

Oscar  Wilde  is  only  an  instance.  He 
was  the  first  of  the  Paradoxians,  those 
purveyors  of  the  preposterous.  But 
quantities  of  his  like,  garbed  in  the 
vocabulary  of  innocence  and  idealism, 
are  still  cheapening  and  befouling  life's 
aspect  to-day  by  the  same  little  trick. 
Here  are  hypocrites  indeed.  But  exact- 
ly what  were  the  hypocrisies  of  which 


the  Victorians  seemed  so  guilty  in  1890 
odd  ?  They  were  guilty  of  laying  down 
such  maxims  as  these :  — 

Not  to  speak  of  what  is  disagreeable, 
unless  one  must  in  order  to  serve  a 
good  purpose. 

Not  to  speak  of  what  is  private  and 
sacred,  except  among  one's  nearest 
friends  or  on  special  occasions. 

Not  to  choose,  among  the  many 
forms  of  expression  suited  to  any 
thought,  that  form  which  will  rouse  in 
one's  hearers  disquieting  emotions. 

Not  to  introduce,  by  one's  phrasing, 
aspects  of  a  subject  which  cannot  pro- 
perly be  considered  by  all  present;  that 
is,  in  general  society,  not  to  call  a  dis- 
agreeable thing  by  a  disagreeable  name 
or  describe  carefully  a  disagreeable  act, 
but  to  mention  it,  if  you  must,  in  such 
terms  as  will  not  rouse  unpleasant 
sensations. 

Not  to  assume  positions,  make 
noises  and  gestures,  use  perfumes  and 
costumes,  which  will  set  people  think- 
ing and  feeling  things  irrelevant  or  un- 
suitable to  the  whole  company.  A 

Not  to  make  a  jest  upon  things  seri- 
ous or  sacred. 

All  these  are  axiomatic  maxims  of 
civilized  society.  These  and  their  like 
were  the  Victorian  hypocrisies.  What 
was  their  purpose?  Their  purpose  was 
to  embody  in  actual  conduct  those 
dreams  of  perfection  which  had  so  cap- 
tured their  youthful  imaginations,  — 

Do  noble  things — not  dream  them  all  day  long. 

Byron,  Shelley,  and  Goethe  worded 
the  thoughts,  felt  the  emotions,  beheld 
the  visions,  but  they  did  not  live  the 
life.  It  took  —  as  it  always  must  take 
—  two  generations  to  fit  real  life  to  the 
vision.  For  life  is  not  thoughts  and 
emotion.  Life  is  what  we  do :  it  is  our 
conduct  with  its  consequences  upon 
ourselves  to-morrow  or  next  year,  and 
upon  others  immediately  or  next  year 
or  in  the  next  generation. 


182 


VICTORIAN  HYPOCRISY 


This  conduct  is  our  real  life  which 
determines  our  total  happiness  and 
success,  because  it  determines  the 
treatment  we  get  from  our  fellows  and 
from  the  insensate  world.  To  each 
man,  by  an  illusion  of  interior  optics, 
his  own  real  life  appears  to  be,  not 
what  we  see  him  doing,  but  what  he 
feels  himself  feeling  —  his  own  invis- 
ible sensations,  emotions,  aspirations, 
and  satisfactions.  He  is  to  himself  the 
centre  of  a  weblike  universe,  and  every 
least  nerve-message  that  comes  to  him 
is,  by  a  necessity  of  his  soul's  unity, 
equally  interesting  and  exciting  to  him. 
But  this  subjectiveness  is  not  life;  it  is 
existence.  Life  is  conduct;  it  is  growth 
and  betterment;  it  is  what  follows  the 
emotion  and  desire;  it  is  effort  and 
achievement  or  failure.  Unless  we  do 
the  things,  we  cannot  get  beyond  to 
seek  further  things.  As  far  back  as 
man  began,  he  has  thought  and  felt 
delicately.  The  Mid-Victorians  set  out 
to  do  delicately.  It  is  this  doing  the 
things  that  makes  us  grow  up. 

The  youthful  human  creature  cannot 
disentangle  himself  from  himself,  his 
physical  being  from  his  spiritual. 
*  Most  of  the  things  he  thinks  he  knows, 
he  ought  to  know  he  only  thinks.' 
When  he  grows  up  he  will  understand 
this.  But  the  youthful  mood  is  primi- 
tive; to  it,  time  is  not,  cause  and 
consequence  are  not.  This  is  because 
naturally  or  animally  we  regard  qvery- 
thing  as  durable.  'Now  is  to  be  eter- 
nity' in  my  childish,  animal,  aesthetic 
mood  of  mind.  A  child  treats  a  toy  as 
if  it  were  made  of  iron  and  his  nurse  as 
if  she  could  not  tire,  and  his  own  joys 
and  sorrows  and  fears  as  if  they  could 
never  end. 

Thus  there  are  two  things  which  can 
never  be  understood  by  the  man  or  wo- 
man who  has  not  yet  got  beyond  the 
aesthetic,  sensory,  animal  stage.  One  is 


the  deceptiveness  of  himself  to  himself, 
and  the  other  is  the  illusiveness  of  lan- 
guage. The  complexity  of  humanity 
and  the  insufficience  of  the  symbol  are 
both  invisible  to  him.  This  made  it 
hard  for  the  Victorians  to  see  their  own 
absurdities  and  makes  it  hard  for  the 
Post- Victorians  to  see  their  forerun- 
ners' excellences.  When  we  grow  up  in 
our  minds,  we  have  had  experience.  We 
remember  and  we  compare  our  various 
memories.  We  have  tried  experiments 
and  we  understand  the  complexities  of 
human  affairs.  But  a  youthful  inca- 
pacity to  separate  cause  from  effect, 
and  attendant  circumstance  from  both, 
together  with  an  unripe  dependence 
upon  words  and  aspects,  has  made  the 
injudicious  read  stupidity,  coldness, 
and  narrowness  into  the  motive  force 
of  Victorian  manners,  Puritan  princi- 
ples, and  Quaker  practice.  Stupid, 
cold,  and  narrow  many  of  those  man- 
ners and  principles,  and  much  of  that 
practice, prove  to  have  been;  but  it  was 
because  of  restricted  information,  not 
because  of  deficient  intelligence  or  feel 
ing.  The  Victorian  spirit,  like  the  Puri- 
tan spirit  and  the  Quaker  spirit,  was 
intrinsically  sincere. 

It  has  been  set  down  as  Victorian 
hypocrisy  that '  they  talked  a  lot  of  fus- 
tian about  wedded  bliss,  when  every- 
one knows  that  marriage  is  a  sorry 
makeshift.'  Yet  to  many  married  cou- 
ples, then  as  well  as  now,  wedded  bliss 
was  a  sober  everyday  fact.  Except  for 
that '  fustian,'  the  way  to  civilized  mar- 
riage would  never  have  been  found  out. 
It  took  far  more  universal  hold  than 
ever  the  French  Revolutionary  princi- 
ples did,  and  Dickens  was  more  widely 
read  than  Rousseau  had  ever  been. 
The  same  process  which  created  the 
truly  happy  equal  marriage  fostered 
also  self-control,  self-sacrifice  (we  call  it 
self-devotion  now,  or  personal  service), 
ennobling  friendship,  personal  reserve, 
modesty  in  riches,  purity  without  as- 


VICTORIAN  HYPOCRISY 


183 


ceticism,  and  several  other  excellent 
realities.  Victorian  notions  of  relative 
human  values  and  of  excellence  in  con- 
duct were  incontrovertibly  correct. 
And  any  one  who  thinks  them  trite 
would  better  try  how  easy  it  would  be 
to  put  them  in  practice.  No  truth  is 
or  ever  can  be  trite  to  any  one  who 
uses  it:  this  is  a  truism. 

Of  course  the  rapid  and  widespread 
raising  of  standards  increased  abnor- 
mally, among  the  Mid-Victorians,  the 
number  of  persons  who  conformed 
without  understanding  and  who  pre- 
tended to  be  appreciative  when  they 
really  were  blankly  acceptant.  Hence, 
there  was  much  said  and  done  which 
was  in  truth  grandmotherly,  sentimen- 
tal, flabby  and  trite,  futile  and  prudish, 
as  well  as  very  much  that  was  hypo- 
critical. But  the  spirit  of  the  age  was 
highly  sincere. 

Still,  even  the  sincere,  able  thinkers 
had  of  course  a  full  share  of  the  char- 
acteristically human  capacity  to  fool 
themselves.  Like  all  mankind  before 
them,  they  frequently  confused  the 
word  with  the  thing,  took  the  symbol 
for  the  thing  signified,  and  failed  to  dis- 
tinguish between  that  part  of  the  world 
which  man  has  created  and  that  part 
which  exists  independently  of  him. 
Their  notion  that  a  thing  must  be  so 
because  it  ought  to  be  so,  was  a  mis- 
take, not  a  sham.  All  self-absorbed 
people  make  this  same  mistake.  Think- 
ing does  make  some  things  so, — sub- 
jective things,  all  the  things  mental  and 
physical  which  the  mind  rules, — but 
the  insensate  world  cannot  be  ruled 
that  way.  As  an  instance  of  the  results 
of  subjective  methods  being  carried  into 
objective  life  we  have  what  their  child- 
ren, the  Late-Victorians,  produced  in 
philosophy  and  religion,  —  Pragmatism 
and  Christian  Science. 

Each  of  these  is  a  sincere  effort  to 
mingle  the  new  scientific  truths  with 
the  old  faiths.  They  are  thought  out 


and  expounded  in  the  Mid-Victorian 
manner  —  subjectively  —  through  sen- 
timent and  discernment,  through  intro- 
spection and  from  the  inner  conscious- 
ness. Pragmatism,  seeing  that  science 
prognosticates  nothing,  assumes  that 
there  is  nothing  to  prognosticate,  and 
says,  *  't  is  thinking  makes  it  so.'  Chris- 
tian Science,  following  the  same  gener- 
al line  of  reasoning,  comes  to  the  same 
conclusion  with  different  results.  Both 
forget  that  ninety-nine  one-hundredths 
of  the  universe  goes  on  without  regard 
to  man's  existence  or  what  he  thinks  — 
and  that  ninety-nine  one-hundredths 
of  his  own  personal  life  develops  with- 
out consulting  his  consciousness. 


VI 

The  worst  Victorian  hypocrisy,  of 
course,  is  held  to  be  prudishness:  that 
is,  unwillingness  to  speak  or  write  of 
physical  sex  in  any  aspect.  The  Mid- 
Victorians  had  a  repulsion  for  the  sub- 
ject. Every  one  over  forty  years  old  to- 
day knows  how  strong  that  repulsion 
was.  How  strange  it  already  looks! 
But  they  were  right,  in  their  time. 
Sex  is  the  most  conspicuous,  the  most 
picturesque,  the  most  enduring  of  all 
facts,  except  self.  As  the  '80's  discov- 
ered, man  is  endowed  for  evolution  by 
unescapable,  indestructible  primitive 
instincts  —  self-preservation  and  race- 
preservation.  He  has  also,  be  it  noted, 
an  equally  indefeasible  thirst  for  per- 
fection, but  this  escaped  the  notice  of 
those  early  observers.  Looked  at  ani- 
mally,  aesthetically,  childishly,  person- 
ally (call  it  what  you  will),  self-preser- 
vation becomes  self-protection  in  all  its 
forms,  physical  and  emotional,  verging 
always  upon  rank  selfishness;  while 
race-preservation,  or  the  instinct  to  re- 
production, becomes  self-gratification. 

Sex  is  not  only  unescapable  and 
omnipresent,  but  the  nerve-sensations 
which  impel  to  reproduction  are  the 


184 


VICTORIAN   HYPOCRISY 


only  ones  which  can  be  set  in  full  mo- 
tion by  imaginary  stimuli.  Therefore 
the  Mid-Victorians  were  right;  the 
Puritans,  the  Quakers,  were  right.  In 
order  to  make  progress,  to  get  beyond 
the  old  recurrent  eddies  of  mental  as- 
sociation the  attention  of  at  least  two 
whole  generations  must  be  diverted 
from  this  subject  which  had  been  so 
persistently  conspicuous  since  man  was 
a  mere  mollusk.  Gross  preoccupation 
with  self-preservation  had  already  been 
driven  from  completely  blocking  the 
road  of  attention,  by  outward  physical 
alterations  —  chiefly  by  the  growth  of 
trade;  moreover,  it  was  being  pushed 
aside  by  interest  and  morality.  But 
this  other  must  be  put  in  due  subordin- 
ation from  within,  because  its  origin  is 
from  within.  It  must  make  room  for 
the  hunger  and  thirst  and  lust  after 
perfection.  Men  had  to  be  cured  of  the 
habitual  impression,  natural  to  a  self- 
centred  consciousness,  that  women 
were  always  thinking  about  men,  and 
were  aware  of  the  effect  on  men  of 
their  every  little  action.  Women  had 
to  be  released  from  the  idea  that  they 
existed  to  subserve  men.  Abstinence 
must  come  before  temperance.  To 
take  men's  minds  effectually  off  the 
subject  as  an  all-absorbing  interest, 
they  must  be  prevented  from  talking 
about  it  or  in  other  ways  referring  to 
it.  It  must  become  not  only  subordin- 
ate, but  subconscious.  No  danger  of 
killing  it.  It  is  primitive  and  unescap- 
able.  So  long  as  no  man  can  be  born 
into  the  world  without  its  exercise  by 
man  and  woman,  so  long  must  every 
man  and  woman  born  inherit  it  in  all 
its  pure  intensity. 

All  this  the  Mid-Victorians  darkly 
but  convincingly  discerned.  They  knew 
nothing  of  conscious  or  subconscious, 
of  attention,  inhibition,  association  of 
ideas,  tendency  of  emotion  to  expres- 
sion, reflex  action,  or  vasomotor  nerves. 
They  only  knew  that  Christ  command- 


ed them  to  crucify  the  flesh,  that  salva- 
tion came  through  faith  and  self-sacri- 
fice, and  that  self-control  was  essential 
to  a  virtuous  life.  What  they  knew, 
they  knew  from  the  personal  observa- 
tion of  themselves  and  their  forebears. 
What  they  said,  and  the  explanations 
they  gave,  were  in  the  vocabulary  and 
atmosphere  of  religion  and  emotion. 
They  had  learned  to  feel  that  all  which 
was  disagreeable  must  be  concealed. 
The  idea  that  it  all  might  be  destroyed 
or  turned  to  good  had  not  occurred  to 
them.  They  drew  the  form  of  their  ideas 
from  the  Bible,  —  the  early  chapters  of 
Genesis  and  the  epistles  of  St.  Paul. 

They  were  steeped  in  the  Bible,  but 
they  never  questioned  or  analyzed  it. 
The  Old  Testament  was  to  them  an 
oracle.  The  epistles  of  Paul  were  a 
voice  from  Heaven.  In  the  third  chap- 
ter of  Genesis  we  of  to-day  recognize 
Jehovah,  the  Lord  God,  a  God  con- 
ceived by  man's  fear  and  weariness, 
discouragement  and  bewilderment  — 
who  curses  two  primal  instincts,  re- 
production and  self-preservation,  and 
wholly  overlooks  this  third  and  strong- 
est of  all,  the  love  of  perfection. 

In  the  first  chapter,  however,  is  God, 
the  everlasting  Father,  the  omnipotent, 
the  timeless  One.  We  know  that  He 
has  appeared  in  all  ages  to  all  sound, 
sane,  large  natures,  because  they  were 
balanced  and  in  tune  with  the  universe, 
and  that  He  pressed  for  recognition 
close  on  the  borders  of  all  men's  con- 
sciousness. But  along  with  the  splendid 
vigor  of  Jewish  faith  and  conscience, 
along  with  the  wonderful  tenderness 
and  self-consecration  of  early  Christian 
vision  and  rapture,  our  grandparents 
absorbed  the  antique  ignorance  and 
superstition  of  false  science.  The  an- 
cients knew  a  great  deal  about  the 
quality  of  virtue,  but  very  little  about 
the  cause  of  vice.  Neither  the  origin 
of  good  and  evil,  nor  their  relation  to 
character,  did  those  worthies  under- 


VICTORIAN  HYPOCRISY 


185 


stand  at  all.  Nor  have  we  more  than 
begun  to  know  much  more,  though  it 
is  now  nineteen  centuries  since  Paul 
thought  and  wrote,  so  magnificently, 
seeing  through  a  glass  darkly. 

So  the  Puritans  and  the  Quakers 
were  as  right  as  they  could  possibly 
have  been.  Serious  people  are  often 
right  even  when  their  explanations  and 
excuses  are  wrong;  the  Mid- Victorians 
themselves  often  said,  'A  good  man's 
life  is  better  than  his  creed!'  The 
bourgeoise  Queen  was  right;  Victorian 
4 hypocrisy'  was  right,  at  bottom. 

VII 

Civilization  consists  in  thought  and 
conduct.  In  thought  it  is  achieved 
through  ever  clearer  and  clearer  sym- 
bols. In  conduct  it  is  achieved  through 
wiser  and  ever  wiser  inhibitions.  Civ- 
ilization is  man's  contribution  to  pro- 
gress, and  he  has  accomplished  it  by 
persistently  using  his  two  original  in- 
ventions, his  only  two,  —  tools  and 
morals. 

Morals,  as  every  one  knows,  consist 
in  preventing  yourself  from  following 
a  natural  impulse  because  you  wish 
to  avoid  its  secondary  consequences. 
That  is,  the  moral  code  is  a  call  to  the 
exercise  of  innumerable  inhibitions. 
Without  inhibition,  no  civilization! 

Ordinary  tools,  the  outward  mate- 
rial tools  of  manufacture  and  trans- 
portation and  consumption,  are  only 
a  small  and  insignificant  part  of  the 
tools  which  have  created  civilization. 
Man's  really  great  tools  are  his  sym- 
bols. These  are  various:  there  are 
words,  the  symbols  of  ideas,  of  memo- 
ries, generalizations,  and  abstractions; 
and  there  are  letters,  figures,  diagrams, 
and  so  forth,  which  are  the  symbols  of 
words;  and  there  are  customs  or  man- 
ners which  are  the  symbols  of  feelings 
and  purposes.  Symbols  are  the  stimuli 
to  thought  and  memory.  Symbols,  too, 


body  forth  ideas  which  never  yet  man 
saw  or  can  see  but  with  the  eye  of  the 
mind.  Without  symbols  neither  art 
nor  science  could  exist.  Art  is  not  man's 
original  device.  The  whole  creation 
loves  beauty,  strives  for  it,  produces 
it.  But  representative  art  —  this  is 
man's  own  contribution.  He  invented 
these  symbols  of  drawing  and  painting 
and  sculpture  and  music,  which  bring 
to  our  minds  what  we  have  seen  or  felt 
before,  or  wish  to  have  seen  and  felt. 

Science,  too,  is  not  of  man.  The 
whole  natural  world  evolves  by  using 
scientific  truth.  But  the  words  and 
signs  by  which  man  represents  his 
knowledge  of  truth,  by  which  he  con- 
veys it  to  other  men  and  condenses  it 
and  enlarges  it  —  these  are  his  own 
inventions. 

No  more  is  invention  peculiar  to 
man.  The  natural  world  is  constantly 
inventing.  The  bird  invents  his  nest  — 
the  tiger  invented  his  claws  —  each 
new  upward  form  in  evolution  was  once 
the  happy  invention  of  some  *  sport,' 
some  genius  among  its  kind.  Even 
his  love  of  perfection,  his  passionate 
searching  after  God,  is  not  man's  own, 
not  his  alone.  He  shares  that  insatiable 
yearning  with  every  atom  of  the  uni- 
verse, every  cell  of  his  own  flesh,  every 
drop  in  the  ocean. 

But  love,  caritas  (not  eros  or  philos), 
that  offspring  of  imagination  and 
memory  which  created  the  desire  for 
the  good  of  others  and  which  prompts 
to  virtue  and  morality,  this  is  man's 
own,  —  and  by  it  he  is  building  civil- 
ization slowly  and  blunderingly,  for  it 
is  his  own  invention  and  it  runs  on 
quite  without  aid  from  the  evolutional 
forces  of  the  universe.  He  maintains  it 
by  the  force  of  his  own  firm  will,  it  is 
his  own  creation.  He  has  chosen  it.  So 
soon  as  his  will  falters,  it  slips  from 
him.  The  cat  cannot,  when  she  ceases 
to  care  to  be  a  cat,  slip  back  into  an 
invertebrate;  but  a  man,  so  soon  as  he 


186 


VICTORIAN  HYPOCRISY 


ceases  by  one  tittle  to  care  to  be  civil- 
ized, slips  back  just  so  far  into  a  sav- 
age. Does  the  sudden  change  from 
Victorian  reserve  to  a  heterogeneous 
vocabulary  and  behavior  mean  that 
we  are  tired  of  trying  to  be  civilized? 
Are  we  ready  to  slip  back  a  bit?  We 
easily  endorse  the  abolition  of  spon- 
taneous murder  and  wholesale  drunk- 
enness, but  does  not  the  inhibition 
of  spontaneous  talk  and  of  wholesale 
selfishness  seem  too  much  trouble? 
Are  we  going  back  to  the  hearty  vul- 
garity of  the  Pre-Victorian  English, 
or  are  we  crossing  over  to  the  narrow, 
monotonous  cynicism  of  the  tradition- 
al French?  Can  the  Continentals  hail 
us  as  converts?  Or  are  we  perhaps 
issuing  from  a  good  into  a  better  cus- 
tom, from  a  pious  into  a  scientific  rev- 
erence which  will  continue  decency  and 
reserve,  not  because  they  veil  what  is 
profane,  but  because  they  protect  what 
is  sacred? 

Every  one  who  looks  about  him 
without  excitement  must  see  the  an- 
swer. Conversation  is  still  guarded 
among  decent  people,  but  with  a  larger 
propriety  and  a  more  comprehending 
reserve.  Books,  magazines,  and  news- 
papers, the  best  of  them,  are  more  rev- 
erent and  more  just  than  ever  before. 
Conduct  ?  We  cannot  say  so  much  for 
conduct  just  now,  but  we  may  reason- 
ably expect  it  to  follow  presently. 

Science,  that  other  familiar  fruit  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  which  even 
the  decadent  whippersnappers  have 
never  dared  deride,  has  laid  its  calm 
firm  hand  upon  us.  The  scientists  were 
the  seers  of  the  Mid-Victorian  era. 
Freed  by  the  doctrine  of  personal  lib- 
erty to  speak  as  they  thought,  they 
spoke  impersonal  truths  learned  from 
watching,  not  themselves,  but  nature, 
and  thereby  they  inspired  a  new  epoch 
in  man's  history.  Just  as  the  effect  of 
Goethe  and  Byron  and  Shelley  was 
not  publicly  felt  till  thirty  years  had 


passed,  so  the  effect  of  Darwin,  Pas- 
teur, and  Mendel  was  not  publicly  felt 
for  thirty  years.  Then  its  first  mani- 
festations were  in  agnosticism  and 
materialism,  and,  among  the  lesser 
minds,  in  scoffing  and  despair.  Even 
now,  after  sixty  years,  the  scientific 
method  is  still  young,  and  is  making 
many  ridiculous  mistakes,  but  it  is  old 
enough  to  be  the  method  of  the  domin- 
ating generation,  and  already  it  is  giv- 
ing us  a  new  vocabulary.  Xn  order  to 
talk  about  the  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to, 
and  about  the  disorders  of  the  social 
fabric,  —  in  fact,  about '  the  world,  the 
flesh,  and  the  devil/ — we  need  no  long- 
er draw  from  a  vocabulary  indicating 
wholly  personal  or  moral  or  religious 
or  emotional  aspects.  The  cool  phrase- 
ology of  impersonal  fact  is  at  our  dis- 
posal, unexciting,  intellectual,  impar- 
tial. In  this  language  we  can  instruct 
our  children,  discuss  conditions,  and 
contrive  remedies,  without  once  brush- 
ing upon  those  sensitive  nerve-ends  in 
our  brain  which  carry  thrills  down  our 
spines,  contract  our  diaphragms,  and 
all  over  our  bodies  set  vibrating  use- 
lessly sensations  which,  reinvading  our 
minds  we  know  not  whence,  make  us 
believe  that  emotions  have  visited  us. 

Religion,  ethics,  philosophy,  and  phi- 
lanthropy to-day  are  ceasing,  for  the 
van,  and  presently  will  cease  for  the 
many,  to  be  emotional  and  personal, 
subjective  and  sensational.  They  have 
taken  on  the  universality  of  science, 
releasing  men  into  the  joy  and  power 
of  infinite  expansion. 

Who  may  be  the  seers  of  the  present 
era  none  can  guess  —  the  seers  always 
belong  in  spirit  to  the  next  generation. 
But  the  van  to-day  consists  of  those 
persons  who  by  fair  fortune  have  not 
lost  hold  on  tradition,  who  were  not  set 
adrift  by  their  parents,  or  who,  being 
set  adrift,  chanced  to  have  a  compass 
in  their  boat. 

In  this  Post- Victorian  age,  the  strag- 


VICTORIAN  HYPOCRISY 


187 


glers  and  adventurers  have  been  the 
first  to  speak  vividly  upon  its  problems. 
The  reluctants  have  had  much  to  say. 
Small  men,  too,  have  rushed  in  where 
the  great  ones  felt  themselves  unready 
to  speak;  and  such  have  chattered 
much.  Some  of  this  much-speaking  is 
truth,  much  is  nonsense,  and  most  of  it 
is  sufficiently  sparkling  and  musically 
well  said  to  capture  the  untrained  ear 
of  the  many.  The  van  is  beginning  to 
be  heard,  but  has  not  yet  reached  full 
maturity.  This  strong  scientific  light 
makes  the  world,  the  old,  old  world, 
look  so  *  new  and  all.'  The  wonder  and 
the  mystery,  the  glory  and  the  dream 
are  not  less,  they  are  more.  But  with 
what  words  and  phrases  shall  it  be  wor- 
shiped! All  the  old  warm  words  were 
made  to  symbolize  that  old  world  in 
the  old  personal  way;  the  new  words 
are  all  impersonal,  colorless,  precise,  — 
perfect  for  the  purpose  of  quiet  instruc- 
tion and  calm  discussion,  but  not  fit  for 
poetry.  We  must  go  to  Emerson,  the 
great,  free,  forward  seer  of  Darwin's 
own  generation,  if  we  would  find  poetry 
adequate  to  our  new  conceptions.  As 
well  as  could  be,  in  the  old  way,  he  has 
phrased  it.  Anon  will  come  another,  in 
a  new  way. 

Indeed,  regarded  cosmically,  no  harm 
at  all  has  been  done;  a  natural  sequence 
has  been  followed,  another  turn  of  the 
spiral  has  been  gone  about,  and  the 
race,  a  whole  generation  in  our  part  of 
the  world,  is  learning  one  more  lesson 

-  a  truth  which  single  wise  men  have 
known  for  ages :  no  man  liveth  to  him- 
self or  dieth  to  himself.  But  regarded 
humanly,  individually,  domestically, — 
as  the  pathetic  biography  of  our  own 
children  and  grandchildren,  or  of  our- 
selves and  our  friends,  —  much  harm 
and  suffering,  confusion,  and  failure 
have  been  wrought;  many  things  still 
remain  to  be  adjusted.  'L'homme  ar- 
rive novice  a  chaque  age.' 

Of  course  with  every  generation  the 


gaps  in  actual  custom  between  the  evo- 
lutional groups  of  men  tend  to  grow 
wider.  The  problem  is,  not  how  to  in- 
sure advance,  but  how  to  help  bring  up 
the  many  of  Group  C  more  rapidly  and 
surely  without  so  much  individual 
loss,  and  how  to  get  at  the  unsorted 
groups  of  people  who  are  far  behind 
the  times.  The  first  is  the  problem  of 
the  educated  parent.  The  second  is  the 
problem  of  the  social  worker,  and  is 
quite  another  story. 

VIII 

Parents  must  again  become  respon- 
sible. Serious  parents  must  now  con- 
trive and  enforce  a  new  procedure  to 
protect  youth  from  its  natural  errors, 
and  to  guard  it  from  the  misapprehen- 
sions of  the  uncivilized  in  our  midst. 
To  keep  ourselves  and  our  children 
fresh  and  sound-hearted  we  must  ex- 
ercise vigorous  open-eyed  choice,  and 
accustom  them  cheerfully  and  eagerly 
to  do  the  same. 

The  impatient  uncomprehending 
Post- Victorian  thinks  reserve  is  used 
for  things  we  are  ashamed  to  speak  of. 
'What  is  there  to  be  ashamed  of  in  sex?' 
he  demands.  Nothing  to  be  ashamed 
of  (except  its  perversion),  but  much 
which  is  too  sacred,  personal,  delicate, 
potent,  and  marvelous  to  be  mentioned 
at  random.  'What  is  the  use,' says  the 
critic,  'of  getting  up  a  lot  of  senti- 
mental talk  about  virtue  when  we  all 
know  perfectly  well  that  human  na- 
ture is  but  so-so?'  Nevertheless,  un- 
selfishness, loyalty,  delicacy  of  feeling, 
generosity,  reverence,  truthfulness,  and 
self-command  are,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
more  admirable,  and  more  acceptable 
to  the  world,  than  greed,  jealousy, 
scoffing,  roughness,  meanness,  deceit, 
and  irritability,  common  as  these  lat- 
ter undeniably  are.  Moreover,  those 
modern  oracles,  the  neuropathists  and 
psychiatrists,  unanimously  assert  that 


188 


VICTORIAN  HYPOCRISY 


these  virtues  are  the  qualities  which 
men  need  to  protect  them  from  the 
nervous  disorders  which  beset  our 
generation. 

A  child's  mind  is,  as  it  were,  a  pre- 
cious vessel  formed  of  the  most  deli- 
cate material.  Outside,  it  is  finite  and 
has  been  carefully  protected  by  evolu- 
tion in  the  bony  encasement  of  the 
skull.  Inside,  it  is  infinite,  and  has  by 
nature  no  protection  at  all.  Experi- 
ence is  to  be  used  by  it  for  nourish- 
ment and  growth.  In  the  natural 
world,  experience  comes  higgledy-pig- 
gledy, without  regard  to  its  effect  upon 
this  tender  human  thing.  Nature  goes 
by  law.  But  man  is  a  creature  of 
choice — and  the  young  of  man  cannot 
safely  receive  into  its  mind  the  raw, 
hard,  heterogeneous  material  of  na- 
tural experience.  First  must  the  mind 
be  carefully  and  firmly  lined  all  round, 
close  and  soft  up  against  the  sensitive 
nerves,  with  an  elastic  transparent 
protection  of  noblest  truth  blended 
from  the  experience  of  all  the  long  ages 
through  which  man  has  been  watching 
and  choosing;  then,  when  the  precious 
vessel  has  been  as  carefully  protected 
by  human  choice  on  its  spiritual  side  as 
by  natural  evolution  on  its  physical 
side,  then  may  and  must  the  child 
come  wholly  to  make  his  own  choice, 
to  store  up  his  own  experience  for  fur- 
ther nourishment  and  growth,  and  to 
devote  himself  to  the  duty  of  personal 
service. 

This  is  the  century  of  choice,  the 
wonder-point  of  man's  individual 
achievement.  This  is  the  country  of 
freedom,  the  wonder-spot  of  man's  in- 
dividual liberty.  Every  one  of  us  who 
is  Americanized  is  free  for  the  pursuit 
of  perfection.  We  have  life  and  liber- 
ty; self-preservation  no  longer  need 
absorb  us.  We  are  freed,  if  we  choose, 
from  the  pressing  consciousness  of 
physical  sex.  We  are  free  to  discover 
and  follow  the  things  which  are  more 


excellent,  to  pursue  happiness  witlj  the 
only  snares  that  ever  capture  it. 

For  our  children,  too,  we  must  choose, 
and  we  must  help  them  choose,  until 
they  have  captured  for  themselves  the 
secret  qualities  of  essential  and  non- 
essential,  subordinate  and  principal, 
healthful,  harmless,  and  noxious,  so 
that  they  are  qualified  as  independent 
experts  and  may  set  forth  to  make  fur- 
ther discoveries  and  gain  their  own  ex- 
perience. We  owe  it  to  them  to  give 
them  as  perfectly  as  we  can  all  of  good 
that  the  past  has  had,  and  all  of  wis- 
dom that  it  has  learned.  We  must  not 
expect  our  children  to  believe  that 
a  thing  is  true,  or  to  follow  a  rule  as 
good,  simply  because  we  tell  them  it  is, 
or  give  it  to  them.  They  are  born  as 
ignorant  as  the  first  cave-dwellers, 
though  they  are  as  capable  as  civilized 
men.  With  this  fine  capability  they 
have  to  go  through  in  twenty  years  all 
the  experience  that  man  has  acquired 
in  twenty  thousand  years.  Of  this  ex- 
perience they  have  time  to  learn  the 
merely  primitive  part  by  actual  en- 
counter, but  most  of  it  is  compacted 
into  symbols,  —  based  on  these  simple 
physical  experiences.  We  must  give 
them  the  chance  to  learn  what  is  true 
and  what  is  good  by  the  shortest 
proofs,  and  to  become  so  reasonable 
that  they  can  accept  a  course  of  reason- 
ing as  an  experience  without  having  to 
waste  the  time  to  prove  it  physically; 
that  is,  they  must  learn  to  experience 
vicariously  through  symbols,  else  they 
are  not  civilized.  Seeing  the  symbol, 
they  must  apprehend  the  aspect  sym- 
bolized, never  taking  the  symbol  for 
the  thing  and  never  shirking  the  inhi- 
bitions which  are  necessary  to  gain  the 
good  they  see.  Thus  only  can  they 
learn  what  is  true  service. 

Then  we  need  not  worry,  though  all 
the  reluctants  tremble  at  our  temerity, 
and  the  stragglers,  adventurers,  and 
camp-followers  call  us  *  hypocrites ' ! 


AS  I  DRANK  TEA  TO-DAY 

BY   FANNIE  STEAKNS   DAVIS   GIFFORD 

' 

As  I  drank  tea  to-day 
With  a  dozen  women,  chattering,  gay, 
In  delicate  drooping  gowns,  in  jewels  like  dew, 
Laughing,  light- voiced,  —  I  thought  of  a  certain  hunger  I  knew 
Hid  in  the  heart  of  one,  the  merriest  laugher  there. 
I  saw  three  little  dull  threads  in  the  lazy  dusk  of  her  hair; 
Three  little  keen  wrinkles  about  her  beautiful  shining  eyes. 
And  I  wished  I  were  not  so  wise. 

i  , 

I  wished  that  I  did  not  know 

Those  symbols  of  pain :  —  that  low 
Under  her  pride  and  sweet  warm-worded  address 
She  was  shaken  with  loneliness; 

That  the  one  great  dream  she  had  dared  to  dream  was  a  lie, 
And  half  of  her  life  went  wearying,  'Let  me  die.' 

I  wished  that  I  could  not  hear 

That  murmur  of  mortal  fear 

Through  the  clink  of  silver  and  subtle  whisper  of  lace. 
I  dared  not  look  in  her  face.  — 

Then  I  thought  (while  I  laughed  aloud 

With  my  cup  at  poise),    'Ah,  the  proud 

Masques  that  we  wear!   We  too, 

All  of  us,  dancing  through 

Some  queer  little  pantomime  each  day,  — 

Jeweled  and  gloved,  deft-spoken  and  gay,  — 

Ah,  but  God  only  hears 

All  of  the  follies  and  fears, 


190  AS  I  DRANK  TEA  TO-DAY 

Meanness  and  courage,  breathed  out  and  in 
Over  these  tea- cups'  delicate  din.' 

Then  I  looked  in  that  woman's  face, 
Over  its  pearls  and  roses  and  lace, 
And  I  knew  that  I  need  not  fear  to  see 
Those  little  dull  threads,  those  wrinkles  three, 
Or  hear  the  cry  of  her  life.   I  knew 
We  were  all  of  us  crying  too : 
Crying  with  wonder  or  weariness, 
Too  much  love  or  too  little.   Yes, 
It  was  Life,  just  Life,  that  we  hid  away 
Under  our  gossip  and  glad  array. 
And  that  woman's  laughter  and  pride, 
Shieldingsher  heart,  half-crucified, 
Seemed  bravely  done,  —  although 
I  thought,  'Must  Life  hurt,  hurt  so?' 


Till  as  I  took  her  hand, 

Saying  good-bye,  the  smooth  words  planned 
Choked  in  my  throat.   She  stood  there  dumb, 
Folded  my  fingers  and  pressed  them  numb, 

Knowing  I  knew. 

Ah,  yes!  I  knew! 

All  of  us  seeking,  hungering,  hiding  too, 
In  delicate  drooping  gowns,  and  jewels  like  stars  and  dew! 

So  we  all  went  away: 

A  dozen  women,  chattering,  gay. 


OUR  NEAREST,  AND  OUR  FARTHEST,  NEIGHBORS 


BY   MARGARET   SHERWOOD 


OUR  nearest  neighbors  stand  a  bit 
aloof,  and  do  not  visit  us  except  for 
the  briefest  stay.  Newcomers,  we  are 
somewhat  hurt;  peering  out  of  the  cor- 
ners of  our  windows  we  watch  and 
wait,  as  silent,  as  motionless  as  they 
when  they  watch  us,  and  still  they  pass 
us  by.  It  is  true  that  we  have  forced 
our  way  into  an  old  community,  and 
have  broken  soil  among  the  undisturb- 
ed trees  on  a  green  hillside  still  clothed 
in  the  primeval  grass  of  the  wilderness. 
Those  earlier  settlers,  the  meadow- 
larks,  have  perhaps  a  right  to  complain 
of  our  intrusion.  Complain  they  do, 
their  notes  of  gentle  protest  coming 
early  in  the  spring,  and  sounding  on 
through  warm  summer  days  to  late 
autumn.  What  has  gone  wrong  with 
their  housekeeping,  I  wonder,  that  they 
so  persistently  lament?  Certainly  we 
have  not  disturbed  the  homes  of  their 
building,  and  are  ready  to  go  more  than 
half  way  in  making  friends. 

As  I  see,  though  pretending  not  to 
look,  the  bright,  untrusting  eyes  that 
watch  us  from  adjacent  trees,  as  I  hear 
swift  wings  beating  retreat,  I  marvel 
that  they  do  such  scanty  justice  to  our 
good  intent.  Is  it  because  of  our  com- 
ing that  the  mourning  dove  so  mourns? 
Do  they  not  like  our  way  of  house- 
keeping? It  is  as  careful,  as  method- 
ical, as  industrious  as  their  own.  It 
is,  moreover,  as  old-fashioned,  for  we 
like  ancestral  ways,  and  are  averse  to 
the  new-fangled  devices  of  the  ladies' 
journals,  —  oh,  horror  of  pink  teas 


and  lavender  luncheons !  And  we  share 
their  woodland  tastes:  one  doorway 
opens  on  a  hill-side  with  a  wood  be- 
yond, the  other  upon  what  the  English 
would  call  a  copse. 

It  cannot  be  our  clothes  that  they 
object  to,  for  our  modest  greens  and 
browns  are  as  unobtrusive  as  the  wear 
of  any  bird  or  squirrel  of  them  all. 
Indeed,  I  should  not  think  of  going 
abroad  in  the  colors  that  certain  of  them 
wear,  —  scarlet,  or  vivid  blue,  or  bril- 
liant orange,  —  for  even  Solomon  in 
all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  some 
of  these.  Perhaps  they  do  not  like  the 
company  we  keep,  yet  our  one  meek 
gray  cat  who  strolls  with  us  in  the 
evening  coolness  on  hillside  or  by  gar- 
den path  would  not  hurt  them;  only, 
at  sight  of  them,  an  impotent  lashing 
of  the  tail  and  a  faint,  queer  snarl 
recall  his  far-off  savage  ancestry.  It 
seems  perfectly  automatic  and  uncon- 
scious, and  is  certainly  incongruous  in 
the  presence  of  the  Christian  virtues 
which  that  cat  has  acquired  from  us. 
He  is  not  proud  and  unfriendly,  but  is 
willing  to  go  as  far  as  his  four  paws 
can  carry  him  across  that  space  which 
separates  even  the  friendliest  beasts 
from  their  distant  human  kin. 

We  have  courted  our  new  neighbors 
with  crumbs  in  winter-time;  we  have 
courted  them  in  April  with  string  laid 
out  enticingly  on  the  grass,  as  the  start- 
ing-point of  home;  we  have  tied  suet  to 
the  trees  in  snowy  weather,  and  have 
maintained  luncheon  counters  of  nuts 
and  of  wheat;  we  have,  quite  in  the  pre- 
vailing fashion  in  social  service,  estab- 

191 


192        OUR  NEAREST,  AND  OUR  FARTHEST,  NEIGHBORS 


lished  a  public  bath.  All  these  favors 
they  have  accepted,  with  mental  reser- 
vations, on  tip-toe  for  flight,  a-wing  at 
first  sight  of  us.  We  have  even  estab- 
lished model  tenements;  well-lighted, 
well-ventilated  residences  are  offered 
rent  free.  Some  of  them  were  fashioned 
of  cigar-boxes,  some  of  grape-baskets; 
all  were  covered  with  birch-bark  to 
match  the  trees  on  which  they  hang. 
Yet  the  blue-birds  pass  by  the  homes 
intended  especially  for  them,  and  the 
wren-house,  made  with  the  exact  size 
of  doorway  that  the  bird  book  pre- 
scribed for  the  least  of  the  sweet-sing- 
ing Christendom,  has  never  lured  the 
longed-for  tenant  to  our  eaves. 

To  that  cold  table,  winter-set,  come 
jays  and  j  uncos  and  chickadees.  I  find 
on  the  porch-roof  in  the  new-fallen 
snow  innumerable  little  footprints  of 
the  latter,  or  see  in  the  morning  sun- 
shine a  whole  white  and  gray  flock  feed- 
ing like  one,  flying  away  like  one,  if  I 
go  too  near.  I  am  always  expecting  the 
nuthatch,  who  feasts  royally  for  one 
of  his  size,  with  a  kind  of  Christmas 
gusto;  but  he  has  never  accepted  his 
invitation.  When  the  sky  is  heavy  with 
snow  about  to  fall,  I  think  often  that 
perhaps  he  will  come  to-morrow,  for, 
with  the  inhabitants  of  air  as  with  the 
inhabitants  of  earth,  necessity  increases 
friendliness. 

Regarding  these,  and  our  few  other 
winter  birds,  meadow-larks,  kinglets, 
brown  creepers,  I  often  wonder  in  what 
corners  they  cuddle,  and  whether  snow, 
rightly  used,  makes  a  warm  blanket. 
A  yearning  sense  of  hospitality  in  the 
stinging  cold  weather,  a  desire  to  share 
the  warmth  of  the  hearth  with  wee 
things  shut  outside,  human  or  other, 
pauses  here  at  the  bounds  that  nature 
has  set.  That  which  one  has  to  offer 
is  not  that  which  is  needed;  this  puzzled 
wish  to  help  is  touched  by  the  chill  of 
philanthropy,  and  baffled  by  the  lack 
of  understanding  that  must  exist  be- 


tween those  who  share  no  common 
threshold. 

As  for  our  most  constant  winter 
guest,  the  jay,  I  cannot  accept  the 
common  scorn  of  him,  often  shown  by 
critics  in  reality  no  more  generous  than 
he.  Wherein  eating  other  birds'  eggs 
differs  from  the  methods  commonly 
employed  by  the  fittest  in  surviving, 
I  have  yet  to  see,  and  I  watch  him  with 
the  remote  wonder  wherewith,  at  a 
distance,  I  watch  our  predatory  mer- 
chant-princes masquerading  in  the  bril- 
liant plumage  of  philanthropists.  The 
jays  have  dash,  presence;  they  lack 
scruple,  and,  with  their  loud  platform 
manners,  —  for  they  seem  always, 
through  their  shrill  cries,  to  be  address- 
ing an  audience,  —  they  are  curiously 
akin  to  others  successful  in  business 
and  in  public  life.  I  am  told  that  the 
jay  behaves  better  at  home  than  when 
he  is  away,  and  I  respect  him  for  that 
he  reverses  the  practice  of  many,  and 
forgive  him  for  his  noise  in  my  yard, 
knowing  that  he  is  silent  in  his  own 
doorway.  I  could  forgive  him  much, 
too,  for  the  beauty  of  his  outstretched 
wings  against  the  world  of  winter  white 
and  the  white  birch  trunks.  Often,  on 
the  coldest  days,  his  tap-tapping  at  the 
hard  suet  wakens  me;  from  porch  rail- 
ing or  branch  of  tree  he  watches  me,  his 
head  cocked  on  one  side,  with  a  judi- 
cious and  critical  expression,  and  I  feel, 
as  I  watch  him  in  return,  that  no  crea- 
ture more  mentally  alert  crosses  our 
domain  on  feathers  or  on  feet.  Yet  he 
lacks  something — shall  I  call  it  imag- 
inative vision  ?  —  that  impels  other 
birds  to  seek  far  shores  and  new  hori- 
zons, in  unceasing  quest. 

Most  neighborly,  of  course,  are  the 
robins;  and  on  July  mornings  troops  of 
spotted-breasted  birdlings  cross  our 
lawn,  each  headed  by  that  model  father 
red-breast,  who,  as  I  am  told,  takes 
charge  of  the  early  brood  while  the 
mother-bird  is  hatching  out  the  second, 


OUR  NEAREST,  AND  OUR  FARTHEST,  NEIGHBORS        193 


roosts  with  them  by  night  among  the 
trees,  and  by  day  teaches  them  the  lore 
of  robin  life.  The  small,  low  branches 
of  the  birch  trees  are  evidently  excel- 
lent for  the  robin  kindergarten  held 
here,  and  I  can  bear  witness  to  the  thor- 
oughness of  the  pedagogical  methods, 
if  any  aerial  agency  requires  testimo- 
nials. Flying  lessons,  swimming  lessons, 
foraging  lessons  go  on  incessantly,  and 
all  day  long  they  search  for  worms. 
Once,  when  I  thought  of  adopting  a 
young  robin  that  had  fallen  out  of  the 
nest,  a  scientist  told  me  that  it  would 
require  twelve  feet  of  worms  in  twelve 
hours,  and  I  desisted.  It  is  fortunate 
that  my  own  students  have  no  such 
appetites!  The  young  things  trail  sol- 
emnly around  after  their  parent,  two 
or  three  at  a  time,  like  chickens ;  if  his 
head  turns  but  for  an  instant,  beaks 
fly  wide  open,  as  if  moved  by  springs. 
It  is  a  pretty  sight  to  see  the  deftness 
wherewith  he  drops  in  a  worm,  the 
young  one  squatting  on  the  grass,  or 
waiting  on  a  twig,  and  swallowing  the 
booty  before  the  old  bird  has  even  ceas- 
ed flying.  The  kindergarten  has  always 
seemed  to  me  questionable  in  render- 
ing the  child  too  passive,  and  I  have 
my  doubts  about  this.  Surely  these  fat 
babies  could  bestir  themselves  a  little 
sooner!  Though  a  'mere  picker  up  of 
learning's  crumbs/  with  only  intellect- 
ual relations  with  the  young,  I  cannot 
help  being  absurdly  pleased  when  I  see 
these  birdlings  begin  to  find  bits  for 
themselves. 

In  the  flying  lessons  more  indepen- 
dence is  insisted  upon  from  the  first, 
and  the  notes  wherewith  the  nestlings 
are  urged  from  branch  to  empty  air 
are  sharp,  incisive,  and  full  of  anxiety. 
More  coaxing  tones  lure  them  to  the 
bird  bath  in  the  shallow  Italian  basin 
on  the  lawn,  and  here  they  are  shown 
how  to  dip  and  spatter  the  water  with 
fluttering  wings,  and  how  to  dry  their 
feathers  afterward.  I  saw  an  old  bird 
VOL.  114  -  NO.  2 


teaching  three  at  a  time  one  day,  and 
then  shooing  them  out  one  by  one  when 
the  bath  was  over.  Later,  one  of  the 
young  ones  went  back,  once,  twice, 
three  times,  and  stood  shivering  on  the 
brink,  afraid  to  plunge,  for  all  the  world 
like  a  ridiculous  baby. 

These  marvelously  competent  crea- 
tures converse  with  their  young  with 
a  wide  range  of  notes,  and  ward  off 
from  them  the  very  appearance  of 
danger,  valiantly  fighting  away  the 
jays,  and 'ordering  me  to  take  in  the 
cat  if  he  put  but  the  tip  of  his  gray  nose 
outside  the  door.  Expert  parents,  en- 
tirely taken  up  with  the  diet  and  the 
physical  education  of  their  progeny, 
they  seem,  more  than  most  birds,  to 
belong  to  our  era,  and  I  think  of  them 
as  better  able  to  cope  with  the  ideals 
of  our  present  civilization  than  are 
many  of  our  songsters.  Their  cheerful, 
bustling  materialism,  their  content  in 
unflagging  search  for  the  necessary 
worm,  strike  one  as  distinctly  con- 
temporary. Yet  like  the  jays  in  their 
alert  practicality,  they  fail  in  that 
charm  of  elusiveness  and  mystery  that 
we  associate  with  winged  things. 


ii 

Watching  and  waiting,  we  get 
glimpses  of  the  many-sided  neighbor- 
hood life  about  us,  even  of  creatures 
more  exclusive  than  robins.  The  oldest 
inhabitants,  the  crows,  are  always  with 
us,  slowly  moving  on  black  wings 
against  gray  clouds  of  winter,  or  con- 
gregating among  sunlit  pine  branches 
in  July.  At  the  first  touch  of  warmer 
sun,  the  first  deeper  blue  in  the  Feb- 
ruary sky,  they  are  astir;  what  signi- 
ficance has  this  busy  and  systematic 
flying,  with  loud  caws,  back  and  forth 
along  the  line  of  trees  that  border  the 
stream?  What  do  they  discuss,  what 
plans  do  they  make,  when  they  gath- 
er in  vast  numbers  in  the  tree- tops? 


194       OUR  NEAREST,  AND  OUR  FARTHEST,  NEIGHBORS 


Although  distant,  I  half  overhear  de- 
bates that  sound  far  more  interesting 
and  important  than  those  which  it  is 
my  duty  to  attend;  opinions  are  utter- 
ed with  more  conviction,  an  energy  of 
rough  speech  that  will  not  be  denied. 
The  assembly  would  seem  to  be  ap- 
pointing committees  to  act  with  power, 
then  suddenly  to  resolve  itself,  with 
outstretched  wings,  into  a  committee 
of  the  whole. 

I  have  always  had  a  special  admi- 
ration for  these  neighbors  who  watch, 
with  apparent  disdain,  generations  of 
mere  human  life,  and  a  special  curi- 
osity in  regard  to  what  they  know. 
Harsh  oracles  of  primeval  speech  is- 
sue from  their  throats  as  we  draw  near, 
but  they  will  not  admit  us  to  their 
councils;  and  the  way  in  which  they 
watch  our  approach,  slowly  make  up 
their  minds  in  our  disfavor,  and  fly 
deliberately  away,  is  more  insulting 
than  sudden  terror.  I  am  told  that 
their  success  in  life  is  largely  due  to 
cooperative,  highly  organized  thieving, 
as  yet  undisturbed  by  any  anti-trust 
law,  and  that  the  social  instinct  is  in 
them  very  fully  developed.  What  care 
I  how  social  they  be,  if  they  are  so  un- 
sociable with  me?  Some  of  the  subtle- 
ties of  their  deep  knowledge  have  been 
made  known,  but  more  are  as  yet  un- 
fa thomed.  Timeless,  they  dwell  in  im- 
memorial mystery,  and  have  solemn 
associations  with  long-forgotten  sun- 
rises and  sunsets.  A  sombre  significance 
clings  to  them,  different  from  that  at- 
taching to  any  other  feathered  things, 
sombre  but  not  malign.  Yet  when,  a 
day  or  two  ago,  a  huge  crow  flew  so 
close  to  the  window  where  I  was  watch- 
ing that  I  could  have  touched  him,  for 
a  pagan  moment  I  shrank,  for  he  was 
as  a  mythological  creature  out  of  an 
elder  world,  and  I  seemed  to  see  my 
doom  descending  on  black,  slow-beating 
wings.  For  the  most  part,  however, 
though  these  neighbors  stand  aloof  and 


hold  me  in  deserved  contempt,  I  count 
them  friends,  and  find  little  in  the  world 
more  expressive  than  they,  flapping 
their  way  over  distant  fields  and  caw- 
ing I  know  not  what  ancient  wisdom. 
A  single  crow  in  the  gathering  twilight, 
flying  toward  the  darkening  wood,  has 
a  look  of  going  straight  to  the  central 
mystery  of  things,  and  in  him  I  seem 
to  see 

The  last  bird  fly  into  the  last  light. 

Nearer  our  human  comprehension 
are  the  red-winged  blackbirds,  in  whom 
we  take  great  delight,  with  their  fas- 
cinating housekeeping  among  the  long 
swamp-grasses  and  reeds,  through 
which  a  many-branched  stream  threads 
its  wet  way.  Blue  flag  flowers  grow 
here,  tall  cat-tails  and  rushes;  some- 
thing—  perhaps  the  way  of  the  stream 
with  the  grasses,  the  moist  fragrance 
of  it  all,  the  gurgle  of  the  water  among 
the  lily-pads,  or  the  meeting  of  the  slop- 
ing meadow  beyond  with  the  wood  — 
brings  an  encompassing  sense  of  shel- 
ter, of  comfort,  and  of  home.  The 
blackbirds  come  early,  with  the  first 
faint  green  in  the  hidden  hollows  of  the 
surrounding  hills;  they  call  over  bare, 
brown  meadows  where  only  close- 
watching  eyes  could  see  spring.  As  the 
marsh  begins  to  turn  green,  and  roots 
quicken,  they  build  and  sing,  making 
their  nests  by  the  water-side,  many 
near  together  in  pleasant  comradeship; 
more  and  more  protected  as  the  grasses 
grow  tall  and  create,  with  their  feathery 
green  heads  and  deeper  green  of  the 
blades,  an  exquisite  shelter  of  delicate 
shades  and  gradations. 

These  builders  in  the  shadow  and  the 
sun  have  a  poetry  of  note  and  of  mo- 
tion that  the  robins  lack;  whistling, 
chuckling  softly,  they  sink,  with  what 
loveliness  of  flight!  low,  low  to  their 
nests  in  the  reeds.  The  protectiveness 
of  the  parent  wings,  the  little  answering 
peep  from  the  nest,  are  as  something 


OUR  NEAREST,   AND  OUR  FARTHEST,  NEIGHBORS        195 


remembered  from  lullaby  times  of  long 
ago.  Not  because  of  any  overtures 
from  them,  for  they  fly  swiftly,  with 
menacing  wings,  toward  us  if  we  ven- 
ture too  near,  writing  'thus  far  and 
no  farther'  upon  the  twilight  air,  we 
count  them  among  our  most  prized 
companions,  and  again  and  again  go 
reluctantly  from  these  red-and-black- 
clad  neighbors  who  do  not  call,  to  put 
on  polite  attire  and  walk  sedately  down 
the  village  street,  making  belated  visits 
to  those  justly  irate  human  neighbors, 
who  called  so  long,  so  long  ago!  Near 
of  kin  these  winged  things  seem,  though 
separated  far  in  the  world  of  physical 
being,  in  their  jealous  guarding  of  the 
threshold,  their  deep  sense  of  the  in- 
violability of  home.  Through  the  last 
days  of  wind  and  snow  we  watch  and 
wait  for  them,  and  each  succeeding 
summer  the  greater  is  our  loneliness 
when  they  are  gone  and  there  are  no 
more  brave  wings  with  touches  of  red 
against  the  sky  above  the  sunken  mea- 
dow. Something  of  the  sense  of  loss 
of  vanished  human  companionship  at- 
tends our  autumn  walks  near  these 
*  fledged  birds'  nests'  whence  the  birds 
have  flown;  alas  for  these  old  friends, 
and  the  white  stretches  of  winter  si- 
lence that  they  leave  behind  them! 

It  is  with  me  in  regard  to  birds  as 
in  regard  to  people:  I  have  no  desire 
to  know  all,  nor  do  I  wish  to  catalogue 
the  entire  species,  but  I  sorely  covet 
friendly  intimacy  with  a  few.  In  both 
cases  I  have  a  pleasant  acquaintance 
with  some  whose  names  I  do  not  know. 
With  the  flicker  that  I  find  clinging  to 
my  screen  in  the  morning,  —  having 
heard  his  knocking  at  my  window, 
dimly,  through  waking  and  dreams,  — 
in  all  the  brave  beauty  of  his  brown- 
spotted,  creamy  breast  and  his  red 
crown,  I  would  fain  have  further  inter- 
course, but  his  quick  wings  will  not  so. 
I  could  'desire  of  more  acquaintance,' 
too,  with  the  evening  grosbeak,  who, 


despite  his  name,  called  at  nine  o'clock 
one  stormy  March  morning,  then  flew 
away  forever. 

I  want  to  know,  but  never  shall,  the 
little  screech  owl,  whose  cry,  most  signi- 
ficant and  characteristic,  shrill,  sweet, 
and  weird,  sounds  out  from  the  near- 
by wood  and  now  and  then  from  our 
own  trees.  I  hold  my  breath  when,  ly- 
ing in  bed,  I  hear  him,  and,  even  in  the 
dark,  I  see  him  clearly,  yet  not  him. 
Long,  long  ago  a  kind  friend  caught  one 
and  gave  him  to  me;  tame  him  I  could 
not;  he  only  stared  at  me  with  big,  un- 
seeing eyes,  and  refused  to  swallow  the 
food  placed  in  his  beak.  At  last  I  let 
him  go,  perhaps  un tactfully,  in  the  day- 
time, 

Blind,  and  in  all  the  loneliness  of  wings. 

Gossip  has  told  me  about  his  house- 
keeping: how  he  is  thrifty,  forages  in 
winter  and  stores  up  in  a  hollow  tree 
mice  and  other  prey  enough  for  a  week's 
housekeeping.  When  my  own  goes 
wrong  I  sometimes  wish  that  I  could 
go  and  board  with  the  little  owl. 

I  should  like  to  be  admitted  to  fur- 
ther intimacy  with  these  feathered  folk, 
but  perhaps  they  are  right  in  holding 
me,  if  not  at  arms'  length,  at  wings' 
length,  and  the  wings'  length  of  a  sud- 
denly startled  bird  is  something  to  mar- 
vel at.  Their  wis.dom  I  envy,  their  sky 
wisdom  and  earth  wisdom,  their  ex- 
quisite skill  in  building,  their  canny 
household  ways.  Even  through  the 
slight  intercourse  which  they  permit  us, 
marvelously  they  enrich  our  lives,  as 
contact  with  other  life  inevitably  must, 
not  only  through  this  sense  of  fellow- 
ship in  home-building  and  home-keep- 
ing, but  through  the  endless  charm  of 
music,  and  motion,  and  color. 

In  spring  the  song  of  the  oriole,  un- 
believably beautiful,  comes  from  trees 
near  by,  but  he  never  builds  close 
enough.  Venturing  near  human  habi- 
tations, he  still  jealously  guards  his 


196        OUR  NEAREST,  AND  OUR  FARTHEST,  NEIGHBORS 


seclusion.  Though  he  refuses  our  prof- 
fered string,  he  sings  to  us,  often 
pouring  out  his  heart  among  our  trees; 
then,  a  swift,  red-golden  flash,  so  swift 
that  the  swaying  birch-leaves  seem  to 
go  too,  and  he  is  away  toward  home. 
He  lives  in  the  huge,  stately  elm  at 
the  corner,  disdaining  lesser  residences, 
and  I  can  hear  his  song,  fainter  but 
not  less  appealing,  from  his  own  door- 
way. His  brother  builds  in  another 
elm,  farther  along  the  busy  highway, 
singing  high  and  unafraid  above  the 
puffing  automobiles  and  the  creaking 
carts;  and  surely  it  is  a  near  relative 
who  has  his  home  in  a  clump  of  tall 
green  trees  on  the  greener  hillside. 
There  he  sings,  high  and  sweet,  the 
morning  long.  Toiling  over  books  and 
papers,  I  can  hear  him,  and  the  *  God- 
intoxicated'  bobolink  who  lives  in  the 
meadow  below  the  hill.  Together  they 
bring  back  always  the  story  of  the 
two  nightingales,  those  symbolic  night- 
ingales who  sang  from  the  laburnum  to 
the  young  Robert  Browning  after  that 
day  of  days  when  he  had  first  opened 
his  Shelley  and  his  Keats,  —  too  great 
an  intellectual  and  spiritual  experience 
for  a  single  day  of  boyhood,  one  would 
think,  even  for  that  robust  poetic  vi- 
tality. 

The  long  elm-branches  toss  in  the 
wind,  yet  the  swaying  nest  is  always 
safe.  On  sunshiny  days  there  are  such 
trills  of  pure  and  varied  melody,  that 
I  cannot  work,  —  for  oh,  how  he  sings 
one's  childhood  back!  The  music  flows 
across  the  silences  as  through  the  dis- 
cords of  the  days ;  surely  the  oriole  has 
found  some  inner  soul  of  melody  in  all 
things ! 

The  bobolink  keeps  house  in  the 
meadow-grass  by  the  stream  just  over 
the  fence  from  the  highway.  I  know 
where  it  is,  though  he  does  not  think 
I  know,  having  taken  pains  to  alight, 
singing  his  maddest,  on  reeds  and  grass- 
es far  away,  and  distinctly  on  my  path 


toward  home.  I  have  not  called  on 
him,  and  shall  not,  for  I  too  have  my 
reserves.  His  choice  of  a  home  shows 
that  he  has  learned  something  of  the 
hard  wisdom  of  the  world.  Last  year 
he  had  a  devastated  threshold,  for  the 
mowing  machine  went  ruthlessly  over 
that  loveliest  spot  of  waving  meadow- 
grass  where  he  had  built.  This  year  he 
has  chosen  a  place  where  the  swamp- 
grasses  are  never  touched  by  the  mow- 
er's knives;  surely  I  am  right  in  think- 
ing he  is  the  same,  our  neighbor  of  last 
year,  though  I  cannot  be  sure,  for  there 
is  always  a  certain  family  likeness  in 
the  voice. 

Some  relatives  of  his,  who  live  a  mile 
or  two  farther,  came  before  he  did,  on 
a  green  May  day.  I  go  often  to  hear 
them,  for,  as  they  sing,  one  and  then 
another,  in  that  little  colony  of  song- 
sters, they  bring  back  all  the  vanished 
Junes,  with  their  wild  strawberries  and 
their  fragrant  hay.  Yet,  as  I  stroll  along 
the  highway  toward  home,  in  the  per- 
fectness  of  this  special  June,  I  am  glad 
to  hear  my  own  near  neighbor  again, 
and  to  watch  his  rapturous  flight  up- 
ward, with  lyric  trills  of  song,  and  his 
dropping  low  to  grass  or  reed,  where 
he  sways  back  and  forth  in  the  breeze. 
It  seems  to  me  that  there  is  an  added 
madness  of  assurance  in  his  melodies 
this  summer  as  he  sings  on,  unafraid, 
that  all's  right  with  the  world;  and 
I  hold  my  breath,  with  a  touch  of  the 
old  Greek  apprehension  of  swift  turn 
of  fate  over  too  perfect  moments.  Are 
he  and  Robert  Browning  a  trifle  over- 
sure? 

in 

Many  are  the  birds  that  charm  us  by 
beauty  of  color  and  of  song;  there  are 
others  that  compel  our  eyes  primarily 
through  sheer  beauty  of  motion.  Such 
are  the  wide-winged  gulls  at  the  not- 
distant  New  England  shore,  with  the 
slow  and  stately  rhythm  of  their  white 


OUR  NEAREST,  AND  OUR  FARTHEST,  NEIGHBORS        197 


wings;  such  are  the  eagles  that  I  re- 
member from  long  ago  circling  majes- 
tically against  a  clear  blue  sky  about 
the  high  gray  cliffs  of  Mount  Parnassus ; 
such  are  swallows  of  every  kind.  Bank 
swallows  live  near  us,  the  top  of  certain 
high  sand-cliffs  being  pierced  all  along 
its  edge  by  their  mysterious,  enticing 
thresholds  that  one  may  not  cross. 
Great  delicacy  and  reserve  of  demeanor 
is  necessary  in  approaching  them,  for 
they  are  careful  of  the  company  they 
keep.  This  year  they  made  no  holes 
in  one  sand-cliff  where,  last  year,  many 
of  them  dwelt,  —  a  mystery  of  choice 
to  us  until  we  saw  the  kingfisher's  nest 
hollowed  out  there,  and  remembered 
the  grim  look  of  the  kingfisher  with  his 
fierce  crest,  on  a  limb  by  the  water, 
watching  for  his  prey.  About  our  roof 
these  swallows  circle  in  the  open  sky 
at  eventide  against  the  sunset  clouds; 
they  fly  low  before  the  coming  rain,  low 
and  higher,  swaying,  swinging,  dipping 
in  joyousness  of  motion  and  grace  of 
untrammeled  flight.  The  little  call  of 
the  swallow,  what  is  it,  —  thanks  for 
the  insect  just  caught,  or  greeting  to 
neighbor  swallow,  as  they  pass  and 
repass  in  the  oncoming  twilight,  like 
*  ships  that  pass  in  the  night'? 

Color  and  grace  of  motion  together 
make  up  the  loveliness  of  the  blue- 
bird's flight.  These  gentle  creatures 
light  on  branch  and  twig  about  us  in 
earliest  spring,  pair  by  pair,  in  radiance 
of  blue  raiment  against  a  paler  sky, 
but  they  never  linger.  As  they  sit  with 
their  wise  little  heads  on  one  side,  con- 
sidering, do  they  find  us  unworthy  of 
the  close  companionship  of  adjacent 
homes?  Once,  long  ago,  a  pair  of  them 
built  in  a  hollow  tree  near  our  doorway, 
and  I  should  rather  have  the  grace  of 
another  stay  like  this  than  any  other 
household  boon,  but  I  ask  it  in  vain. 
They  call,  too,  in  early  autumn,  to  say 
good-bye,  punctilious,  and  yet  distant. 
A  few  days  ago,  in  late  summer,  the 


yard  was  full  of  them,  parents  and 
children;  some,  full  blue  with  soft, 
bright  breasts,  others,  evidently  fuzzy 
youngsters,  with  wings  just  growing 
blue.  Their  little  chirp,  the  gentlest 
and  sweetest  of  all  sounds  in  nature, 
sounded  from  among  the  birches  and 
the  wild-cherry  tree  in  most  compan- 
ionable fashion,  and  yet  they  fled,  par- 
ent and  children,  across  the  browning 
grass,  leaving  us  to  the  yellowing  leaf 
and  the  cricket's  chirp,  and  the  mel- 
low loneliness  of  autumn. 

Other  bird-friends  we  have,  and 
many.  The  little  song  sparrow  makes 
music  for  us  in  all  seasons,  in  all  wea- 
thers, even  sometimes  through  a  sleepy 
snatch  of  song  at  night.  The  vesper 
sparrow  greets  us  on  the  close-shorn 
hills  to  westward  when  we  walk  there 
at  sunset;  and  on  summer  afternoons, 
from  the  shady  coverts  of  the  adjacent 
wood,  comes  the  full  golden  melody  of 
the  wood  thrush,  with  that  liquid  tone 
which  only  thrushes  give.  I  have  lis- 
tened, but  listened  in  vain  hereabout, 
for  the  high,  celestial  note  of  the  her- 
mit, but  he  does  not  venture  so  near, 
inhabiting  some  far  region  between  us 
and  the  heavenly  hills. 

Greatest  of  all  privileges  is  the  charm 
of  the  minor  snatches  of  song,  the  mo- 
mentary glimpses  of  wings,  often  of 
visitors  we  do  not  know,  and  yet  half 
understand;  —  we  are  wayfarers  all! 
A  red-breasted  grosbeak  comes  to  chat 
in  friendly  fashion  among  the  twigs, 
then  flits  away  to  his  undiscovered 
threshold.  A  humming-bird  calls  now 
and  then  for  a  minute  at  the  threshold 
of  larkspur  or  columbine;  his  lichen- 
covered  home  I  can  imagine,  though  I 
have  no  skill  to  follow  his  swift  flight. 
The  goldfinch  means  a  gleam  of  celes- 
tial beauty,  as  does  the  yellow  warbler; 
and  there  was  one  wonderful  minute 
when  a  scarlet  tanager  paused  in  a 
birch,  the  sunshine  falling  on  his  bright 
body  through  the  translucent  leaves.  , 


198        OUR  NEAREST,  AND  OUR  FARTHEST,  NEIGHBORS 


These  and  other  winged  visitants 
we  have,  in  wavering  flight  or  sure, 
now  high,  now  low,  drifting  past  birch 
leaf  and  hollyhock,  shining  visitants, 
with  the  swift  splendor  of  sunlight  on 
wings  of  blue  or  red  or  gold,  making  us 
wonder  why  a  pallid  modern  imagina- 
tion clothes  angels  all  in  white.  The 
old  painters  knew  better,  and  on  Ital- 
ian canvases  and  walls,  one  may  see 
wings  of  green  and  azure,  splendid  pin- 
ions of  celestial  creatures  wearing  gor- 
geous markings  of  moth  and  of  butter- 
fly. Oftentimes  quick  wings  pass,  of 
we  know  not  what,  above  pergola  or 
sky-light;  swift,  nameless  shadows  float 
over  yonder  waving  green  meadow;  a 
sound  of  wings  reaches  our  ears  though 
we  do  not  lift  our  eyes.  In  their  very 
elusiveness  lies  the  deepest  appeal  of 
this  people  of  the  air;  the  sordid  philo- 
sopher who  said  that  a  bird  in  the 
hand  was  worth  two  in  the  bush  was 
as  grossly  mistaken  as  his  kind  are 
wont  to  be,  for  a  bird  in  the  bush  is 
worth  twenty  times  twenty  in  the  hand. 
When  was  anything  worth  having  ever 
capable  of  being  held  in  the  hand  ? 

The  nearest,  yet  the  farthest,  of  our 
neighbors,  one  feels  a  wistful  sense  of 
kinship  with  them,  and  yet,  the  dis- 
tances, the  distances !  Wordsworth's 

Stay  near  me  —  do  not  take  thy  flight! 
A  little  longer  stay  in  sight! 

in  his  poem  to  a  butterfly  suggests 
something  of  the  baffled  longing  for 


companionship  that  marks  our  inter- 
course with  winged  creatures.  They 
only,  of  all  living  things,  know  to  the 
full  this  migratory  instinct  that  lies 
deep  in  human  nature,  the  need  of  new 
horizons,  the  deep  recurrent  stirring  at 
the  heart  in  spring.  'They  flit  on  the 
edges  of  our  humaneness,  akin,  yet  not 
near  of  kin,  piquing  our  desire,  quicken- 
ing our  sense  of  wonder.  One  watches 
them  with  dim  understanding,  and  with 
unconfessed  or  unrealized  envy. 

Of  all  creatures  they  are  the  least 
bound  in  the  chain  of  things,  with  their 
brief  term  of  earthly  ownership,  watch- 
ing their  nests  for  a  single  season  and 
then  away,  not  clogged  and  hampered 
by  property  rights,  whether  of  real 
estate,  or  of  heavy  flesh  and  bone.  Are 
not  their  bones  filled  with  air?  Free 
of  the  universe  are  they,  unencumber- 
ed for  the  long  trail,  just  this  side  of 
being  pure  spirit.  Theirs  is  the  charm 
of  that  which  conies  but  in  moments, 
and  which  you  may  not  keep;  about 
a  home,  which  stands  for  the  settled 
and  permanent,  lies  this  haunting 
mystery  of  wings  that  come  and  go  be- 
tween us  and  the  sky.  They  touch  the 
soul  within  us,  quicken  the  sense  of 
quest,  for  each  beat  of  these  encompas- 
sing wings  stirs  something  deep  within. 
They  make  us  aware  of  far  spaces,  of 
distance,  freedom,  mystery,  infinity, 
—  of  a  sky  for  the  human  spirit  to  cir- 
cle in,  even  now,  even  now! 


SOMETHING  BIG,  LIKE  RED  BIRD 


BY   MARGARET   PRESCOTT   MONTAGUE 


'GEE!'  Red  Bird  complained,  'I 
don't  see  what  it  had  to  go  an'  rain  on 
a  Sunday  afternoon  for ! ' 

*  Just  -  -  just  when  we  was  goin'  over 
to  the  Big  Spring,  too,'  Jimmie  Little's 
rather  wavering  voice  piped  in.  'An' 
—  an'  I  was  goin'  to  git  'em  to  put  me 
somewheres  where  I  could  n't  hit  no- 
body, an'  then  I  was  goin'  to  throw 
rocks,  an'  —  an'  throw  rocks,  an* 
throw  rocks,  just  all  the  afternoon.' 

The  very  thought  made  him  twist 
his  little  blind  face  from  side  to  side 
in  excitement.  'Just  Jimmie'  he  al- 
ways asserted  that  he  was.  * 'Cause — 
'cause,  you  know,'  he  was  wont  to  ex- 
plain, *  I  was  raised  in  the  Poor  House 
down  in  Lupin  County  an'  never  heard 
'em  say  who  my  folks  was,  an'  they 
never  did  call  me  nothin'  but  just 
Jimmie.' 

Looking  at  his  very  small  and  wiz- 
ened person  of  eight  years,  his  hear- 
ers might  have  been  tempted  to  doubt 
the  ability  of  the  Lupin  County  Poor 
House  to  grow  little  blind  boys,  what- 
ever else  they  might  *  raise '  successfully 
there. 

He  and  Red  Bird,  another  blind  boy, 
whose  real  name  was  George  Washing- 
ton Morris,  and  who  was  Just  Jimmie's 
running  mate  and  adored  hero,  were 
seated  by  the  open  window  of  the  boys' 
sitting  room  at  Lomax,  the  State  school 
for  deaf  and  blind  children,  and  were 
listening  to  the  purr  of  the  spring  rain 
in  the  courtyard,  and  to  the  monoto- 
nous slip-slop  of  the  dripping  eaves. 


' Shall  I  read  to  you? '  suggested  Miss 
Lyman,  the  matron  for  the  blind  boys, 
who  happened  upon  them  just  then,  and 
was  struck  by  their  dejected  attitudes. 

'Is  it  sump'n  'bout  fightin'?'  Red 
Bird  demanded  with  a  languid  interest. 

'Oh,  yes!  A  book  full  of  fighting,' 
she  promised;  and,  taking  them  up  to 
her  room,  she  unlocked  the  doors  of  ro- 
mance for  them  with  the  magic  key  of 
the  Boys'  Froissart,  and  after  the  read- 
ing was  over  she  told  them,  from  her 
memory  of  an  old  quaintly  illustrated 
copy  of  the  original,  how  the  Bishop 
of  Lincoln  and  certain  gallant  gentle- 
men had  resolved  to  wear  a  black  patch 
over  one  eye  until  they  should  have 
performed  some  deed  of  chivalry.  At 
that  Red  Bird's  imagination  blazed 
up. 

'Jimmie,  let's  you  an'  me  do  it! 'he 
cried.  'Let 's  you  an'  me  wear  patches 
like  the  Bishop  of  Lincoln  an'  them 
other  fellas  'til  we've  done  sump'n 
noble,  too!' 

'Let's!'  Jimmie  assented  joyfully 
(he  always  assented  to  everything  Red 
Bird  proposed).  'But,  Red  Bird,  we  got 
to  wear  our  patches  over  our  y'ears.' 
(Just  Jimmie's  ear  was  always  prefixed 
by  a  y.)  "Cause  —  'cause  course  there 
ain't  no  sense  in  our  wearin'  patches 
over  our  eyes ! ' 

'An'  we  got  to  have  a  beautiful  lady 
to  sort  of  pay  our  deeds  to,'  his  running 
mate  added. 

This  gave  them  pause  until  Red  Bird 
suggested  Miss  Lyman. 

'  Aire  —  aire  you  the  fairest  lady  in 
the  land? '  Jimmie  demanded  in  Frois- 

199 


200 


SOMETHING  BIG,  LIKE  RED  BIRD 


sart  diction,  somewhat  flavored  by 
Lupin  County. 

Miss  Lyman  hastily  denied  any  such 
distinction. 

*  Course  she'd  say  she  wasn't,'  Red 
Bird  reproved  Jimmie.  *Let  me  feel,' 
he  added  imperiously. 

With  a  butterfly  touch  his  fingers 
quested  her  smooth  plump  cheeks,  her 
hair  —  which  was  indeed  very  soft  and 
thick  —  and  her  crisp  and  fresh  Sun- 
day blouse;  also  he  sniffed  the  general 
clean  fragrance  of  orris-root,  and  pro- 
nounced the  whole  good. 

'Well,'  he  said,  'you  mayn't  look 
pretty,  but  we  don't  care  nothin'  't  all 
'bout  that  so  long  as  you  feel  pretty.' 

Thus  she  was  accepted  as  their  liege 
lady,  and  at  their  request  accoutred 
them  with  their  patches.  And  if  the 
patches  were  made  from  the  tops  of 
the  fair  lady's  discarded  stockings  — 
Oh,  well,  it  is  a  rude  reality  that  stares 
too  closely  at  romance. 

Of  course  Red  Bird  was  the  first  to 
get  his  patch  off,  though  even  he  wore 
it  for  a  week. 

He  and  Jimmie  came  nightly  to  Miss 
Lyman 's  room  to  have  her  review  their 
day's  record,  and  see  if  there  was  any- 
thing in  it  sufficiently  noble  to  justify 
the  removal  of  a  patch.  That  is  to  say, 
they  reviewed  Red  Bird's.  Just  Jim- 
mie never  appeared  to  have  anything 
remarkable  to  show  on  his  own  account, 
but  he  could  become  almost  lyrical 
over  Red  Bird's  achievements.  They 
were  both  sure  Miss  Lyman  would  un- 
patch  the  latter  the  day  he  fought 
and  licked  Edward  Saunders,  a  boy 
almost  two  years  older  than  Red  Bird. 
Strangely  enough,  however,  she  did  not. 
She  even  went  so  far  as  to  assert  that, 
as  Edward  had  merely  stumbled  over 
Red  Bird's  foot  by  accident,  she  would 
have  considered  it  more  worthy  the 
removal  of  a  patch,  had  Red  Bird  re- 
frained from  the  licking.  And  the 
boys  were  forced  to  admit  in  private 


that  even  the  fairest  ladies  had  strange 
ideas. 

But  at  last  Fate  favored  Red  Bird. 

He  was  up  in  the  blind  boys'  dor- 
mitory one  day  at  play- time.  Spring 
was  in  the  air  and  the  window  was  open. 
Red  Bird  went  over  to  it  to  feel  the 
wind  on  his  cheeks,  and  to  listen  to 
the  myriad  sounds  which  the  play- 
ground gave  up:  the  shouts  and  laugh- 
ter of  the  blind  children;  the  slurring 
scuffle  of  a  company  of  deaf  boys  mark- 
ing time  as  they  drilled  in  the  brick 
courtyard  below;  and  from  around  on 
the  girls'  side  the  plaintive  notes  of 
little  Phrebe  West's  horn.  As  he  lean- 
ed there  he  turned  a  large  orange  —  a 
windfall  from  his  friend  Mr.  Heartwell, 
the  deaf  baker  of  the  school  —  in  his 
hands,  essaying  little  tentative  nibbles 
at  it,  and  trying  to  make  up  his  mind 
as  to  the  most  delightful  way  of  eating 
it.  Should  he  bite  a  hole  in  it  then  and 
there  and  suck  it  dry?  Or  should  he 
peel  it,  divide  it  into  segments,  and, 
hunting  up  Jimmie,  do  the  generous 
thing  and  divide  it  with  him?  Or 
again  —  sudden  and  delightful  inspira- 
tion —  suppose  he  induced  Jimmie  to 
invest  that  penny  he  had  been  hoard- 
ing so  long,  in  a  stick  of  lemon  candy, 
and  then  they  would  share  the  orange, 
imbibing  it  through  the  candy,  suck 
and  suck  about,  a  linked  sweetness  long 
drawn  out?  Fired  by  this  plan,  he  was 
just  turning  away,  when  something 
came  avalanching  down  the  roof  and 
brought  up  in  the  wide  gutter  just  out- 
side his  window.  Red  Bird  jumped 
back.  It  was  so  near,  so  strange.  What 
could  it  be? 

'Who  you?'  he  demanded  backing 
farther  away. 

There  was  no  answer,  but  there  was 
the  sound  of  scrambling  feet  against 
the  tin  of  the  gutter,  accompanied  by 
certain  alarming  grunts  and  puffs. 

'Who  you? '  Red  Bird  repeated  more 
sharply. 


SOMETHING  BIG,  LIKE  RED  BIRD 


201 


The  scuffling  and  scrambling  seemed 
very  near,  and  the  friendly  sounds  of 
the  playground  very  far  away.  He 
was  just  turning  to  scuttle  off  down- 
stairs to  the  safe  companionship  of  the 
other  boys,  when  he  bethought  him 
of  his  patch.  Would  the  Bishop  of 
Lincoln  and  his  gallant  friends  have 
run  away,  even  from  a  puffing  crea- 
ture that  they  could  not  see,  and  that 
would  not  speak?  Not  likely.  Again 
he  approached  the  window. 

'Lady,'  he  said,  'see  here  your  knight 
who  will  not  fail  to  die  for  you.' 

For,  of  course,  the  sounds  might 
be  made  by  a  damsel  in  distress,  and 
that  was  the  way  Sir  John  of  Hainault 
had  addressed  the  fugitive  Queen  of 
England.  Red  Bird  said  the  words 
very  fast,  half  under  his  breath,  for,  of 
course,  there  was  always  the  chance  of 
its  being  a  grown-up  who  would  n't 
understand,  and  who  might  laugh. 

If  it  were  a  distressed  lady  she  should 
answer  as  the  Queen  had  to  Sir  John, 
'Sir,  I  find  in  you  more  kindness  and 
comfort  than  in  all  the  world  besides.' 

Red  Bird  strained  his  ears  for  these 
flattering  sentences.  They  failed  to 
come,  but  suddenly,  in  the  courtyard 
below,  someone  screamed  piercingly. 
"Look!  Oh,  my  goodness!  Look  at  that 
little  deaf  boy  up  there  in  that  gutter! 
He'll  fall  — he'll  break  his  neck!' 

There  followed  the  frantic  sound  of 
running  feet,  but  they  were  two  flights 
of  stairs  away,  and  any  moment  that 
little  boy,  who  was  n't  more  than  six 
years  old,  might  miss  his  footing  and 

-  the  courtyard  three  stories  below 
was  paved  with  brick. 

'Here  you  —  '  Red  Bird  cried  plung- 
ing wildly  for  the  window.  Immedi- 
ately, he  heard  the  child  edging  out 
of  reach  along  the  gutter.  Goodness! 
that  was  no  way  to  go  about  rescu- 
ing him!  Then  a  sudden  inspiration 
flashed  upon  Red  Bird.  How  he  came 
to  think  of  it  he  never  knew.  He 


said  afterwards  that  sump'n  sort  er 
snapped  in  his  head,  and  that  was  as 
near  as  he  ever  came  to  explaining  it. 
He  approached  the  window  cautiously 
and  held  out  the  tempting  orange.  The 
deaf  child  did  not  move,  this  time.  Red 
Bird  put  the  orange  to  his  lips  and 
made  as  if  to  eat  it,  then  held  it  out 
again,  and  now  he  heard  the  little  boy 
scuffling  slowly  nearer.  At  his  back  he 
felt  the  room  full  of  tense  grown-up 
watchers. 

'  That 's  right,  Red  Bird,  that 's  right,' 
Mr.  Lincoln's  voice  encouraged  him. 

Gradually,  as  he  heard  the  little  boy 
approach  he  withdrew  farther  into  the 
room,  and  at  last  with  a  final  puff  and 
scramble  the  child  climbed  over  the 
sill  and  jumped  down  to  safety,  his 
eager  hands  upon  Red  Bird's  orange. 

The  grown-ups  swooped  forward  and 
caught  him  fast,  and  Mr.  Lincoln's 
hand  fell  upon  Red  Bird's  shoulder. 

'Good  boy!'  he  cried  in  a  somewhat 
shaken  tone.  'Good  boy!' 

That  night  Miss  Lyman  held  a  party 
in  her  room  to  celebrate  the  removal  of 
Red  Bird's  patch.  The  party  was  small 
but  very  select.  The  invited  guests 
were  Red  Bird,  Just  Jimmie,  W-on- 
the-Eyes,  and  the  little  rescued  deaf 
boy.  The  latter  had  not  the  slightest 
idea  of  what  it  was  all  about,  and  not 
having  yet  learned  to  talk,  he  could 
not  ask  questions.  W-on-the-Eyes  was 
the  sign  by  which  Charlie  Webster, 
a  little  deaf  boy  of  ten,  was  known  to 
all  the  other  deaf  children  of  the  school. 
He  was  invited  because  Benny  Adams 
—  the  explorer  of  the  gutter  —  was 
his  especial  charge,  Benny's  mother 
having  intrusted  him  to  Webster  when 
she  sent  him  to  school.  Ever  since  his 
arrival,  Webster,  and  indeed  the  whole 
deaf  department,  had  found  their  hands 
full.  He  was  as  likely  to  appear  on 
the  ridge-pole  as  in  the  schoolroom, 
and  he  had  thrown  the  whole  corps  of 
matrons  into  a  state  of  consternation 


202 


SOMETHING  BIG,  LIKE  RED  BIRD 


and  wild  telephoning  to  doctors  by 
calmly  eating  a  moth-ball.  Like  the 
Elephant's  Child  in  the  Just  So  Sto- 
ries, by  Kipling,  he  suffered  from  an 
'insatiable  curiosity';  and  not  being 
able  to  voice  any  of  his  questions,  when 
touch  and  sight  failed,  he  very  natur- 
"ally  had  recourse  to  taste  for  the  fur- 
therance of  his  inquiries.  Doubtless  the 
eating  of  the  moth-ball  satisfied  his 
mind  on  that  point  at  least.  Probably 
also  he  had  derived  further  informa- 
tion from  his  explorations  that  after- 
noon of  the  roof  and  gutter  outside  the 
blind  boys'  dormitory. 

Charlie  Webster  made  on  his  behalf 
a  very  beautiful  speech  of  thanks  to 
Red  Bird.  He  had  to  make  the  speech 
on  his  fingers,  but  Red  Bird  felt  his 
hands  and  understood  some  of  his  signs, 
and  Miss  Lyman  interpreted  the  rest 
for  him.  Altogether  it  was  a  great  oc- 
casion. Everybody's  heart  overflowed 
with  good  feeling  and  good  cheer,  and 
Just  Jimmie,  who  had  nearly  burst 
with  pride  over  his  hero's  achievement, 
burned  to  imitate  him.  He  might  have 
taken  his  patch  off  over  and  over  again 
for  proficiency  in  his  lessons;  but  this 
he  scorned  to  do.  To  his  mind  there 
was  nothing  romantic  in  being  able  to 
spell  conscientious,  or  in  repeating  the 
names  of  all  the  presidents  in  order. 
For  its  removal  that  patch  called  for 
the  romantic  and  gallant;  or,  as  he  him- 
self put  it,  'some  kind  er  fightin',  or 
'sump'n  big  like  what  Red  Bird  done.' 

II 

There  came  at  last,  however,  a  hea- 
venly warm  spring  Sunday,  when  one 
of  the  teachers,  assisted  by  a  couple  of 
pupils  who  could  see  a  little,  took  all 
the  blind  boys  over  to  the  Big  Spring, 
—  a  long  happy  ramble  through  the 
perfumed  woods,  —  and  when  the  de- 
sire of  Just  Jimmie's  heart  in  the  matter 
of  throwing  stones  was  realized. 


They  placed  him  by  the  side  of  a  creek, 
which  afforded  an  unlimited  supply  of 
stones,  and  where  there  was  a  clear 
space  ahead  with  no  danger  of  hitting 
any  one,  and  here  he  did  indeed  throw 
rocks,  and  throw  rocks,  and  throw  rocks, 
just  all  the  afternoon.  It  was  pure  joy, 
but  finally  even  his  devoted  arm  gave 
out.  He  cuddled  down  on  the  bank 
to  rest  'jus'  er  minute'  as  he  specified 
to  himself,  but  in  reality  to  fall  fast 
asleep.  He  had  dropped  down,  as  it 
happened,  behind  a  fallen  tree,  so  that 
the  teacher,  when  she  came  to  gather 
her  flock  together,  failed  to  see  him, 
and  supposed  he  was  on  in  front  with 
Red  Bird.  And  so,  when  Just  Jimmie 
sailed  up  to  consciousness  once  more, 
the  woods  were  still  and  deserted  and 
he  knew  himself  all  alone.  In  the  gen- 
eral scramble  of  life,  however,  he  was 
rather  used  to  being  overlooked.  If  he 
philosophized  about  it  at  all  he  prob- 
ably put  it  down  to  the  score  of  his 
having  no  folks,  and  coming  from  the 
Lupin  County  Poor  House;  moreover, 
he  had  found  that,  given  time,  peo- 
ple usually  remembered  his  existence. 
Therefore  he  had  no  doubt  that  some 
one  would  presently  return  for  him. 
In  the  meantime,  this  out-of-door  world 
still  lent  a  delightful  warmth  to  his 
small  body,  and  brought  intoxicating 
spring  perfumes  to  his  nostrils.  Also, 
here  were  the  stones  and  the  creek 
again,  with  his  good  right  arm  refreshed 
by  sleep,  and  the  heart  of  Just  Jimmie 
asked  no  more.  Sometimes  the  stones 
went  into  the  deep  water  with  a  full 
round  'plup';  sometimes  they  landed  in 
the  shallows,  making  a  pleasant  sharp 
splash;  sometimes  —  oh,  joy! — they 
flew  clear  across  the  creek  and  greeted 
the  ear  with  a  delightful  clip-clap,  as 
they  skipped  on  the  stones  on  the  other 
side;  and  each  time  Jimmie  jumped 
up  and  down,  and  clapped  his  hands 
and  gave  vent  to  extraordinarily  glee- 
ful shouts  of  merriment. 


SOMETHING  BIG,  LIKE  RED  BIRD 


203 


All  at  once  he  heard  a  crackling 
sound  in  the  bushes  behind  him,  and 
knew  that  somebody,  or  something, 
stood  there  and  looked  at  him. 

After  listening  a  moment,  as  no  one 
spoke,  he  took  the  initiative. 

*  Aire  you  a  cow  or  a  person  ? '  he  de- 
manded. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  breathing 
was  more  human  than  animal,  so  he 
was  not  surprised  when  he  heard  a 
man's  laugh.  But  it  was  the  strangest 
laugh  Jimmie  had  ever  heard.  Just  the 
sound  of  laughter,  with  no  mirth  to 
back  it. 

'Do  I  look  like  a  cow?'  a  voice  de- 
manded. 

'I  dunno,5  Just  Jimmie  returned.  'I 
ain't  so  very  sure  what  a  cow  looks  like. 
I  ain't  seen  one  —  not  since  I  was  two 
weeks  old  —  an'  course  a  fella  don't 
recollect  so  awful  well  as  fer  back  as 
that.' 

'Have  n't  seen  a  cow  since  you  were 
two  weeks  old!'  the  voice  exclaimed. 

'No,'  said  Jimmy  simply,  'I  ain't 
seen  nothin'  since  I  was  that  old.' 

In  his  desire  to  explain  he  turned  his 
little  thin  gray-mouse  face,  with  its 
blind  eyes,  more  fully  in  the  other's  di- 
rection, and  the  voice  cried '  Oh ! '  sharp- 
ly. And  then  after  a  moment  it  said 
'Oh!'  again,  softly  this  time.  'What 
are  you  doing  out  here  all  alone?'  it 
asked  after  a  moment. 

It  was  a  man's  voice,  Jimmie  was 
sure  of  that,  but  it  had  a  queer  uncer- 
tain throb  in  it,  that  he  found  very 
disconcerting. 

'  I  was  asleep,'  he  explained.  '  An' 
an'  so  the  fellas  went  off  an'  lef  me.  I 
reckon  they  thought  I  was  somewhere 
with  Red  Bird.' 

'But  you  can't  stay  here  alone. 
Where  do  you  live?' 

'I'm  at  Lomax.  That's  where  all 
the  deaf  an'  blind  kids  goes  to  school/ 
Jimmie  explained.  'It's  'bout  two  miles 
from  here,  I  reckon.' 


'I'll  take  you  back,'  said  the  man. 
'  I  '11  have  to  take  you  back.  The  other 
can  wait.' 

He  seemed  to  be  arguing  something 
out  with  himself. 

'Oh,  you  need  n't  to  bother  if  you 
have  sump'n  to  do;  they'll  send  back 
for  me  after  a  while,'  Jimmie  assured 
him. 

'No  — no —  I'll  take  you,'  the  other 
returned  in  that  nervous  jerky  way  of 
his. 

Jimmie  was  conscious  of  a  certain 
odor  which  he  had  encountered  in 
times  past.  Also,  when  he  cuddled  his 
hand  sociably  into  the  big  one  that 
closed  on  his,  he  found  that,  warm  as 
the  day  was,  and  large  as  the  hand  was, 
the  fingers  nevertheless  were  cold  and 
damp,  and  clung  to  his,  moreover,  in 
a  desperate,  twitchy  way  that  almost 
hurt.  Somehow  the  clutch  of  those 
fingers,  for  all  that  they  were  so  big, 
waked  a  curious  protective  feeling  in 
Just  Jimmie.  He  did  not  know  how  to 
express  it,  how  to  say  that  he  was 
sorry,  nor  indeed  what  there  was  to  be 
sorry  about ;  but  some  instinct  infinitely 
older  than  his  eight  years  made  him 
endeavor,  as  it  were,  to  fling  a  corner 
of  his  own  mantle  of  happiness  about 
the  other'and  so  protect  him  —  though 
what  there  was  to  protect  him  from, 
again  he  did  not  know.  But  as  they 
went  their  way,  he  began  a  long  ram- 
bling discourse  on  what  a  fine  day  it 
had  been;  how  nice  it  was  to  be  in  the 
woods  and  throw  stones;  and  how  he 
liked  the  spring;  and  at  last,  inspired 
by  his  own  eloquence,  he  drew  a  deep 
luxurious  sniff  of  sheer  contentment, 
and  the  perfume-laden  air  rushed 
through  his  little  body  and  into  his 
very  soul,  and  'O  Gee!'  cried  Just 
Jimmie  happily,  '  I  certainly  am  glad 
I  'm  erlivin' ! ' 

Again  the  man  laughed,  another  of 
those  sudden  explosions  that  had  no 
sound  of  laughter. 


£04 


SOMETHING  BIG,  LIKE  RED  BIRD 


*  Glad  you  're  living ! '  he  cried  wildly. 
'Glad  you're  living!  I  wish  to  God  / 
was  dead!' 

'Oh,  that 's  just  'cause  you're  git- 
tin'  over  er  drunk,'  Jimmie  assured 
him  cheerfully. 

The  man  dropped  his  hand.  'Good 
Lord ! '  he  whispered,  and  Jimmie  could 
feel  his  startled  eyes  upon  him.  'Good 
Lord!'  Then,  'What  do  you  know 
about  that?'  he  demanded. 

'Oh,  I  smelt  it  on  you!'  Jimmie  re- 
turned, crinkling  his  nose.  'An'  there 
was  a  fella  at  the  Lupin  County  Poor 
House  —  that's  where  I  was  raised 
—  allus  used  to  say  gittin'  drunk 
was  all  right  if  it  was  n't  for  the  blue 
blazes  next  day.  He  said  that  was  — 
was  —  Well,'  he  caught  himself  up, 
'it's  er  word  Mr.  Lincoln  don't  'low 
none  of  us  boys  to  use,  but  —  but,' 
— with  sudden  inspiration  — '  I  '11  spell 
it  for  you.' 

Carefully  his  fingers  formed  certain 
letters  of  the  manual  alphabet,  which 
he  had  picked  up  from  the  deaf 
children. 

'Is  that  first  letter  an  H?'  the  man 
asked. 

'Yes,  an'  it 's  er  E  when  you  put  your 
hand  like  this.'  (Jimmie  illustrated.) 
'An'  you  make  a  L  — ' 

'I  can  guess  the  rest,'  the  man  broke 
in  hastily. 

'  Well,  that 's  what  the  fella  used  to 
say  it  felt  like  next  day,'  Jimmie  con- 
cluded. 

Suddenly  the  man's  hand  fell  hard 
upon  Jimmie 's  shoulder  and  his  face 
stooped  close  to  his. 

'Little  pal,  don't  you  get  drunk,'  the 
shaky  voice  implored.  'You  would  n't 
find  anything  so  nice  again,  not  ever 
again;  you — you  mightn't  even  like 
to  be  alive  —  not  even  on  spring  days 
when  you  could  throw  stones.' 

'Oh,  I  won't,'  Just  Jimmie  promised 
easily.  'That  fella  at  the  Poor  House, 
he  give  me  er  drink  onct,  but  I  did  n't 


like  it.  Red  Bird  an'  me,  we  don't  keer 
nothin'  't  all  'bout  whisky.' 

'Thank  God  for  that!' said  the  man. 
'If  there  is  a  God,'  he  added. 

'Why,  course  there's  er  God,'  cried 
Just  Jimmie,  even  his  tolerant  little 
soul  shocked  by  such  a  display  of  sheer 
ignorance. 

He  told  Red  Bird  afterwards  that 
that  man  was  the  'funniest  fella  he 
ever  did  see.' 

'How  do  you  know  there's  a  God?' 
the  other  demanded. 

'Why  —  why,  I've  knowed  that  ever 
since  I  was  nothin'  but  a  little  old  kid. 
A  old  nigger  woman  at  the  Poor  House, 
she  told  me  all  erbout  God/ 

'And  of  course  she  knew,'  the  man 
returned. 

'Oh,  yes;  she  knowed  all  right,'  Just 
Jimmie  agreed.  '  She  did  n't  know  so 
very  much  else,  but  my  O!  she  cer- 
tainly did  know  er  heap  erbout  God.' 

'  Perhaps  I ' ve  known  too  much  else,' 
the  man  said,  half  to  himself,  and  his 
voice  sounded  more  discouraged  and 
far  away  than  ever.  'So  you  were 
brought  up  in  the  Poor  House?'  he 
added  after  a  moment. 

'Yes,'  said  Jimmie.  'They  found  me 
when  I  was  a  baby  just  thro  wed  erway 
'longside  the  high-road,  sorter — sorter 
you  know,  like  folks  does  with  little 
dogs  an' —  an'  cats  they  ain't  got  no 
use  for  —  an'  they  never  did  call  me 
nothin'  but  just  Jimmie,  'cause  I  did  n't 
have  no  folks.  But  —  but,'  he  went 
on  with  breathless  eagerness,  'I  know 
er  boy  that's  got  three  names.  All  the 
fellas  calls  him  Red  Bird,  but  that's 
just  a  kind  of  a  nickname,  'cause  he 
conies  from  a  place  called  Red  Bird. 
His  real  name's  George  —  Washing- 
ton —  Morris '  (Jimmie  pronounced  the 
words  impressively),  'an' — an'  he's 
got  folks,  too.  Folks  'at  sends  him  post- 
cards. Why,  his  folks  they'll  send  him 
er  postcard  —  why  — why  most  any 
day.' 


SOMETHING  BIG,  LIKE  RED  BIRD 


205 


And  then  his  favorite  topic  of  Red 
Bird  thus  gracefully  introduced,  Just 
Jimmie's  small  tongue  ran  happily 
away  on  a  long  eulogy  of  his  friend. 
Once  the  man  interrupted  him  to  ask 
about  the  patch  over  his  ear,  and  that 
gave  him  a  chance  to  tell  of  his  hero's 
extraordinary  feat,  and  how  he,  too, 
burned  to  do  'sump'n  big  like  Red 
Bird/ 

The  man  vouchsafed  almost  no  com- 
ments; but  he  held  fast  to  Jimmie's 
hand,  and  at  last  they  came  to  Lomax. 

'I —  I  guess  maybe  I'd  better  tell 
Mr.  Lincoln  I'm  back,'  Jimmie  said, 
conscientiously. 

The  man  said  he  would  like  to  see 
Mr.  Lincoln,  too,  so  they  went  into 
the  study  together.  Jimmie  liked  to 
go  there.  The  place  always  held  a 
warm  atmosphere  of  friendliness,  and 
moreover,  he  liked  the  smell  of  books, 
and  the  pleasant  whiff  one  got  of  type- 
writer ink,  and  other  exciting  smells 
which  always  conveyed  so  much  to  his 
keen  little  nose. 

He  could  not,  of  course,  see  anything 
of  what  passed  between  the  two  men, 
but  he  heard  it  all. 

'I  found  this  little  chap  out  in  the 
woods  all  alone,  and  so  I  brought  him 
home/  the  strange  man  said  in  that 
queer  shaky  voice  of  his. 

And  after  Mr.  Lincoln  had  thanked 
him  he  went  on  again.  The  words 
seemed  hard  to  say,  and  indeed  every 
now  and  then  they  stumbled  and  fell 
away  altogether  into  silence. 

'He  and  I  had  a  little  talk  and  — 
and  '•  -  here  the  voice  failed  tempora- 
rily -—  'and  I'd  like  you  to  take  this.9 
(Jimmie  knew  that  something  was 
changing  hands.)  '  Look  out !  it 's  load- 
ed,' the  man  added  sharply.  After  a 
moment  the  words  picked  up  their  diffi- 
cult way  again.  'There  is  n't  —  is  n't 
any  reason  for  my  asking  you  to  take 
it  except  —  well,  there  is  n't  any  one 
else  for  me  to  give  it  to,  and  somehow 


I  wanted  to  give  it  to  some  one  —  I 
thought  I  was  down  and  out  —  A  lot 
of  things  had  happened.'  (Jimmie  could 
hear  him  swallow  chokingly.)  'Those 
woods  seemed  as  good  a  place  as  any 
to  do  it  in.  They —  they  were — '  the 
voice  stopped  altogether  for  a  moment 

—  'they     were     quiet,    and    nobody 
would  recognize  me  round  here  —  I  'd 
have  dropped  out  without  bothering 
any  one  —  and  then  —  then  I  came  on 
this  little  chap  —  and  —  he  thought 
I  was  a  cow!' 

The  voice  collapsed  suddenly  into 
laughter  —  that  strange  wild  laughter 
of  his.  'He  said  he  did  n't  recollect 
so  very  well  what  a  cow  looked  like  — 
he  said  he  had  n't  seen  one '  —  Jim- 
mie could  hear  the  man  swallow  — 
'  had  n't  seen  one  —  since  he  was  two 
weeks  old  —  He  came  from  the  Lupin 
County  Poor  House  —  and  —  and  he 
said  he  was  glad  he  was  alive.'  The 
voice  went  out  abruptly,  and  when 
the  words  came  again  they  were  barely 
more  than  a  whisper.  '  I  guess  if  —  if 
Just  Jimmie  finds  it  so  good  to  be  alive 

—  a  fellow  like  me  —  ought  n't  to  — 
to  quit. ' 

'Why,  no;  I  should  think  not,'  Mr. 
Lincoln's  voice  acquiesced  after  a  mo- 
ment. 

'If  I  had  n't  come  on  him  throwing 
stones  out  there  in  the  woods,  in  half 
an  hour  I  'd  have  been — well,  been  no- 
where, or  —  or  everywhere  —  which- 
ever it  is.  But  now  —  well,  while  Just 
Jimmie  plays  the  game  so  well,  I  '11  not 
fling  down  my  hand.' 

There  was  a  short  silence,  and  then 
the  man  went  on  again. 

'He's  wearing  that  patch  over  one 
ear  until  he  has  performed  some  gallant 
deed.'  (The  voice  was  still  shaky,  but 
Just  Jimmie  thought  this  time  there 
was  a  hint  of  real  laughter  in  it.)  'I  — 
I  think  it  might  come  off  now.' 

'Yes,'  Mr.  Lincoln  agreed.  'Yes;  I 
think  so  too.  Suppose  you  take  it  off.' 


206 


SOMETHING  BIG,  LIKE  RED  BIRD 


'But  —  but  —  but  I  ain't  done  no- 
thin','  Just  Jimmie  broke  in  sudden- 
ly, backing  away.  'Red  Bird's  done 
sump'n,  an*  —  an'  —  an'  — '  he  was 
on  the  verge  of  tears  over  his  disap- 
pointment —  'an'  /  wanted  to  do 
sump'n  big  like  fightin'  or  —  or  sump'n 
like  what  Red  Bird  done.' 

But  the  man  went  on  fussing  with 
his  twitching  fingers  over  the  knot  that 
secured  the  patch,  and  paying  no  at- 
tention whatever  to  Jimmie's  outburst. 
And  at  last  the  latter's  very  small  ear 
emerged. 

'Why,  this  ear's  all  stuffed  up  with 
cotton!  I  don't  believe  he  can  hear  a 
thing  with  it!'  the  man  cried. 

'  Course! '  said  Just  Jimmie, '  it  would 
n't  be  no  sense  to  wear  a  patch  if  you 
did  n't  stuff  up  your  y'ear  too.' 

'Did  Bird  Red  have  cotton  in  his 
ear?'  Mr.  Lincoln  demanded. 

'  Why  —  why  —  why  —  why,  may- 
be not,'  Jimmie  stammered,  torn  be- 
tween truth  and  loyalty. 

'No  eyes,  and  no  folks,  and  only 
about  the  size  of  my  fist,  and  yet  he 
was  willing  to  sacrifice  one  ear!  While 
I  — Great  Heavens!'  the  man  burst 
out. 

'  I  ain't  done  nothin' ! '  Jimmie  pick- 
ed up  his  almost  tearful  complaint. 
'It  —  it  —  ain't  anything  to  spell,  an' 
—  an'  know  'rithmetic,  an'  presidents' 
names.  I  want  to  do  some  kind  of 
fightin9  —  or —  or  sump'n  big  like — ' 

Suddenly  he  was  swept  up  into  arms 
that  held  him  convulsively. 

'You  tell  Red  Bird  you've  done  the 


biggest  kind  of  fighting  to-day,'  the 
man  cried,  almost  roughly. 

For  an  instant  Jimmie  was  held  fast. 
Then  he  was  set  down  again,  and  Mr. 
Lincoln  put  him  out  into  the  hall  and 
shut  the  door  so  promptly  that  Jimmie 
was  never  sure  what  the  sounds  were 
the  strange  man  was  making  then;  only 
they  made  him  feel  shivery  and  glad  to 
snuggle  up  close  to  Red  Bird  who  was 
waiting  outside. 

'  Gee !  that  was  a  awful  funny  man,' 
he  confided  to  the  latter.  'Yes,  sir! 
he  certainly  was  funny,  but,'  he  added 
tolerantly, '  somehow  I  kinder  liked  the 
fella.' 

But  there  was  nothing  in  what  he 
could  tell  Red  Bird  of  the  afternoon's 
adventure  to  warrant  the  man's  asser- 
tion that  Jimmie  had  done  the  biggest 
kind  of  fighting,  and  the  boys  put  the 
statement  down  as  just  one  more  evi- 
dence of  the  'awful  funniness  of  the 
fella.'  And  why  Just  Jimmie's  patch 
had  been  removed  neither  of  them  had 
the  least  idea. 

But  a  queer  thing  began  to  happen. 
Every  week  after  that,  Jimmie  received 
a  postcard,  just  like  the  children  who 
had  fathers  and  mothers. 

'Why  —  why,'  he  announced  joy- 
fully, 'Why,  Red  Bird,  seems  like  I've 
got  folks,  too!' 

'Just  one  person  don't  make  folks,' 
Red  Bird  retorted. 

'  Well  —  well,  may  be  I  ain't  got  folks 
like  you,  Red  Bird,  but  —  but  anyhow 
I  got  a  folk,'  Just  Jimmie  amended 
happily. 


FATHER  FRED 


BY   ZEPHINE   HUMPHREY 


His  older  and  contemporary  parish- 
ioners called  him  that,  because  they 
had,  most  of  them,  known  him  all  his 
life;  and,  though  they  revered  him  fast 
enough,  they  loved  him  even  more.  He 
was  rector  of  the  church  in  which  he 
had  been  born  and  brought  up,  among 
whose  people  he  had  knelt  as  child  and 
boy  and  college  youth,  as  deacon  and 
as  curate. 

A  difficult  position?  So  it  was  con- 
sidered, but  Father  Fred  did  not  seem 
to  find  it  hard.  Or,  if  he  did,  he  paid  no 
attention  to  the  difficulty.  He  had  a 
simplicity  and  directness  and  an  utterly 
baffling  humility  which  ignored  and 
disarmed  criticism.  Of  what  use  was  it 
to  carp  at  a  priest  who  either  remained 
unaware  of  the  carping  or  accepted  it 
gently  as  his  natural  due? 

His  face  indicated  that  he  had  never 
expected  or  been  accustomed  to  have 
things  made  easy  for  him.  Of  course 
not.  What  should  a  soldier  of  the  cross 
be  doing  with  ease?  There  were  lines 
on  his  forehead  and  about  his  eyes, 
strong  lines  about  his  mouth.  People 
do  more  or  less  choose  and  make  their 
own  lives.  Doubtless,  Father  Fred's 
spirit  chose  to  perfect  itself  through 
suffering. 

His  features  were  rather  rugged  for 
one  who  bore  such  a  gentle  spirit.  He 
suggested  comparison  with  a  granite 
cliff  played  upon  by  a  tender  evening 
light.  His  lips  were  certainly  granite; 
inflexible  will  governed  their  feeling 
curves,  and  occasionally  released  the 


humor  that  always  lurked  in  their  cor- 
ners. There  was  nothing  in  all  the  world 
the  owner  of  that  mouth  could  be  made 
to  do  if  he  did  not  think  best.  His  eyes 
were  dark  and  changeful,  reflecting 
inscrutable  moods.  His  face  was  often 
so  pale  that,  glimmering  in  the  dusk  of 
the  chancel,  it  made  the  observer  think 
of  Moses  fresh  from  the  mount.  As 
for  his  figure,  its  tall  height  was  thin 
to  the  point  of  emaciation. 

Ascetic?  No,  not  exactly.  The  hu- 
mor of  the  mouth  objected  to  that 
characterization,  and  many  a  gleam 
of  the  eyes  reinforced  the  refusal.  He 
was  only  a  very  brave  and  gentle  and 
holy  man. 

Just  as  he  might  have  chosen  his 
own  personal,  poignant  reaction  on  life, 
so  was  his  objective  opportunity  pre- 
cisely suited  to  him.  But  indeed  it  is 
not  well  to  deal  with  the  terms  subject- 
ive and  objective  in  connection  with 
Father  Fred.  He  was  more  completely 
integrated  than  are  most  of  us.  He  was 
wholly  identified  with  his  purpose :  that 
says  everything. 

Losing  one's  life  to  find  it,  is  a  Chris- 
tian paradox  still  all  too  little  practiced 
for  the  good  of  the  world.  We  are  timid 
and  cautious  and  reasonable.  We  will 
not  understand  that  to  let  ourselves  go 
out  of  our  hampering  individual  likes 
and  dislikes,  is  to  enlarge  and  deepen 
ourselves,  to  take  on  force  and  ability, 
to  win  our  souls.  A  man's  purpose  is 
more  entirely  himself  than  he  can  ever 
be. 

Father  Fred  did  not  think  all  this 
out.  It  is  a  paradox  within  a  paradox 

207 


208 


FATHER  FRED 


that  a  man  defeats  his  own  end  when 
he  loses  his  life  in  order  to  find  it.  He 
must  lose  it  for  the  sake  of  his  cause; 
then  the  great,  unexpected  reward  of 
selfhood  will  be  added  to  him. 

Father  Fred  was  born  into  his  pur- 
pose. More  than  that,  the  particular, 
dynamic  phase  of  it  which  he  served 
was  strictly  contemporaneous  with 
him;  it  and  he  grew  up  together.  Al- 
though he  gave  the  impression  of  never 
having  thought  of  himself  as  apart 
from  it,  it  is  probable  that  his  utter 
devotion  was  the  work  of  time  and 
pain.  He  was  simple  by  nature,  but  he 
was  too  intelligent  not  to  know  what 
he  was  not  doing  as  well  as  what  he 
was.  He  said  of  himself  once  that,  com- 
ing to  self-conscious  manhood,  he  found 
his  mind  endowed  with  a  rather  alarm- 
ing facility.  He  could  understand  and 
accept  half  a  dozen  points  of  view  in  as 
many  days.  But  he  knew  that  no  force 
results  from  scattering,  that  a  man 
must  choose.  Therefore  he  chose,  with 
no  hesitation,  but  with  a  resolution 
that  gathered  into  one  channel  the  life- 
giving  power  of  many  streams.  That 
was  what  gave  his  simplicity  depth. 
All  his  other  possible  purposes  served 
his  one  ruling  cause. 

What,  now,  was  his  purpose  —  this 
great  end  that  governed  all  his  brave 
young  life?  Well,  in  a  way,  it  was  no- 
thing new,  being  simply  the  purpose  of 
the  ages :  the  Kingdom  of  God.  But  dif- 
ferent periods  seem  to  present  different 
opportunities  for  service,  and  there  is 
at  present  one  explicit  hope  which  en- 
lists all  the  love  and  thought  and  effort 
of  those  who  believe  in  it.  To  awaken 
his  church  to  a  realization  of  its  full 
Catholic  privilege,  was  the  work  to 
which  Father  Fred  devoted  his  whole 
being. 

To  him  there  could  be  no  doubt  that 
it  was  the  greatest  work  of  his  genera- 
tion. Unobtrusive,  almost  obscure,  it 
holds  on  its  quiet,  patient  way  under- 


neath the  din  of  our  social  reforms,  our 
political  purgations,  our  science,  our 
stress  of  emancipation,  all  the  clamor- 
ous, insistent  things  for  which  we  seem 
to  stand;  and  perhaps  the  next  genera- 
tion will  find  that  the  gentler  movement 
has  achieved  more  than  all  the  rest 
put  together.  It  has  the  same  vision 
as  they,  the  same  earnest  longing  for 
righteousness.  But  it  strikes  at  the 
root  of  the  evil  that  blocks  the  way, 
instead  of  going  to  work  on  the  leaves 
and  branches.  Sin  is  the  root,  is  it  not? 
Separation  from  God,  disobedience. 
Very  well;  the  way  to  cure  that  is 
simply  to  show  God  in  the  flesh,  to 
shame  and  summon  humanity  by  hold- 
ing up  ever  before  it  the  sign  of  its  own 
divinity.  If  people  truly  realized  that 
Christ  was  incarnate  in  them  and  that 
their  lives  were  hid  with  Him  in  God, 
the  wrongs  of  the  world  would  have  no 
choice  but  to  right  themselves  at  once. 

The  Catholic  Church  has  always 
taken  its  stand  supremely  on  this  one 
simple,  sufficient  fact  of  the  Incarna- 
tion. It  has  surrounded  its  message 
with  all  the  suggestive  beauty  of  sym- 
bolism that  worshiping  ages  have  been 
able  to  divine  and  hand  on  to  one  an- 
other. For  a  symbol  is  nearer  reality 
than  any  attempt  at  direct  expression. 
The  result  is  a  marvelous  service,  a 
mystic  ritual,  full  of  the  sublimest 
intuitions  and  intimations  that  grop- 
ing humanity  has  ever  glimpsed.  It 
certainly  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
any  worshiper,  truly  assisting  at  a 
Catholic  mass,  must  spring  to  the  heart 
of  God  and,  at  least  for  the  half  hour, 
be  gloriously  good  and  free. 

But  —  sad  and  perplexing  fact!- 
it  has  happened  that  a  great  part  of  the 
Church  has  lapsed  from  its  simplicity. 
Doubtless,  four  hundred  years  ago,  it 
had  to  take  itself  severely  in  hand  and 
right  some  of  the  grievous  errors  into 
which  it  had  fallen.  But  that  was  no 
reason  why  it  should — nay,  it  was  the 


FATHER  FRED 


209 


reason  of  reasons  why  it  should  not 
-  forget  the  sacramental  significance 
which  was  its  soul  and  breath  of  life. 
It  has  had  a  precarious  time  of  it,  trying 
to  uphold  the  noble  externals  without 
the  inner  substance,  and  it  has  dissi- 
pated its  efforts  in  endless  experiments. 
Now,  here  and  there,  more  and  more, 
it  is  beginning  to  realize  its  distraction 
and  loss,  and  it  is  coming  back — com- 
ing, coming.  Or,  rather,  it  is  waking 
to  an  appreciation  of  the  mysteries 
which  it  has  all  the  time  held  in  its 
sleeping  hands.  Prejudice  and  igno- 
rance make  its  rehabilitation  a  slow  and 
difficult  matter.  But  that  is  all  right; 
it  is  willing  to  work  and  suffer.  Father 
Fred  had  need  of  all  the  resolution  that 
moulded  his  lips  and  of  all  the  humor 
that  lurked  in  their  corners. 

He  was  not  the  first  one  to  promote 
the  Catholic  tendency  in  his  church. 
The  rector  who  preceded  him  had  in- 
stigated the  return.  Under  this  good 
and  wise  man  Father  Fred  had  served 
as  curate;  and  the  two  of  them,  work- 
ing together,  had  built  the  church  edi- 
fice. That  was  a  profoundly  sagacious 
proceeding,  already  a  sort  of  fulfillment 
of  their  high  desire.  For  a  church,  de- 
signed and  built  on1  a  sacramental 
theme,  silently,  day  in,  day  out,  de- 
mands the  realization  of  that  which  it 
typifies.  Soaring  Gothic  pillars  and 
arches,  glowing  windows,  a  noble  rood 
screen,  a  gleaming  white  altar,  silence, 
holiness  —  these  things  connote  the 
solemn  ritual  of  the  mass,  the  thrilling 
daily  presence  of  the  Blessed  Sacra- 
ment, and  all  that  goes  to  make  the 
spot  significant  of  the  immediate  touch 
of  God.  As  the  two  priests  brought 
their  church  to  completion  and  steeped 

1  themselves  in  its  spirit,  it  must  have 
seemed  to  them  often  that  the  King- 
dom was  already  come. 

But  then  it  must  have  seemed  doubly 
hard  to  turn  from  the  vision  and  un- 
derstand that,  instead  of  being  imme- 

VOL.1U-NO.  2 


diately  present,  it  was  very  remote,  and 
that  it  could  not  be  hastened,  but  must 
abound  in  delays.  Father  Fred's  parish 
was  more  responsive  than  many,  but 
it  knew  its  own  objections.  Such  shak- 
ing of  heads  over  the  first  cope!  Such 
murmurs  at  the  idea  of  confession ! 
Such  a  long  and  indignant  refusal  to 
forego  participation  at  the  late  Cele- 
bration! Admonition  and  concession 
went  hand  in  hand. 


ii 

When  I  first  became  aware  of  the 
gradual  process,  I  was  a  somewhat 
idly  attentive  Protestant,  dropping  in 
at  the  beautiful  church  from  time  to 
time.  I  did  not  live  in  the  town  hal- 
lowed by  its  presence,  and  my  visits 
were  infrequent  enough  to  impress  me 
vividly  with  the  change  at  work.  Of 
course  I  did  not  understand  it.  I  only 
knew  that  every  time  I  entered  the 
place  I  saw  or  heard  something  new 
to  fill  me  with  love  and  awe.  Incon- 
sistent emotions  on  the  part  of  a  pro- 
fessed agnostic!  But  it  is  one  of  the 
peculiar  characteristics  of  the  Cath- 
olic ritual  that  it  does  not  wait  to  be 
understood  or  accepted  before  it  pro- 
duces its  effect.  I  received  the  Lord 
Christ  in  my  heart  long  before  I  knew 
anything  about  the  doctrine  of  the 
Real  Presence,  and  at  a  time  when 
(heaven  forgive  me!)  I  would  have  re- 
pudiated the  doctrine  with  scorn  and 
indignation. 

Father  Fred  himself  I  regarded  with 
admiration  and  solicitude.  He  looked 
so  frail  and  so  worn  as,  in  the  pulpit, 
during  the  singing  of  the  hymn  imme- 
diately before  the  sermon,  he  brooded 
over  his  people,  yearning  to  divine 
their  need.  His  face  had  a  beautiful, 
strong  wist  fulness.  *O,  Jerusalem,  Je- 
rusalem!' But  why  need  he  be  quite  so 
inexorable,  for  himself  or  for  the  rest 
of  us?  His  sermons  made  no  conces- 


210 


FATHER  FRED 


sions  —  none.  They  voiced  such  an 
imperative  summons  that  if  we  had 
obeyed  them  literally,  the  floor  of  the 
church  would  have  been  strewn  with 
plucked-out  eyes  and  cut-off  hands.  As 
it  was,  we  went  away  sobered  and 
thoughtful,  stung  out  of  our  complacent 
acceptance  of  the  limitations  of  hu- 
man nature.  Father  Fred  recognized 
no  limitations,  that  was  evident. 

The  contrast  between  his  fiery  stern- 
ness in  the  pulpit,  and  the  shy  friendli- 
ness with  which  he  waited  beside  the 
church  door  afterwards,  both  encour- 
aged and  frightened  me  when  I  at  last 
made  up  my  mind  to  speak  to  him.  I 
had  a  question  to  ask.  During  the 
Communion  service  just  ended,  I  had 
been  surprised  by  the  touch  of  two 
novel,  conflicting  emotions.  When  the 
congregation  had  begun  to  steal  past 
me  up  the  aisle,  going  to  receive  their 
Lord  at  the  altar,  I  had  risen  from  my 
knees  and  started  to  join  them.  Then 
I  had  hesitated,  wavered,-  and  had 
knelt  down  again,  baffled  and  perplexed. 
Something  at  the  same  time  called  me 
and  held  me  back.  If  I  had  only  known 
it,  the  moment  was  deeply  important 
and  significant.  What  did  it  mean,  that 
an  agnostic  should  desire  to  partake 
of  the  most  imperiously  assured  mys- 
teries in  the  world?  And  what  did 
it  further  mean,  that  an  independent 
Protestant,  thus  desiring,  should  hesi- 
tate to  act?  My  first  response  to  the 
Church  went  hand  in  hand  with  my 
first  submission. 

But  the  rebellion  proper  to  my  in- 
tellectual condition  was  not  slow  in  fol- 
lowing. Father  Fred,  looking  tired  and 
pale  and  thinner  than  ever  in  his  black 
cassock,  received  my  question  as  if  he 
had  already  divined  it :  Would  a  Congre- 
gationalist  be  welcome  at  his  church's 
altar-rail?  He  looked  at  me  soberly, 
with  the  whole  many-faceted  import  of 
his  lifelong  purpose  and  conflict  dark- 
ling in  his  eyes.  He  sighed  a  little,  he 


could  not  help  it.  He  was  very  tired, 
he  had  not  yet  had  any  breakfast,  his 
sympathy  had  already  responded  to 
a  great  many  claims;  and  here  was  a 
stranger  enlisting  him  in  a  discussion 
which  his  sensitive  intelligence  told 
him  must  be  long  and  grievous.  But 
he  did  not  hesitate.  Could  I  stop  and 
talk  with  him  a  few  minuses  ?  Indeed, 
I  could  not.  I  was  tired  myself;  and, 
though  I  had  had  plenty  of  breakfast, 
I  now  wanted  my  dinner.  All  the  Pro- 
testant's native  antagonism  sprang  up 
in  me  at  the  priest's  failure  to  grant 
me  the  privilege  I  so  inexplicably  de- 
sired. Well,  then,  might  he  come  and 
see  me?  I  graciously  consented,  and 
we  parted  with  an  air  of  having  picked 
up  each  other's  gloves  and  looked  to 
our  lances. 

It  was  indeed  long  and  grievous,  the 
conflict  which  we  waged  during  the 
next  few  months.  But  it  was  not  al- 
together painful,  there  was  too  much 
humor  in  it.  The  shock  of  encounter 
between  two  opposed,  mutually  in- 
credulous points  of  view  strikes  out 
many  a  smile  as  well  as  many  a  sigh. 
Father  Fred  kindly  hid  most  of  his 
smiles,  savoring  them  on  the  inside 
instead  of  on  the  outside  of  his  mouth. 
For  the  laugh  was  almost  always  on 
me. 

There  was  that  primal  discussion  in 
which  I  began  the  statement  of  my 
position  by  setting  forth  with  explicit- 
ness  the  things  I  did  not  believe.  They 
were  so  many  that  I  might  have  talked 
for  a  week  if  Father  Fred  had  not  taken 
advantage  of  my  first  pause  for  breath 
to  say  gently,  'If  it  is  n't  too  intimate 
a  question,  would  you  mind  telling  me 
some  of  the  things  which  you  do  be- 
lieve?' The  request  took  me  aback. 
Agnostics  have  no  call  to  believe;  their 
business  is  denial.  But  I  could  not 
utter  the  '  Nothing '  which  logic  pushed 
to  the  door  of  my  lips.  Something 
deeper  than  logic  rose  up  and  cried 


FATHER  FRED 


shame  upon  me.  I  sat  in  bewildered  si- 
lence a  moment;  then  my  nature  made 
the  second  of  its  unexpected  responses 
to  a  summoning  authority.  My  as- 
tonished ears  heard  my  faltering  voice 
define  a  very  creditable  if  somewhat  lim- 
ited creed  which  I  had  not  known  that 
I  possessed.  Father  Fred  approved  it, 
and  astonished  me  still  further  by  pro- 
ceeding to  build  on  it  a  superstructure, 
the  fitness  and  reasonableness  of  which 
I  could  not  deny. 

There  was  that  other  occasion  on 
which,  outraged  by  an  imperious  ser- 
mon on  Confirmation,  I  forswore  the 
church  entirely,  shook  its  dust  off  my 
feet;  and  then,  in  less  than  a  week,  was 
reduced  to  an  abject  scheme  of  devices 
to  get  back  again.  The  natural,  ob- 
vious method  was  simply  to  go  back; 
but  I  thought  I  had  to  preserve  some- 
thing which  I  vaguely  called  my  self- 
respect.  I  had  been  sincerely  affronted; 
I  must  be  pacified.  The  Confirmation 
sermon  had  left  none  of  the  '  sects '  — 
to  one  of  which  I  belonged  —  a  leg  to 
stand  on.  In  truth,  the  zeal  of  the  dis- 
course did  carry  it  too  far;  but  that  was 
no  reason  why  I  should  presently  de- 
liver myself  of  a  burning  criticism  of 
it,  a  denunciation  which  I  addressed  to 
Father  Fred  himself.  As  a  method  of 
getting  back  into  the  church,  once  I 
had  dispatched  it,  it  did  not  strike  me 
as  happy.  'Now  I  have  done  it,'  I 
thought  ruefully.  'No  self-respecting 
person  can  pay  the  least  attention  to 
one  who  arraigns  him  so  officiously.' 

But,  ah,  that  tinsel  trait,  self-respect! 
I  had  yet  to  learn  that  its  absence  can 
give  more  grandeur  and  dignity  to  a  life 
than  its  presence  ever  bestows.  Father 
Fred's  answer  to  my  denunciation  was 
the  most  surprising  epistle  I  had  ever 
received.  I  could  not  believe  it;  I  rubbed 
my  eyes  dazedly  over  it.  He  craved  my 
pardon,  he  said  that  he  had  gone  too 
far,  he  denounced  himself  more  se- 
verely than  I  had  dreamed  of  doing,  he 


implored  me  not  to  let  his  blundering 
stupidity  come  between  me  and  the 
Church  who,  in  spite  of  all  that  he 
could  do  to  make  or  mar,  must  always 
vindicate  her  supremacy.  Not  one 
touch  of  offended  priesthood,  not  one 
hint  of  resentment.  There  was  never 
a  nobler  letter  than  that.  As  I  read  it, 
I  felt  myself  in  the  presence  of  a  truly 
great  man. 

The  warfare  between  us  was  typical 
of  the  whole  conflict  of  the  generation, 
and  I  hope  that  the  result  was  typical 
too.  Little  by  little,  I  ceased  to  con- 
tend. Having  been  several  times  dis- 
armed, dismounted,  amusingly  dis- 
concerted by  the  gentle  reception  of 
my  defiant  charges,  I  came  to  have  dif- 
ficulty in  remounting  my  embattled 
steed.  Somehow,  he  looked  ridiculous; 
I  was  ashamed  of  him.  Having  again 
and  again  perceived  that  the  points 
which  my  intellect  challenged  had  long 
ago  been  confessed  by  my  heart  and 
my  worshiping  knees,  I  grew  cautious 
in  my  denials.  They,  too,  had  a  way 
of  turning  ridiculous.  The  dawn  was  a 
slow  one.  The  symbolic  meaning  of 
objects  which  in  the  dark  I  had  taken 
for  mere  shadows,  gradually  unfolded 
itself  to  my  wondering  eyes.  Of  course, 
of  course!  As  the  human  body  stands 
for  the  soul,  expressing  it  and  inter- 
preting it,  so  the  Church  stands  for 
Christ,  for  the  whole  principle  of  world- 
divinity.  And,  just  as  self-revelation 
depends  upon  richness  and  fullness  of 
utterance,  gesture,  expression,  inflec- 
tion, so  the  more  facets  the  Church 
has,  the  more  brightly  it  will  flash  its 
meaning  abroad.  Every  phase  of  its 
ritual  stands  for  some  invaluable  con- 
nection between  man  and  God. 

The  personal  holiness  of  her  children 
has  ever  been  the  Church's  greatest 
vindication.  They  have  not  always 
granted  it  her,  —  and  surely  their  fail- 
ure has  not  been  her  fault,  —  but  when 
they  have  responded,  the  argument 


FATHER  FRED 


has  been  irresistible.  I  found  it  im- 
possible to  deny  the  peculiar  potency 
of  the  source  from  which  Father  Fred 
drew  his  amazing  saint liness.  He  was 
continually  astonishing  me.  I  had 
known  good  people  before  (thank  hea- 
ven, many  and  many  of  them);  but 
they  haol  often  chosen  to  create  for 
themselves  certain  definite  limitations. 
Father  Fred,  as  I  said  before,  knew  no 
limitations;  and  his  ignorance  worked 
both  ways.  He  devoted  himself  as 
whole-heartedly  to  the  small  details  of 
the  parish  work  as  to  its  vaster  possi- 
bilities. *  Let's  go  and  ask  the  Father 
about  it,'  was  the  prevailing  formula 
with  which  perplexed  committees,  and 
troubled  social  workers,  solved  their 
difficulties. 

At  first  this  seemed  to  me  all  wrong. 
I  thought  the  many  petty  demands  an 
imposition  on  the  part  of  the  parish, 
and  Father  Fred's  patient  attention  to 
them  a  waste  of  time  and  strength. 
But  I  soon  found  that  my  criticism  was 
incomprehensible  to  the  priest.  'Why, 
that's  what  I'm  here  for,'  he  said, 
with  a  certain  courteous  blankness 
when  I  shamefacedly  began  to  apolo- 
gize for  'bothering'  him  with  a  ques- 
tion about  the  material  welfare  of  one 
of  his  parishioners.  The  impulse  was 
as  inevitable  in  me  as  in  all  the  rest 
of  his  flock;  and,  after  a  deprecation  or 
two,  I  gave  over  hesitating  and  apolo- 
gizing, and  was  very  soon  running  to 
him  as  freely  as  every  one  else.  Being 
away  from  town  on  a  visit  and  meeting 
with  a  stranded  forlornity  who  appeal- 
ed to  me  for  help,  I  promptly  wrote  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  Father  Fred. 
Then  for  a  long  time  I  sat  and  ponder- 
ed the  significance  of  that  spontaneous 
act  on  my  part;  and  ended  by  conclud- 
ing that  it  must  be  a  superlatively 
good  man  whose  name  sprang  into  the 
minds  of  his  friends  as  the  natural  an- 
swer to  all  their  problems  of  service 
and  salvation. 


That,  with  all  his  holiness,  he  should 
have  remained  so  humble  and  lovable, 
so  humanly  companionable,  was  the 
final  proof  of  his  genuineness.  His  vir- 
tue gave  no  offense  to  the  most  worldly 


snner. 


in 


The  church  services  grew  swiftly  in 
beauty.  Father  Fred  was  not  patient 
by  nature  —  all  the  more  marvelous 
his  control!  —  and  perhaps  he  felt  that 
his  time  was  short.  At  any  rate,  he 
began  to  hasten  the  steps.  The  parish 
responded.  It  was  not  very  rich,  but  it 
gave  eagerly,  lavishly.  Beautiful  is  the 
look  of  a  church  occupied  by  plainly 
dressed  people  and  glowing  with  ala- 
baster-box costliness  which  the  shabby 
shoes  and  the  worn  gloves  have  made 
possible.  Incense,  a  sanctus  bell,  an 
occasional  glorious  solemn  procession, 
new  vestments  and  altar-cloths  —  these 
lovely  symbols  crowded  to  open  the 
gate  of  heaven  a  little  wider.  Father 
Fred's  tired  face  showed  an  ever-deep- 
ening content.  Finally,  just  before 
Passion  Week,  the  best  realization  of 
all  took  up  its  thrilling  abode  in  the 
church  and  transformed  and  quicken- 
ed it  with  an  awful  holiness.  On  the 
altar  of  the  Lady  Chapel,  beneath  a 
glowing,  darkling  light,  the  Blessed 
Sacrament  was  reserved. 

Oh!  that  was  a  great  day.  As  the  un- 
accustomed people  passed  about  the 
main  body  of  the  church  and  caught 
the  unfamiliar  gleam  between  the  pil- 
lars, they  hesitated,  stopped,  and  knelt 
where  they  were.  Thus  instantly  does 
the  authentic  touch  of  God  prostrate 
the  soul.  The  whole  dear  edifice  had 
been  lifted  to  heaven;  or,  rather,  hea- 
ven had  come  down  to  inhabit  it.  Fa- 
ther Fred  was  not  very  well;  but  he 
forgot  his  ailment,  forgot  himself,  for- 
got everything,  as  he  knelt  before  the 
altar.  He  lingered  so  long  that  he  was 
finally  left  alone;  and  in  the  shadowy 


FATHER  FRED 


213 


church,  with  its  dim  soaring  arches,  its 
silence,  and  its  one  vivid  heart  of  light, 
he  —  but  one  must  not  try  to  imagine 
what  he  felt  and  knew.  Did  he  sing, 
'Nunc  dimittis'?  One  wonders. 

The  next  day  he  was  taken  ill.  The 
parish  was  at  once  uneasy.  He  was 
so  frail,  so  other-worldly.  Body  and 
spirit  both  seemed  sealed  to  a  high 
doom.  But  supplication  fought  with 
fear.  As  the  menace  deepened  and  the 
uneasiness  turned  to  alarm,  a  desperate 
common  purpose  ran  through  all  the 
different  scattered  lives  of  the  church 
and  bound  them  into  one  endeavor 
which  constantly,  by  night  and  day, 
voiced  itself  before  the  altar  where  the 
priest  had  last  knelt.  Ah,  how  they 
loved  him!  They  could  not  let  him 
go.  During  the  six  days  of  his  illness, 
there  was  never  a  moment  when  the 
altar-lamp  was  not  shining  pityingly 
on  some  bowed  head  and  some  implor- 
ing hands. 

Cruelly  stricken  must  the  heart  have 
been  that  pleaded  there  when  the  slow, 
tolling  strokes  began  to  fall  from  the 
tower  and  to  reverberate  through  the 
church.  Oh!  all  in  vain,  then,  impotent 
was  the  entreaty.  Has  not  God  pro- 
mised to  answer  prayer?  The  test 
which  Father  Fred's  death  made  of  his 
parish  was  bitterly  hard. 

But  they  met  it  triumphantly.  With 
tears  raining  down  their  cheeks  and 
sobs  choking  their  throats,  they  turned 
their  broken  supplication  into  a  song 
of  praise.  Thus  their  rector  had  taught 
them,  and  thus  they  would  do.  They 
lost  no  time  about  it,  either.  They 
seemed  to  feel  that  upon  them  depended 
the  degree  of  bliss  with  which  Father 
Fred  would  enter  Paradise.  He  had 
ever  been  one  to  think  of  them  before 
himself,  to  consider  first  the  effect  of 
a  crisis  upon  his  people.  It  was  impos- 
sible not  to  picture  him  turning  back 
from  the  gate  of  heaven  and  watching 
with  his  anxious,  yearning,  summon- 


ing look  to  see  whether  his  church  was 
going  to  prove  itself  loyal  or  faithless. 
They  must  not  disappoint  him,  they 
must  not  shame  him;  they  must  send 
him  on  to  his  great  reward  with  imme- 
diate, definite  proof  of  his  worthiness. 
He  must  bear  with  him  the  sheaves  of 
their  acquiescence. 

It  was  Wednesday  in  Holy  Week 
when  he  died.  As  Saint  Francis,  fast- 
ing for  forty  days,  ate  one  crust  of 
bread  that  he  might  not  presume  to 
imitate  his  Master  too  closely,  so 
Father  Fred  chose  to  die  on  Wednes- 
day rather  than  on  Friday.  The  burial 
was  on  Saturday.  There  had  never 
been  a  service  like  it  in  all  the  progres- 
sive annals  of  the  church.  Good  Fri- 
day had  given  the  people  a  chance  to 
ease  their  hearts  by  yielding  themselves 
to  their  grief;  they  had  mourned  unre- 
strainedly. But  on  Saturday  they  sum- 
moned themselves  and  one  another  to  a 
resolute  pitch  of  triumph.  The  most 
critical  of  them  forgot  their  prejudices 
in  the  desire  to  give  Father  Fred  all 
that  he  loved  and  had  worked  for,  all 
the  beautiful,  solemn  symbols  of  eter- 
nal truth.  They  counted  neither  the 
cost  nor  the  consequences.  If  they  had 
considered  the  latter,  they  might  per- 
haps have  thought  the  occasion  too 
exceptional  to  entail  ordinary  results. 
But  surely  it  is  not  unseemly  to  suggest 
that  the  rapt,  triumphant  face  of  the 
priest  in  his  coffin  bore  a  trace  of  his 
old,  never-failing  humor  as  the  glorious 
ritual  came  to  its  own  in  his  beloved 
church.  A  noble  practice  has  only  to 
gain  one  complete  expression  to  es- 
tablish itself.  The  tear-thrilled  voices 
that  sang  the  Requiem  Mass  on  that 
Easter  Eve  were  not  likely  ever  again 
to  indulge  in  criticism.  Glad  that  he 
had  lived  to  such  purpose,  Father  Fred 
must  have  been  still  more  glad  that  he 
had  died. 

But  has  he  died  really?     Or  does 
death  mean  all  that  we  imagine?   His 


214 


AN  HOUR  IN  CHARTRES 


presence  seems  to  inhabit  his  church 
more  vitally  than  ever.  May  it  not  be 
that  death,  dissolving  the  shows  of 
things,  admits  the  spirit  to  the  realm 
of  reality?  that  heaven  and  earth  are 
only  the  bright  and  dark  sides  of  the 
same  truth  ?  In  that  case,  Father  Fred 
did  not  leave  his  church  when  he  died, 


but  found  the  streets  of  the  New  Je- 
rusalem in  his  familiar  aisle.  There  he 
still  kneels  and  prays,  there  he  works. 
But  he  has  lost  all  his  anxiety,  for  he 
knows  that  he  cannot  fail.  As  for  the 
church,  it  goes  ever  from  glory  to  glory, 
plucking  God,  holding  Him  by  new 
corners  of  his  shining  robe. 


AN  HOUR  IN  CHARTRES 


BY  RANDOLPH  S.  BOURNE 


THROUGH  the  brown  French  fields, 
ploughed  into  powder,  the  curving 
lines  of  their  furrows  stretching  like 
the  fine  grain  of  wood  to  the  villages 
and  forests  on  the  horizon,  I  rode 
on  Easter  Monday  down  to  Chartres. 
The  fruit  trees  were  white  with  blos- 
som, and  the  sombre  little  farmsteads, 
toned  to  a  soft  gray  or  brown  by  the 
winters  that  had  passed  over  them,  and 
built  in  a  square  of  almost  indistin- 
guishable medley  of  house,  stable, 
granary,  and  orchard  wall,  were  fan- 
tastically gay  with  their  wealth  of 
flowers.  A  glimpse  of  black-haired 
women  waving  vivacious  aprons  at 
the  flying  train;  a  crowd  of  peasants, 
holiday-garbed,  assembled  in  a  farm- 
yard;'a  chateau  or  two  standing  stiffly 
with  its  clean  white  classic  lines  in  its 
park,  which  showed  between  rows  of 
poplars  a  flash  of  marble  statues  and 
water;  brown  sprawling  villages,  climb- 
ing with  overlapping  roofs  uphill  to 
a  gaunt  church  tower;  delicate  woods 
with  trees  that  looked  as  if  they  had 
stepped  out  of  a  Corot;  and  the  soar- 
ing towers  of  Chartres  on  the  horizon. 

The  first  scene  one  has  in  Chartres 


is  one  of  those  perfect  things  which 
seem  to  concentrate   in  a  composed 
picture  all  the  essential  qualities  of  a 
place,  a  picture  that  seems  the  very 
incarnated  body  of  a  soul.    A  very 
green  little  meadow,  dotted  with  twist- 
ed moss-covered  trees,  surrounded  by 
still  canals  down  below  the  town;  the 
banks  lined  with  slender  tapering  pop- 
lars, such  as  march  in  solemn  state 
along  the  canals  and  roads  of  north- 
ern France,  and  give  that  charming 
quality  to  its  far-reaching  countryside. 
Through  the  poplars  of  the  meadow 
gleam  the  white  arches  of  a  spacious 
viaduct,  with  red  roofs  climbing  the 
slopes  of  the  little  valley  through  which 
the  canals  run  out  of  the  River  Eure. 
Along  the  banks  walked  blue-garbed 
nuns  in   their '  flaring  white  starched 
caps,  and  dowdy  red-legged  soldiers, 
while  in  the  walks  were  children  rolling 
hoops  and  whipping  tops.    It  was  the 
very  essence  of  daily  France,  its  peace, 
its  color,  the  sweet  richness  of  its  im- 
memorial life,  the  charm  of  its  perfect 
blending  of  house  and  tree  and  grass, 
all  become  through  the  centuries  as 
personally  and  as  intimately  French  as 


AN  HOUR  IN  CHARTRES 


215 


the  people  who  inhabit  them  and  love 
them,  —  a  scene  as  far  removed  in 
spirit  from  the  prim  stinginess  of  the 
English  scene  as  it  is  from  the  savage 
largeness  of  our  own  American. 

The  moment  when  one  first  steps 
from  the  station  into  a  foreign  town 
never  loses  its  thrill  for  me.  It  is  al- 
ways the  threshold  of  an  adventure, 
the  meeting  of  a  new  communal  per- 
sonality, to  be  grasped  and  won  and 
made  intimate.  One  sniffs  the  air  in 
anticipation  of  what  its  quality  is  to  be, 
as  one  feels  rolling  toward  one  a  wel- 
come of  individuality,  to  which  one's 
heart  goes  out  in  a  rush  of  response. 

To  explore  alone  a  picturesque  town, 
—  what  experience  packs  more  of  hu- 
man charm  and  delight  into  itself  than 
this  attack,  for  indomitable  possession, 
on  the  foreign  scene?  In  Chartres,  the 
explorer  darts  about  the  narrow  crook- 
ed streets,  discovering  at  every  corner 
some  interesting  house  or  gable  or 
window;  catching  down  every  turning 
street  some  charming  picture  of  mass- 
ing houses,  or  tower  or  little  square; 
coming  unawares  upon  some  busy  fig- 
ure of  a  man  or  woman  who  reveals 
suddenly  from  his  occupation  or  ges- 
ture what  it  really  means  in  terms  of 
life  to  go  through  the  daily  duties  and 
to  dwell  in  this  town.  Farther  on,  the 
traveler  watches  the  old  roofs  mass 
themselves  up  a  hill,  and  climbs  to 
church-tower  or  nearby  rise  to  look 
down  on  the  clustered  chimney-pots. 
He  flashes  his  eyes  about  at  the  shops 
and  the  carts  and  the  market-place,  if 
he  is  so  lucky  as  to  come  upon  the 
graveled  square  bulging  with  heaped 
produce  and  ruddy  old  women  under 
vast  umbrellas.  Here,  he  delights  to 
catch  the  postman  at  work,  or  to  meet 
the  little  boys  pouring  out  of  school, 
black-aproned  and  bare-kneed,  with 
their  bags  under  their  arms;  there,  he 
peeps  straight  into  an  open  window, 
and  unabashedly  records  in  his  mind 


the  arrangement  of  the  room  and  the 
style  of  the  life  lived  in  it,  —  pleased 
at  some  slight  little  touch  of  taste  in 
a  humble  apartment.  Now  he  looks 
down  a  long  court  past  fantastically 
squalid  cottages,  or  up  a  dark  stair- 
way, —  Wondering  what  is  above.  And 
at  last  he  slips  into  the  chill  and  silent 
church,  makes  a  swift  tour  of  aisles  and 
ambulatory,  contrasting  the  gaudy  lit- 
tle chapels  with  some  exquisite  Gothic 
detail  of  fretted  stone,  or  rose-window. 
Exploring  ever  hungrily  and  greedily, 
he  draws  deep  breaths  and  imagines 
that  he  has  always  lived  in  the  town 
and  is  now  going  about  native  and 
important  business.  And  in  this  way 
he  assimilates,  and  comes  away  satu- 
rated with,  the  rich  spirit  of  the  place, 
a  hundred  pictures  indelibly  etched  on 
his  mind,  and  a  quite  inexpressibly 
satisfying  sense  of  quality  felt,  warmly 
and  glowingly.  Finally  comes  the  mad 
dash  into  the  train  as  it  pulls  away, 
in  order  to  leave  himself  no  tedious 
wait  while  the  virtue  might  slowly 
drain  out  of  him.  And  at  the  end  there 
is  a  last  swift  incomparable  glimpse  of 
the  immovable  majesty  of  a  cathedral 
towering  over  the  huddled  town. 

And  it  was  in  some  such  fashion 
that  I  saw  Chartres.  The  cathedral  on 
the  hill,  towering  above  the  diminish- 
ed town  with  so  soaring  a  bulk  as  to 
give  one  a  fantastic  fear  that  it  is  about 
to  lose  balance  and  fall  over  into  the 
gray  roofs  of  the  old  town  which  slide 
away  from  it  on  all  sides,  pulls  one 
toward  it;  but  one  reaches  i^  only 
through  a  newer  France  of  straight  little 
boulevards  bordered  with  lines  of  horse- 
chestnut  trees  remorselessly  trimmed 
into  an  interlacing  screen  whose  top 
forms  a  line  as  clean  as  if  some  gigan- 
tic knife  wielded  from  heaven  had 
sliced  over  it;  through  sidewalk  cafes, 
and  new  red  villas,  discreetly  veiled 
in  tight  little  gardens  by  grilled  iron 
fences;  through  the  broad  graveled 


216 


AN  HOUR  IN  CHARTRES 


'Marche  des  Chevaux,'  from  which  a 
shady  boulevard  stretches  down  toward 
my  meadow  and  viaduct,  whence  one 
plunges  into  narrow  old  streets,  high 
above  which  the  cathedral  seems  to 
struggle  as  one  zigzags  one's  way  to- 
ward it. 

But  first,  what  is  this  soul  of  a  people 
or  of  an  epoch  that  imposes  so  inex- 
orably upon  the  communities,  small 
and  large,  from  one  end  of  the  land  to 
the  other,  these  trimmed  trees,  these 
red-  and -gray  houses,  this  harmonious 
*  style*  which  makes  even  the  country- 
side and  the  woods  take  an  individual- 
ity characteristically  French:  a  spirit 
which  seems  wholly  to  disregard  any 
particular  choices  and  tastes  of  the  in- 
dividuals who  are  actually  moulding 
these  forms  for  themselves,  but  rather 
works  impersonally  through  the  most 
varied  temperaments  and  minds?  One 
explains  it  all  by  *  imitation,'  but  that 
is  merely  to  name  it  and  not  to  explain 
it.  One  never  loses  one's  wonder,  in 
these  foreign  scenes,  at  the  way  things 
hang  together,  so  that  they  seem  the 
very  emanation  of  a  sort  of  vast  over- 
spreading communal  taste,  which  makes 
the  little  individual  tastes  of  men  seem 
very  petty  and  insignificant.  You  may 
have  your  centuries  juxtaposed,  as  at 
Chartres,  but  each  one  is  a  harmony, 
a  toughly  tenacious  fabric  of  quality, 
which  not  only  merges  material  things 
together  into  a  satisfying  whole,  but 
speaks  eloquently  also  of  the  thought 
and  feelings,  and  attitudes  of  the  time. 

As  I  poked  into  the  old  town  at  Char- 
tres, I  asked  myself  where  I  had  felt 
before  this  quaint,  gray,  quiet  atmo- 
sphere of  the  seventeenth  century. 
Where  but  at  Quebec,  which  has  pre- 
served so  unquestioningly  both  the 
soul  and  body  of  the  old  France?  And 
this  soft,  flat  countryside  about  Char- 
tres might  be  the  He  d'Orleans  itself, 
sleeping  on  the  broad  bosom  of  the 
St.  Lawrence.  There  was  something 


familiarly  English  also  in  these  little 
plastered  gabled  houses,  through  which 
the  jutting  timbers  seemed  to  show  how 
honestly,  as  it  were,  the  old  houses  had 
been  holding  themselves  up  through 
the  centuries.  Occasionally  too  there 
was  a  touch  of  something  German,  re- 
miniscent of  earlier  centuries  still,  when, 
paradoxical  as  it  must  seem,  Europe 
had  a  soul  far  more  international  than 
in  our  own  age,  with  all  its  incompar- 
able modes  of  communication,  —  of 
centuries  when  nationalization  had  not 
yet  made  great  headway  upon  that 
European  nation,  culturally  speaking, 
whose  homogeneity  was  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  democratic  Gothic  civili- 
zation of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  which 
we  are  just  now  setting  about  to  re- 
construct. 

It  is  a  little  difficult  to  imagine  mod- 
ern people  living  in  the  quaint  streets 
of  Chartres.  The  holiday  gave  a  Sab- 
bath-like calm  to  the  streets,  through 
which  moved  only  a  little  procession  of 
orphans,  shepherded  by  careful  nuns, 
or  a  soldier  or  two,  or  English  tour- 
ists, or  families  'endimanchees.'  Even 
a  modern  shop,  here  and  there,  decked 
out  with  an  almost  American  glitter, 
did  not  destroy  the  provincial  calm  of 
the  place,  prosaic,  Catholic,  undisturb- 
ed, as  its  life  must  be. 

Progress  toward  the  soaring  cathe- 
dral was  difficult.  The  streets  had  the 
air  of  twisting  themselves  through  a  re- 
sisting mass  of  houses,  with  a  curious 
indeterminateness  of  direction.  Start- 
ing up  hill,  they  would  run  down  again 
with  you,  or  bring  you  out  suddenly  at 
the  top  of  a  long  flight  of  steps,  or  into 
a  little  graveled  place  by  some  incred- 
ibly worn  old  church,  forlorn  and  de- 
serted, or  upon  some  curious  old  house, 
straddling  the  sidewalk,  and  propped 
up  with  carved  pillars  that  might  have 
stood  in  some  old  abbey  or  Gothic  ruin. 
Or  one  came  suddenly  on  the  town 
hall,  as  aristocratic  in  its  faded  red  and 


AN  HOUR  IN   CHARTRES 


217 


buff  as  some  contemporary  marshal  of 
Henry  of  Navarre.  Through  streets  of 
fantastic  names,  —  Street  of  the  Great 
Stag,  of  the  Golden  Sun,  of  the  White 
Horse, --one  climbed  toward  the  cath- 
edral, and  found  it  gloriously  visible, 
with  a  *  place'  before  its  facade  from 
which  one  could  get  the  perspective  of 
its  noble  towers  and  not  lose,  as  one 
does  at  Rouen,  the  splendor  of  the 
soaring  piles  in  irritatingly  diminished 
foreshortening. 

What  must  have  been  the  soul  — 
not  of  the  people,  for  they  were  but 
tools  of  a  spirit  —  but  of  the  commun- 
ity that  raised  this  splendid  bulk,  now 
so  sombrely  gray  and  worn,  its  great 
blocks  of  stone  curiously  punctured,  as 
if  Time  had  been  gnawing  away  at 
them?  If  it  was  the  madness  of  fanati- 
cism that  caused  the  peasants  to  yoke 
themselves  to  the  carts  and  drag  the 
stones  to  rebuild  their  church  in  the 
twelfth  century,  what  a  divine  madness, 
and  how  divine  the  reach  and  imagina- 
tion of  that  social  soul  of  theirs  which 
inspired  this  splendid  form!  The  con- 
trast between  the  flaming  splendors  of 
these  French  facades  and  portals  and 
the  primitive  squalor  of  the  decaying 
houses  at  the  foot  of  the  cathedrals  is 
eloquent  of  a  time  when  it  must  really 
have  been  believed  —  O  miracle  of  the 

restern  world !  —  that  the  body  and 
its  comforts  were  as"  nothing,  and  only 
the  soul  had  life.  There  is  an  austerity 

this  facade  of  Chartres  that  is  absent 
from  the  flamboyant  northern  cathe- 
Irals ;  but  the  delicate  perfection  of  the 
lorth  tower,  and  the  noble  proportions 
)f  the  south  tower,  quite  unlike  the 
lorth  one  but  beautifully  complemen- 
tary to  it,  invest  the  whole  picture  with 
in  incomparable  gravity  and  sweetness, 

richly  sincere  nobility. 

Through  a  little  portal  at  the  side  of 
the  great  gloomy  wooden  doors,  iron- 
ilad  as  if  for  a  castle  rather  than  a 
ihurch,  I  slipped  into  the  overpower- 


ing majesty  of  the  vaulted  nave.  In 
this  rich  Rembrandtian  duskiness  the 
eye  only  gradually  distinguishes  the  su- 
perb march  of  the  fluted  columns  down 
its  broad  and  majestic  length  to  the 
beautiful  choir,  on  which  all  the  light 
seems  to  converge,  touching  softly  its 
gray  lines  which  carry  the  eye  up  until 
they  are  lost  in  the  vaulting  above. 
The  air  of  the  nave  was  very  thick  and 
heavy;  it  seemed  almost  to  lave  the 
heavy  columns  and  to  flow  into  the 
dark  side  aisles.  Whatever  light  fil- 
tered into  them  was  shut  from  the  nave 
by  these  columns,  which,  heavy  as 
they  were,  fitted  themselves  in  perfect 
purity  of  proportion  to  the  vast  spa- 
ciousness of  height  and  breadth.  The 
nave  is  one  majestic  dim  vestibule  be- 
fore the  lighted  transept  and  choir.  In 
no  other  church  have  I  seen  this  sense 
of  composition,  this  superb  converg- 
ence and  directness  of  aim.  The  soar- 
ing interior  was  a  unity,  and  all  the 
parts  flowed  together  in  concentration 
upon  the  supremely  beautiful  choir. 

In  this  majestic  vitality  of  Chartres, 
there  was  something  infinitely  mournful 
in  the  inevitable  band  of  black- bonnet- 
ed old  women  performing  their  devo- 
tions before  the  altars.  After  dozens 
of  European  churches,  they  have  come 
to  represent  for  me  a  sort  of  symbol  of 
the  receding  Catholic  religion;  these  va- 
cant-faced, tragic  old  creatures  seem  a 
sort  of  last  desperate  bulwark  against 
the  encroachments  of  the  modern  spirit. 
If  the  old  cathedral  could  think,  would 
it  not  feel  a  touch  of  sad  irony  that  its 
majesty,  so  unimpairedly  human  and 
divine,  should  have  found  little  more 
serviceable  use  to-day  than  to  quiet  the 
fears  and  minister  to  the  feeble  hopes 
of  these  poor  old  creatures?  Would  it 
not  desire  to  see  the  soul  of  the  com- 
munity at  its  feet  grow  superb  enough 
again  to  learn  how  to  use  it  worth- 
ily and  magnificently  for  the  glory  of 
humanity? 


UNION   PORTRAITS 


II.    GEORGE  H.  THOMAS 


BY   GAMALIEL   BRADFORD 


THOMAS  ranks  among  the  highest  as 
a  general  and  is  most  winning  as  a  man. 
But  the  fact  that,  although  a  Virgin- 
ian, he  remained  true  to  the  Union  and 
fought  against  his  state  and  family  and 
friends  gives  perhaps  the  chief  interest 
to  the  study  of  his  character  and  mode 
of  thought. 

It  will  be  advantageous  to  present 
first  in  the  abstract  all  the  arguments 
that  appear  to  justify  a  military  man 
in  such  a  position. 

First,  there  is  the  oath  of  allegiance. 
In  all  countries  and  under  all  govern- 
ments it  has  always  been  held  that  the 
officer  is  bound  to  follow  his  flag,  that 
he  has  accepted  training  arid  support 
under  the  constituted  authorities,  and 
that  he  is  pledged  to  render  obedience 
and  to  devote  all  his  efforts  and  his  life 
to  carrying  out  the  orders  that  come  to 
him  from  his  lawful  superior.  A  man's 
conscience  is,  of  course,  higher  than  his 
military  duty,  but  the  instances  where 
the  two  should  be  separated  are  very 
rare  indeed. 

In  the  case  of  our  Civil  War  there  was 
a  great  deal  more  to  the  question  than 
mere  mechanical  loyalty.  For  nearly 
a  hundred  years  the  Union  had  grown 
and  flourished,  in  spite  of  sharp  politi- 
cal disputes.  The  possibilities  of  future 
expansion  and  prosperity  were  enor- 
mous. It  needed  but  little  prophetic 
vision  to  look  forward  to  wealth  and 
218 


happiness  for  coming  generations  such 
as  the  world  had  hardly  ever  seen  be- 
fore. But  a  man  who  knew  what  war 
was,  and  what  armies  were,  and  what 
military  government  was,  did  not  need 
to  be  told  that  such  a  future  would  be 
gravely  imperiled,  if  the  Union  were 
shattered  into  fragments.  To  a  man 
with  that  knowledge,  the  attempt  to 
break  up  the  Union  was  stupid,  fatal, 
intolerable  folly.  This  was  what  Rob- 
ert E.  Lee  meant  when  he  said:  'I 
can  anticipate  no  greater  calamity  for 
the  country  than  a  dissolution  of  the 
Union.'  And  again,  'Secession  is  no- 
thing but  revolution.'  And  yet  again, 
'It  is  idle  to  talk  of  secession.  Anar- 
chy would  have  been  established  and 
not  a  government  by  Washington, 
Hamilton,  Jefferson,  Madison,  and  the 
other  patriots  of  the  Revolution/ 

It  was  not  only  the  future  of  the 
United  States  that  was  involved,  but 
the  future  of  Democracy.  Those  who 
urged  secession  claimed  to  be  defending 
popular  government  against  a  usurp- 
ing executive.  In  reality  nothing  could 
show  more  clearly  the  danger  of  cen- 
tralization to  a  republic  than  the  his- 
tory of  the  Confederacy.  And  the  na- 
tion which  was  founded  on  state  rights 
ended  in  a  tragic  —  or  comic  —  exhi- 
bition of  building  a  strong  central  au- 
thority on  state  wrongs.  Everyone  who x 
longed  passionately  for  the  success  of 
free  institutions  must  have  appreci- 
ated that  there  could  be  no  greater 


GEORGE  H.  THOMAS 


219 


danger  to  such  institutions  than  the  es- 
tablishment of  two  or  a  dozen  confed- 
eracies watching  perpetually  in  armed 
eagerness  to  cut  each  other's  throats. 
A  striking  illustration  of  how  forcibly 
this  was  felt  by  outsiders  appears  in  a 
speech  made  by  Disraeli  in  1864,  less 
often  quoted  than  are  some  other  Eng- 
lish utterances  of  that  time :  *  After  the 
conclusion  of  the  war  we  will  see  a  dif- 
erent  America  from  that  which  was 
known  to  our  fathers  and  from  that 
even  of  which  this  generation  has  had 
so  much  experience.  It  will,  I  believe, 
be  an  America  of  diplomacy,  it  will 
be  an  America  of  rival  states  and  of 
manoeuvring  Cabinets,  of  frequent  tur- 
bulence and  frequent  wars.'  You  per- 
ceive from  what  the  good  Lord,  work- 
ing through  Thomas  and  others  like 
him,  delivered  us. 

And  if  this  was  the  patriotic  view 
of  a  broad-minded  American,  it  might 
have  been  equally  the  view  of  a  loyal 
Virginian.  What  was  fatal  to  the  whole 
could  not  well  be  advantageous  to  the 
parts.  If  the  preservation  of  the  Union 
meant  peace,  freedom,  and  popular 
government  for  Maine,  Illinois,  and 
California,  it  meant  the  same  thing 
for  Virginia,  and  the  destruction  of  the 
Union  meant  an  abyss  of  possible  dis- 
aster for  Virginia  also. 

Writing  formerly  in  the  Atlantic,  I 
had  occasion  to  say  that  in  the  appa- 
rently most  remote  contingency  of  a 
secession  of  Massachusetts  or  of  New 
England,  I  should  follow  my  state  even 
if  the  cause  of  such  secession  did  not 
meet  with  my  approval.  I  now  repeat 
the  statement  without  hesitating  in  the 
slightest.  The  love  of  home,  the  might 
of  ancestral  tradition,  New  England 
habits  of  thought  and  habits  of  affec- 
tion are  too  deeply  rooted  in  every 
fibre  of  my  heart  for  me  to  take  any 
risk  of  being  exiled  from  them  perpetu- 
ally. But  it  may  easily  be  maintained 
that  one  who  followed  a  different  course 


would  show  a  broader,  a  more  far-see- 
ing, a  more  self-sacrificing  patriotism, 
even  as  a  New  Englander. 

Reasoning  from  analogy  is  always 
defective  and  often  misleading,  but 
when  Southerners  say,  with  Colonel 
McCabe,  that  Thomas  turned  his  back 
on  Virginia  in  the  hour  of  her  sorest 
need,  I  am  tempted  to  put  the  matter 
thus.  If  a  man  sees  his  mother  about 
to  commit  suicide  in  a  fit  of  temporary 
insanity,  which  is  more  truly  filial,  to 
stand  reverently  by  and  watch  her  do 
it,  or  to  do  his  best  to  restrain  her, 
even  with  a  certain  amount  of  brutal 
violence? 

So  much  for  the  line  of  argument 
that  Thomas  might  have  used.  How  far 
did  he  actually  use  it?  Nobody  knows. 
His  numerous  admirers  are  ready  and 
eager  to  tell  us  what  they  thought, 
and  what  they  think  he  ought  to  have 
thought  and  must  have  thought.  But 
the  actual  reliable  evidence  as  to  his 
own  mental  processes  is  meagre  in  the 
extreme. 

One  thing  we  can  say  at  starting,  as 
positively  as  we  can  speak  of  any  hu- 
man motive.  It  is  alleged  that  Thomas 
was  governed  by  considerations  of  per- 
sonal advantage  and  promotion.  The 
same  thing  has  been  alleged  in  regard 
to  Lee,  and  with  just  as  much  truth  in 
one  case  as  in  the  other.  The  charac- 
ters of  both  men  absolutely  preclude 
the  assignment,  even  the  consideration, 
of  anything  so  contemptible. 

Further,  Thomas  is  said  to  have  been 
influenced  by  his  wife,  who  was  a  New 
York  woman.  Probably  he  was,  though 
Mrs.  Thomas  makes  the  almost  incom- 
prehensible assertion  that  *  never  a 
word  passed  between  General  Thomas 
and  myself,  or  any  one  of  the  family, 
upon  the  subject  of  his  remaining  loyal 
to  the  United  States  Government.'  I 
say  'almost  incomprehensible,'  because 
the  general  spent  the  fierce  winter  of 
1860-1861,  when  everybody  was  talk- 


220 


GEORGE  H.  THOMAS 


ing  politics,  with  his  wife  in  New  York. 
And  I  repeat,  probably  he  was  influ- 
enced. Who  is  not,  by  his  surroundings 
and  by  those  he  loves  ?  Does  any  one 
believe  that  Lee  was  not  influenced  by 
Mrs.  Lee  and  by  his  friends  and  fam- 
ily? But  that  either  of  these  men  could 
be  persuaded  to  do  anything  he  thought 
wrong,  by  his  wife  or  by  any  one  else, 
is  a  mere  dream  of  prejudice  and  party 
passion. 

What  actual  evidence  we  have,  how- 
ever, as  to  Thomas's  attitude  in  that 
trying  time  goes  practically  all  one  way 
and,  I  think,  shows  beyond  question 
that  he  had  his  hour  of  doubt  and  diffi- 
culty. The  story,  widely  current  at 
the  South,  that  Thomas  wrote  to  the 
Confederate  authorities  to  know  what 
rank  would  be  given  him  if  he  joined 
them,  may  be  rejected  at  once,  on 
Thomas's  own  vehement  statement, 
and  was  merely  a  misinterpretation  of 
documents  to  be  considered  shortly. 
The  explicit  testimony  of  Fitzhugh 
Lee  that  Thomas  told  him  in  New  York 
early  in  1861  that  he  intended  to  resign 
cannot,  of  course,  be  for  one  moment 
disputed  as  to  intentional  veracity. 
It  is  possible,  however,  that  Lee,  in 
his  own  enthusiasm,  may  have  taken 
Thomas  more  positively  than  was 
meant.  Evidence  less  likely  to  be  ques- 
tioned by  Northerners  is  furnished  by 
Keyes,  who  knew  Thomas  well  before 
the  war  and  regarded  him  with  the 
greatest  esteem  and  affection.  Keyes 
attributes  the  general's  final  decision  to 
his  wife,  and  adds,  'Had  he  followed 
his  own  inclination,  he  would  have 
joined  the  Confederates  and  fought 
against  the  North  with  the  same  abil- 
ity and  valor  that  he  displayed  in  our 
cause.' 

Further,  there  are  two  letters  of 
Thomas's  which  have  a  very  interest- 
ing connection  with  the  point  we  are 
discussing.  On  January  18,  1861,  he 
wrote  to  the  Superintendent  of  the  Vir- 


ginia Military  Institute,  the  school  in 
which  Jackson  was  an  instructor  and 
which  bore  something  like  the  same 
relation  to  the  state  that  West  Point 
bears  to  the  nation,  as  follows:  'In 
looking  over  the  files  of  the  National 
Intelligencer  this  morning,  I  met  with 
your  advertisement  for  a  commandant 
of  cadets  and  instructor  of  tactics  at 
the  institute.  If  not  already  filled,  I 
will  be  under  obligations  if  you  will 
inform  me  what  salary  and  allowances 
pertain  to  the  situation,  as  from  pre- 
sent appearances  I  feel  it  will  soon  be 
necessary  for  me  to  be  looking  up  some 
means  of  support.' 

It  is  urged  by  Thomas's  biographers 
that  this  letter  has  no  political  signifi- 
cance whatever,  that  the  general  was 
at  that  time  doubtful  about  the  effects 
of  a  severe  injury  recently  received 
which  he  thought  might  disable  him 
for  further  active  service. 

This  explanation  may  be  correct,  but 
it  must  be  admitted  that  the  coinci- 
dence is  singular  and  unfortunate.  It 
becomes  much  more  so  when  we  weigh 
the  language  of  another  letter  written 
on  March  12, 1861.  Governor  Letcher, 
of  Virginia,  had  caused  the  position 
of  chief  of  ordnance  of  the  state  to  be 
offered  to  Thomas,  if  he  wished  to 
resign  from  the  United  States  service. 
Thomas  replies : '  I  have  the  honor  to 
state,  after  expressing  my  most  sincere 
thanks  for  your  very  kind  offer,  that  it 
is  not  my  wish  to  leave  the  service  of 
the  United  States  as  long  as  it  is  honor- 
able for  me  to  remain  in  it;  and  there- 
fore as  long  as  my  native  State,  Vir- 
ginia, remains  in  the  Union,  it  is  my 
purpose  to  remain  in  the  Army  unless 
required  to  perform  duties  alike  repul- 
sive to  honor  and  humanity.' 

Here  we  have  almost  the  identical 
words  of  Lee  as  to  the  Union,  written 
at  about  the  same  time.  '  I  am  willing 
to  sacrifice  everything  but  honor  Tor 
its  preservation.'  I  do  not  see  how  any 


GEORGE  H.  THOMAS 


221 


unprejudiced  person  can  doubt  that  up 
to  the  middle  of  March,  at  any  rate, 
Thomas  was  divided  between  his  loyal- 
ty to  the  Union  and  his  loyalty  to  Vir- 
ginia. The  only  shred  of  actual  evidence 
on  the  other  side  is  Colonel  Hough's 
report  of  a  conversation  in  which  his 
chief  declared  that  *  his  duty  was  clear 
from  the  beginning.'  But  this  conver- 
sation occurred  long  after  the  struggle 
was  over,  when  time  and  bitter  memo- 
ries had  accentuated  everything,  and 
by  the  phrase  'from  the  beginning,' 
the  general  may  well  have  meant  only 
the  actual  beginning  of  the  war.  To 
me  the  comment  of  Grant,  who  must 
have  spoken  from  reliable  hearsay,  if 
not  from  personal  knowledge,  seems  a 
perfectly  satisfactory  statement  of  the 
case.  'When  the  war  was  coming, 
Thomas  felt  like  a  Virginian,  and  talked 
like  one,  and  had  all  the  sentiments 
then  so  prevalent  about  the  rights  of 
slavery  and  sovereign  states  and  so  on. 
But  the  more  Thomas  thought  it  over, 
the  more  he  saw  the  crime  of  treason 
behind  it  all.' 

And  why  should  any  one  blame  him 
for  hesitation  in  the  matter?  If  he  was 
a  man,  with  a  man's  heart,  and  not 
a  mere  military  machine,  was  he  not 
bound  to  hesitate?  The  point  would 
not  be  worth  the  space  I  have  given 
it,  if  it  were  not  for  the  folly  of  North- 
ern apologists  on  the  one  hand,  who 
insist  that  their  hero  must  always  have 
thought  as  they  did,  and  for  the  cruelty 
of  Southern  partisans  on  the  other,  who 
insinuate  ignoble  motives  where  there 
is  no  possible  foundation  for  them. 
Whatever  may  have  been  Thomas's 
doubts  when  the  dispute  was  in  a  theo- 
retical stage,  the  guns  at  Sumter  settled 
the  question  for  him.  When  he  heard 
that  echo,  he  wrote  to  his  wife  words 
which  are  equally  significant  of  his  de- 
cision and  of  his  previous  indecision: 
*  Whichever  way  he  turned  the  matter 
over  in  his  mind,  his  oath  of  allegiance 


to  his  Government  always  came  up- 
permost.' 

A  few  days  later  than  this,  in  the 
very  interesting  letter  of  Fitz-John 
Porter  printed  in  the  Official  Records, 
(volume  107,  page  351),  we  see  Thomas 
assisting  to  hold  others  to  their  duty; 
and  from  that  time  on  there  is  no  in- 
dication of  the  faintest  wavering  or  re- 
gret, any  more  than  there  is  with  Lee 
who  had  chosen  the  other  side  after 
a  bitter  struggle  of  his  own.  Indeed, 
with  the  progress  of  the  war  Thomas's 
language  in  regard  to  rebels  and  re- 
bellion becomes  more  and  more  ener- 
getic, as  appears  in  one  very  curious 
passage  regarding  deserters,  written  in 
April,  1864.  '  I  believe  many  of  them 
return  to  the  enemy  after  recruiting 
their  health  and  strength,  because  they 
are  rebels  by  nature,  others  because 
of  family  influence,  and  others  like  the 
drunkard  to  his  bottle,  because  tney 
have  not  sufficient  moral  courage  to 
resist  the  natural  depravity  of  their 
hearts.'  In  the  last  clause  I  think  we 
see  what  Thomas  would  have  felt  to  be 
the  just  analysis  of  his  own  psycho- 
logical experience.  He  had  found  the 
moral  courage  to  withstand  a  terrible 
trial. 

As  shown  by  Grant's  remark  above 
quoted,  Thomas's  attitude  before  the 
war  in  regard  to  slavery  was  probably 
that  of  the  average  moderate  South- 
erner. He  was  never  an  extensive  slave- 
holder. While  in  Texas  he  purchased 
a  slave  woman  for  actual  needs  of  ser- 
vice, and  rather  than  sell  her  again 
into  the  hands  of  strangers,  he  sent  her 
home  to  Virginia  at  very  considerable 
expense  and  inconvenience. 


ii 

The  difficulty  we  have  met  with  in 
getting  at  Thomas's  state  of  mind  dur- 
ing the  critical  months  of  1861  forms 
an  excellent  introduction  to  the  study 


222 


GEORGE   H.  THOMAS 


of  his  character.  There  is  the  same  dif- 
ficulty in  getting  at  his  state  of  mind 
at  any  other  time.  He  was  very  insist- 
ent that  none  of  his  private  letters 
should  be  published  after  his  death, 
and  very  few  have  been.  His  official 
correspondence  is  extensive;  but  it  is 
singularly  formal  in  character  and  tells 
us  almost  nothing  about  the  man's 
soul,  except  that  such  reserve  is  in  it- 
self significant,  and  that  even  trifling 
hints  of  self-revelation  become  valuable 
in  such  a  scarcity.  Thus  a  letter  that 
begins  'Dear  Sherman,'  is  almost  start- 
ling in  its  contrast  to  the  usual  staid 
formulae  of  subordinate  respect. 

Not  only  in    letters    but  in  every- 
thing was  Thomas  reserved,  self-con- 
tained, self-controlled.    'A  boy  of  few 
words,  but  of  an  excellent  spirit,'  was 
about  all  the  information  that  his  bio- 
grapher could  gather  as  to  his  child- 
hood.   At  West  Point,  where  he  was 
graduated  in  1840,  in  the  Indian  cam- 
paigns,  during  the  Mexican   War,  in 
which  he  distinguished  himself  greatly, 
and  through  the  interval  till  the  Civil 
War  came,  there  is  a  similar  record: 
quiet,  faithful  service,  and  no  more  said 
than  was  necessary;  a  strong,  calm,  pa- 
tient, dignified  soldier,  ready  alike  for 
good  and  evil  fortune.   Nor  did  he  ap- 
pear differently  throughout  the  great 
conflict,  from  his  first  victory  at  Mill 
Springs  in  January,  1862,  through  Shi- 
loh  and  Perryville  and  Murfreesboro 
and   Chickamauga  and   Chattanooga 
and  Atlanta,  to  his  last  victory  at  Nash- 
ville, one  of  the  most  skillful  and  deci- 
sive battles  of  the  war.   Everywhere  it 
was  a  question  of  deeds,  not  of  words, 
of  accomplishing  the  task  set  and  mak- 
ing as  little  fuss  about  it  as  possi- 
ble.   Everywhere  there  was  shrinking 
from  cheap  publicity  and  the  adver- 
tising through  self  or  others  which  did 
more  for  some  reputations  than  great 
fighting.  When  asked  to  become  a  can- 
didate for  the  presidency  after  the  war, 


Thomas  declined,  giving  as  one  reason, 
'I  can  never  consent,  voluntarily,  to 
place  myself  in  a  position  where  scur- 
rilous newspaper  men  and  political 
demagogues  can  make  free  with  my  per- 
sonal character  and  reputation,  with 
impunity.' 

The  advantages  of  this  splendid  poise 
and  self-contained  power  in  Thomas's 
character  will  bear  analysis  in  many 
ways.  Let  us  consider  the  negative  ad- 
vantages first.  For  one  thing,  Thomas 
wras  free  from  over-confidence.  He  did 
not  press  eagerly  into  undertakings  be- 
yond his  strength,  and  consequently  he 
and  his  army  were  saved  the  humil- 
iation and  demoralization  that  come 
from  drawing  back. 

Moreover,  Thomas  was  free  from  the 
brag  and  bluster  which  disfigure  the 
glory  of  so  many  really  able  soldiers. 
He  may  have  felt  in  his  heart  that  he 
could  do  great  things,  but  he  did  not 
proclaim  it.  Indeed,  on  this  point  he 
erred  in  the  direction  of  excessive  mod- 
esty. 'So  modest  was  he  that  his  face 
would  color  with  blushes  when  his 
troops  cheered  him,'  says  one  who 
knew  him  well.  To  be  sure,  his  enthusi- 
astic biographer  observes,  with  fine  dis- 
crimination, that  when  a  modest  man 
does  break  out,  he  does  so  thoroughly. 
A  curious  instance  of  this  is  a  speech 
Thomas  was  forced  to  make  after  the 
war,  in  which,  announcing  that  he  was 
a  modest  man,  he  went  on  to  explain 
his  merits  in  refusing  to  take  command 
when  it  was  offered  him  to  the  detri- 
ment of  his  superior.  A  less  modest 
man,  with  his  wits  more  about  him, 
would  perhaps  have  left  the  remark 
to  some  one  else. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  much  more 
important  illustration  of  the  underly- 
ing truth  and  nobility  of  the  general's 
nature  appears  in  another  speech  in 
which  he  explained  the  battle  of  Nash- 
ville, and  his  chief  concern  seemed  to 
be  to  point  out  his  great  mistake  in 


GEORGE  H.  THOMAS 


223 


not  making  use  of  the  cavalry  to  de- 
stroy Hood  completely.  You  will  go 
some  distance  before  you  find  ano- 
ther commander  busy  enlarging  on  the 
things  he  ought  to  have  done  and  did 
not  do. 

Again,  Thomas's  reserve  saved  him 
from  the  fault,  too  general  on  both 
sides  during  the  war,  of  speaking  harsh- 
ly in  criticism  of  his  superiors  or  his 
subordinates,  of  allowing  that  jealousy 
of  others'  success,  which  is  perhaps  in- 
separable from  human  weakness,  to 
become  manifest  in  outward  speech 
and  action.  It  is  rare  indeed  that  he 
expresses  himself  with  such  frankness 
as  about  Schurz:  'I  do  not  think  he  is 
worth  much  from  what  I  have  seen  of 
him,  and  should  not  regret  having  him 
go';  or  in  regard  to  an  expedition  of 
Stoneman:  'The  Stoneman  raid  turns 
out  to  be  a  humbug.  ...  It  seems  that 
when  twenty-five  of  the  enemy  are 
seen  anywhere  they  are  considered  in 
force.' 

On  the  other  hand  how  admirable 
was  the  loyalty,  based  of  course  on 
sound  judgment,  which  made  him  un- 
willing to  be  put  in  place  of  Buell  on 
the  eve  of  battle,  and  in  the  highest 
degree  reluctant  to  succeed  Rosecrans. 
When  the  latter  change  was  first  pro- 
posed, Dana  writes  that  Thomas  re- 
fuses absolutely;  'he  could  not  consent 
to  become  the  successor  of  Rosecrans, 
because  he  would  not  do  anything  to 
give  countenance  to  the  suspicion  that 
he  had  intrigued  against  his  comman- 
der. Besides  he  has  as  perfect  con- 
fidence in  the  capacity  and  fidelity  of 
General  Rosecrans  as  he  had  in  those 
of  General  Buell.' 

Even  when  it  would  have  been 
easy  and  natural  to  say  something  un- 
pleasant, Thomas  refrains,  as  in  his 
comments  on  the  victory  at  Chatta- 
nooga, won,  as  is  usually  supposed, 
quite  contrary  to  Grant's  plans.  'It 
will  be  perceived  from  the  above  report 


that  the  original  plan  of  operations  was 
somewhat  modified  to  meet  and  take 
the  best  advantage  of  emergencies 
which  necessitated  material  modifica- 
tions of  that  plan.  It  is  believed,  how- 
ever, that  the  original  plan,  had  it 
been  carried  out,  could  not  possibly 
have  led  to  more  successful  results.' 

If,  as  is  sometimes  asserted,  Thomas 
was  jealous  of  Grant,  the  moderation 
of  the  passage  just  cited  is  all  the  more 
noticeable.  That  there  was  a  certain 
amount  of  the  very  human  jealousy  I 
have  suggested  above,  is  possible.  How 
difficult  it  is  to  discriminate  motives  in 
such  a  case  is  shown  by  comparing  Gen- 
eral Wilson's  description  of  Grant's  first 
arrival  at  Chattanooga,  wet,  weary,  and 
wounded,  and  Thomas's  reception  of 
him,  with  Horace  Porter's  account  of 
the  same  scene.  According  to  General 
Wilson,  Thomas  was  completely  out  of 
sorts  and  treated  Grant  with  inexcus- 
able rudeness,  arising,  Wilson  thinks, 
from  smouldering  jealousy.  Porter,  on 
the  other  hand,  feels  that  the  unde- 
niable remissness  on  Thomas's  part 
arose  rather  from  preoccupation  with 
other  cares,  and  he  analyzes  excellent- 
ly the  probable  facts  as  to  the  relation 
between  the  two  great  leaders.  'There 
is  very  little  doubt  that  if  any  other 
two  general  officers  in  the  service  had 
been  placed  in  the  same  trying  circum- 
stances there  would  have  been  an  open 
rupture.' 

in 

So  far,  then,  as  to  the  negative  ad- 
vantages of  Thomas's  reserve  and  self- 
control.  But  the  positive  advantages 
were  much  greater.  To  begin  with,  he 
was  by  nature  businesslike,  a  man  of 
system.  The  story  that  his  chief  com- 
plaint of  the  enemy  at  Chickamauga, 
when  everything  was  collapsing  about 
him,  was  that  '  the  damned  scoundrels 
were  fighting  without  any  system,'  may 
be  apocryphal,  though  I  am  inclined 


224 


GEORGE  H.  THOMAS 


to  believe  it.  But  all  the  evidence  shows 
that  he  loved  to  have  things  work  by 
rule,  and  arranged  even  little  matters 
with  patient  care.  He  was  always  neat 
as  to  his  dress  and  person.  He  liked 
a  completeness  even  approaching  dis- 
play about  his  camp  service  and  equip- 
age, and  had  formal  Negro  attendants 
and  silver  tableware.  All  Sherman's 
efforts  to  reduce  this  equipment  for  the 
sake  of  example  during  the  Atlanta 
campaign  were  quite  unavailing,  yet 
it  does  not  seem  to  have  resulted  from 
any  instinct  of  aristocratic  superiority, 
but  simply  from  an  established  habit. 
In  the  same  way,  Thomas  insisted  upon 
an  elaborate  administrative  apparatus, 
and  the  story  goes  that  Sherman,  after 
unduly  stripping  himself,  was  very  glad 
to  make  use  of  his  subordinate's  facil- 
ities in  this  direction. 

It  was  the  same  with  discipline. 
Thomas  was  always  approachable,  al- 
ways kindly,  but  he  wanted  no  time 
spent  without  a  purpose,  and  even  in 
accomplishing  a  purpose  wanted  meth- 
ods to  be  brief  and  direct.  This  thor- 
oughly businesslike  element  of  his  char- 
acter is  shown  by  nothing  better  than 
by  the  change  which  is  said  to  have 
taken  place  in  the  army  when  Thomas 
succeeded  Rosecrans.  Rosecrans  was 
brilliant  but  erratic,  full  of  clever 
schemes,  but  without  settled  grasp  on 
either  men  or  movements.  Under  his 
control,  or  lack  of  control,  adminis- 
tration had  become  utterly  haphazard 
and  unsystematic.  With  Thomas's  ap- 
pointment everything  was  altered.  As 
Dana  wrote,  in  his  vivid  fashion,  'order 
prevails  instead  of  chaos.' 

It  was  Thomas's  habit,  before  start- 
ing on  any  important  movement,  to  see 
that  all  pending  matters  of  business 
were  attended  to,  all  papers  properly 
arranged,  his  own  signature  affixed  to 
every  document  that  required  it.  Even 
matters  of  comparatively  slight  impor- 
tance were  not  overlooked.  Thus,  on 


the  morning  of  December  15,  1864, 
when  he  was  riding  through  Nashville 
to  begin  the  battle  which  he  knew  was 
the  great  and  long-delayed  crisis  of  his 
life,  he  stopped  his  whole  staff  in  the 
street  to  give  direction  that  fourteen 
bushels  of  coal  should  be  sent  to  Mr. 
Harris,  his  neighbor.  'I  was  out  of 
coal  and  borrowed  this  number  of 
bushels  from  him  the  other  day.'  Has 
not  such  an  anecdote  the  real  ring  of 
Plutarch  ?  is  it  not  as  fine  as  Socrates's 
last  payment  of  the  cock  to  ^Escula- 
pius? 

This  thoroughness  of  method  shows 
in  all  Thomas's  military  activity.  '  The 
fate  of  a  battle  may  depend  on  a 
buckle,'  he  once  said  to  an  officer  whose 
harness  broke.  He  wanted  to  know 
where  he  was  going,  what  he  was  go- 
ing with,  what  material  he  had  with 
him  and  against  him.  He  provided  for 
all  possible  contingencies  of  accident. 
*  There  is  always  a  remedy  for  any  fail- 
ure of  a  part  of  Thomas's  plans,  or  for 
the  delinquencies  of  subordinates.'  He 
left  nothing  to  others  that  he  could  do 
himself.  'On  a  march  or  a  campaign, 
he  saw  every  part  of  his  army  every 
day.  ...  If,  when  he  was  at  the  rear, 
the  sounds  indicated  contact  with  the 
enemy,  he  passed  on  to  the  very  front, 
where  he  often  dismounted  and  walk- 
ed to  the  outer  skirmish  line  to  recon- 
noitre.' 

The  extreme  of  this  methodical  care 
is  displayed  in  his  curious  remark  to 
Dana:  'I  should  have  long  since  liked 
to  have  an  independent  command,  but 
what  I  should  have  desired  would  have 
been  the  command  of  an  army  that  I 
could  myself  have  organized,  distrib- 
uted, disciplined,  and  combined.'  It 
is  a  striking  piece  of  irony  that  when 
Sherman  left  him  in  chief  command  to 
confront  Hood,  he  should  have  had  the 
exact  opposite  of  this,  an  unorganized, 
incoherent,  scattered,  chaotic  army, 
which  he  had  to  make  before  he  used 


GEORGE  H.  THOMAS 


225 


it.  He  did  make  it,  shape  it,  put  it  to- 
gether, before  he  would  stir  one  step. 
Then  he  struck  the  most  finished,  tell- 
ing, perfect  blow  that  was  struck  on 
either  side  during  the  war. 

And  the  natural  result  of  this  splen- 
did thoroughness  was  a  universal  re- 
liability. Everybody,  from  the  com- 
mander-in-chief  to  the  camp-followers, 
trusted  Thomas.  When  he  telegraphed 
to  Grant  from  Chattanooga,  'We  will 
hold  the  town  till  we  starve,'  everybody 
knew  there  was  no  bluster  about  it, 
everybody  knew  the  town  would  be 
held.  In  this  connection  perhaps  the 
grandeur  and  force  of  his  character 
made  themselves  more  felt  at  Chicka- 
mauga  than  even  at  Nashville;  and  the 
soldiers'  pet  name,  *  Rock  of  Chicka- 
mauga,'  implies  solidity  and  stability 
more  than  any  other  qualities.  When 
everything  is  marching  steadily  to  vic- 
tory according  to  a  preconceived  plan, 
you  may  know  the  power  that  is  be- 
hind, but  you  do  not  feel  it  directly 
and  vividly.  But  when  things  go  Wrong, 
when  strong  men  are  breaking  blindly, 
when  disaster  seems  sweeping  on  be- 
yond check  or  stay,  then  to  lean  back 
against  one  magnificent  will,  of  itself 
sufficient  to  change  fate,  that  indeed 
gives  you  a  sense  of  what  human  per- 
sonalitv  can  be. 

&< 

It  is  in  moments  like  these  that  a 
physique  such  as  Thomas's,  with  all  it 
expresses  of  the  soul,  is  most  impos- 
ing. He  was  tall,  broad,  solidly  built, 
with  firm,  square  shoulders  and  a  full- 
bearded  face  as  firm  and  square  as  the 
shoulders  were.  Some  say  that  the 
expression  was  stern,  some  say  kind 
and  gentle.  Probably  it  could  be  either 
according  to  circumstances;  and  I  de- 
light in  Garfield's  comment  on  the  eyes : 
'cold  gray  to  his  enemies,  but  warm 
blue  to  his  friends.'  Equally  enthusi- 
astic is  Howard's  denial  of  the  charge 
of  coldness  and  severity.  '  To  me  Gen- 
eral Thomas's  features  never  seemed 

VOL.  114- NO.  2 


cold.  His  smile  of  welcome  was  pleas- 
ant and  most  cordial.  His  words  and 
acts  drew  toward  him  my  whole  heart, 
particularly  when  I  went  into  battle 
under  him.'  And  this  is  the  impression 
that  I  get  most  of  Thomas  as  a  bat- 
tle-leader, one  of  immense  comfort. 
Others  may  have  been  more  showy, 
even  more  inspiring.  To  fight  under 
Thomas  was  like  having  a  wall  at  your 
back  or  a  great  battery  to  cover  you. 


IV 

Naturally,  characteristics  so  strongly 
marked  as  the  reserve,  and  poise,  and 
self-control  we  have  been  analyzing  in 
Thomas  carry  some  defects  with  them. 
Strongly  marked  characteristics  al- 
ways do.  His  love  of  system  and  the 
regular  way  of  doing  things  did  some- 
times degenerate  into  a  defect.  This 
shows  in  little  foibles  of  no  moment 
except  for  what  they  indicate.  Thus 
Thomas  was  walking  one  day  with 
Sherman  and  they  came  across  a 
soldier  parching  corn  from  the  fields. 
Thomas  commended  him,  but  cau- 
tioned him  not  to  waste  any.  As  they 
passed  on,  Sherman  heard  the  fellow 
mutter,  'There  he  goes,  there  goes  the 
old  man,  economizing  as  usual.'  And 
Sherman's  characteristic  comment  is, 
'  economizing  with  corn  which  cost  only 
the  labor  of  gathering  and  roasting.' 

Again,  it  is  said  that  Thomas  hated 
new  clothes,  and  when  his  promotions 
began  to  come  faster  than  he  could 
wear  out  his  uniforms,  he  was  always 
one  uniform  behind.  Of  similar  trivi- 
ality yet  significance  is  the  story  that 
when  he  was  put  into  a  good  bed  in 
'a  Louisville  hotel,  he  could  not  sleep, 
but  sent  for  his  camp  cot  in  the  middle 
of  the  night. 

More  important  in  this  line  is  his 
criticism  of  the  Sanitary  and  Christian 
commissions.  With  all  their  useful- 
ness, they  were  something  of  a  nuisance 


226 


GEORGE  H.   THOMAS 


from  the  point  of  view  of  system,  and 
Thomas  complains,  *  They  have  caused 
much  trouble  and  could  be  easily  dis- 
pensed with  for  the  good  of  the  service, 
as  their  duties  are  legitimately  those  of, 
and  should  be  performed  by,  the  medi- 
cal department.' 

Most  illuminating  of  all  for  Tho- 
mas's mental  constitution  is  his  atti- 
tude toward  rank,  promotion,  and  offi- 
cial dignity.  Advancement  was  slow  in 
coming  to  him  at  first,  partly  perhaps 
because  of  his  Southern  antecedents, 
partly  also  because  of  his  quiet  dis- 
charge of  duty  without  talk  or  polit- 
ical effort.  When  others  were  placed 
over  him,  he  made  no  protest  of  am- 
bition or  desert,  and  was  disposed  to 
bear  slights  which  merely  touched  his 
personal  worth  with  dignified  indiffer- 
ence. But  the  minute  he  felt  that  the 
regular  order  of  procedure  was  inter- 
fered with,  he  was  ready  to  object. 
Thus,  when  he  is  put  under  Mitchell, 
in  1861,  he  writes,  *  Justice  to  myself 
requires  that  I  ask  to  be  relieved  from 
duty  with  these  troops,  since  the  Secre- 
tary has  thought  it  necessary  to  super- 
sede me  in  command,  without,  as  I 
conceive,  any  just  cause  for  so  doing.' 

At  a  later  date  he  is  subordinated  to 
Rosecrans  and  protests  in  the  same 
spirit.  *  Although  I  do  not  claim  for 
myself  any  superior  ability,  yet  feel- 
ing conscious  that  no  reason  exists  for 
over-slaughing  me  by  placing  me  under 
my  junior,  I  feel  deeply  mortified  and 
aggrieved  at  the  action  taken  in  the 
matter.' 

This,  I  think,  shows  clearly  the  in- 
stinct of  system,  tending  to  harden 
into  a  red-tape  habit.  We  can  all  im- 
agine how  differently  Sherman  would 
have  written  under  similar  circum- 
stances, perhaps  as  follows:  I  don't  care 
a  jot  whether  the  man  is  my  senior  or 
my  junior.  The  one  question  is,  can  he 
do  the  work  better  than  I?  To  speak 
frankly,  I  don't  think  he  can. 


Another  curious  case  is  Thomas's 
insistence  on  being  transferred  to  the 
Pacific  Department  after  the  war.  His 
biographer  admits  that  he  did  not  wish 
to  go  there,  but  was  merely  unwilling 
to  see  his  rank  degraded  by  having 
Schofield  given  the  higher  appoint- 
ment. 

Thomas's  methodical  temper  is 
sometimes  asserted  to  have  given  rise 
to  a  defect  even  more  serious,  that  of 
excessive  deliberateness,  not  to  say 
slowness,  in  action.  This  much  debated 
question  is  too  purely  military  for  a 
civilian  to  settle,  but  some  discussion 
of  it  is  necessary. 

Perhaps  the  most  severe  criticism  of 
Thomas  comes  from  his  own  subordi- 
nate, Schofield,  in  connection  with  the 
Nashville  campaign.  Summed  up  very 
briefly  and  stripped  of  politeness^  Scho- 
field's  charges  are  that  Thomas  should 
have  concentrated  and  fought  Hood 
earlier;  that  Schofield  himself  really 
won  Nashville  at  Franklin;  that  when 
Nashville  was  fought  it  was  Schofield 's 
advice  that  made  the  victory  complete; 
that  on  the  second  day  of  the  battle 
Thomas's  leadership  was  quite  inade- 
quate; and  that  Thomas's  reports 
cannot  have  been  written  by  himself, 
because  he  would  have  been  incapable 
of  omitting  to  give  credit  for  his  sub- 
ordinate's achievements, — a  civil  way 
of  insinuating  that  Thomas  suppressed 
the  truth.  All  this  would  be  indeed 
overwhelming,  if  exact. 

Milder  critics  insist  that  Thomas 
was  slow  at  Nashville,  notably  Grant, 
both  at  the  time  and  afterwards,  re- 
peating to  Young  the  old  story  of  the 
general's  nickname  of '  Slow-Trot  Tho- 
mas,' acquired  at  West  Point.  But 
Grant  rarely  let  Thomas's  name  be 
mentioned  without  some  innuendo. 
Neither  did  Sherman,  who,  though 
often  praising  his  subordinate's  stead- 
iness, complains  of  the  difficulty  of 
keeping  him  moving.  'A  fresh  furrow 


GEORGE  H.  THOMAS 


227 


in  a  ploughed  field  will  stop  the  whole 
column  and  all  begin  to  intrench/ 

Cox,  who  knew  Thomas  well  and 
admired  him  greatly  and  who  has  none 
of  Schofield's  obvious  personal  irrita- 
tion, is  inclined  to  agree  with  the  lat- 
ter that  the  general  might  have  met  and 
defeated  Hood  more  promptly.  And 
Colonel  T.  L.  Livermore,  after  his  mi- 
nute and  careful  analysis  of  Thomas's 
whole  career,  inclines  to  the  belief  that 
in  almost  every  one  of  his  battles  he 
might  have  accomplished  more  than  he 
did,  this  being  particularly  the  case  in 
regard  to  Chickamauga.  Colonel  Liver- 
more,  however,  admits  that  Thomas's 
greatness  deserves  all  admiration,  and 
that  no  one  would  question  it  if  it  were 
not  for  the  fact  that  his  biographers 
try  to  exalt  him  by  depreciating  every- 
body else.  This  they  certainly  do,  with 
more  ardor  than  discernment. 

On  the  point  of  generalship  I  think 
we  may  conclude  that,  while  perhaps 
Thomas  had  not  the  headlong  aggres- 
siveness of  Sherman  and  Sheridan,  of 
Jackson  and  Stuart,  he  had  gifts  so 
great,  so  successful,  and  so  fruitful,  — 
gifts  not  only  of  steadiness  and  far- 
reaching  preparation,  but  also  of  broad 
conception  and  strategic  intelligence, 
-  that  to  find  fault  with  him  is  an  un- 
gracious and  a  thankless  task. 


So  far  we  have  considered  Thomas 
as  a  man  of  reserved  power,  of  poise 
and  self-control,  and  there  is  a  general 
impression  that  he  was  cold  and  im- 
passible, of  a  statuesque  temperament, 
little  subject  to  human  passion  and 
infirmity.  Careful  study  shows  that 
this  is  less  true  than  might  be  suppos- 
ed. The  human  passions  were  there, 
however  watchfully  governed. 

Take  ambition.  Few  men  seem  to 
have  been  freer  from  its  subtle  influ- 
ence. Thomas  declined  advancement 


when  it  seemed  to  him  unjust  to  others, 
declined  to  be  put  in  Buell's  place, 
declined  to  be  put  in  Rosecrans's,  de- 
clined to  let  Johnson  set  him  up  as 
lieutenant-general  to  interfere  with 
Grant.  He  declined  a  nomination  for 
the  presidency  because  he  felt  himself 
not  fitted  for  it.  Nor  did  the  more  solid 
fruits  of  ambition  tempt  him.  After 
the  war  he  was  offered  a  handsome 
house,  but  declined  it.  A  large  sum  of 
money  was  raised  for  him.  He  declined 
it,  though  he  was  poor,  and  desired  it 
to  be  expended  for  the  relief  of  dis- 
abled soldiers. 

Yet  in  one  of  the  few  letters  that  have 
come  to  us  from  his  early  days,  there  is 
a  real  human  cry.  'This  will  be  the  only 
opportunity  I  shall  have  of  distinguish- 
ing myself,  and  not  to  be  able  to  avail 
myself  of  it  is  too  bad.'  And  there  is 
something  equally  human  about  a  dis- 
claimer of  ambition  in  later  days.  'I 
have  exhibited  at  least  sufficient  energy 
to  show  that  if  I  had  been  intrusted 

s 

with  the  command  at  that  time  I  might 
have  conducted  it  successfully.  ...  I 
went  to  my  duty  without  a  murmur, 
as  I  am  neither  ambitious  nor  have 
any  political  aspirations.'  Now,  don't 
you  think  perhaps  he  was  a  little  am- 
bitious, after  all? 

Again,  take  temper.  Thomas  had 
plenty  of  it  under  his  outward  calm. 
His  vexatious  biographers  declare  that, 
although  no  church  member,  he  was 
devoutly  religious,  and  used  and  al- 
lowed no  profanity.  I  have  no  ques- 
tion as  to  the  religion,  but  I  have 
quoted  some  profanity  above  which 
sounds  genuine  —  and  good  —  to  me, 
and  there  is  more  elsewhere.  Also, 
there  is  evidence  of  magnificent  tem- 
per. It  is  said  that  at  West  Point  the 
young  cadet  threatened  to  throw  a 
would-be  hazer  out  of  the  window;  but 
this  may  have  been  not  temper,  but 
policy.  Later  instances  are  indisput- 
able. When  an  officer  of  his  staff 


GEORGE  H.  THOMAS 


misappropriated  a  horse,  the  general 
overwhelmed  him  with  a  torrent  of  re- 
proach, drew  his  sword,  ripped  off  the 
officer's  shoulder-straps,  and  forced  him 
to  dismount  and  lead  the  horse  a  long 
distance  to  its  owner.  On  another  oc- 
casion a  teamster  was  beating  his  mules 
over  the  head  when  the  commander 
fell  upon  him  with  such  a  tumult  of 
invective  that  the  fellow  fled  to  the 
woods  and  disappeared. 

But  the  most  interesting  evidence  as 
to  Thomas's  temper  is  his  own  confes- 
sion in  the  admirable  letter  he  wrote 
declining  to  be  considered  a  candidate 
for  the  presidency.  He  gives  a  list  of 
his  disqualifications  and  places  prom- 
inently among  them,  'I  have  not  the 
necessary  control  over  my  temper'; 
adding  this  really  delightful  piece  of 
self-analysis :  *  My  habits  of  life,  estab- 
lished by  a  military  training  of  over 
twenty-five  years,  are  such  as  to  make 
it  repugnant  to  my  self-respect  to  have 
to  induce  people  to  do  their  duty  by 
persuasive  measures.  If  there  is  any- 
thing that  enrages  me  more  than  an- 
other, it  is  to  see  an  obstinate  and 
self-willed  man  opposing  what  is  right, 
morally  and  legally,  simply  because  un- 
der the  law  he  cannot  be  compelled  to 
do  what  is  right.' 

Perhaps  he  would  not  have  made  a 
good  president  of  the  United  States, 
since  that  individual  must  be  subject- 
ed to  visions  of  the  above  nature  at 
rather  frequent  intervals. 

Thomas  was  human  in  other  aspects, 
also.  He  took  a  real  human  joy  in 
fighting  and  victory.  When  the  arrival 
of  A.  J.  Smith  assured  success  at  Nash- 
ville, Thomas  took  Smith  in  his  arms 
and  hugged  him.  How  pretty  is  the 
story  Shanks  tells  of  the  general's 
eagerness  in  reporting  Chickamauga  to 
Rosecrans.  *  Whenever  I  touched  their 
flanks,  they  broke,  general,  they  broke.' 
Then,  catching  Shanks's  eye  fixed  upon 
him,  'as  if  ashamed  of  his  enthusiasm, 


the  blood  mounted  to  his  cheeks  and 
he  blushed  like  a  woman.'  Sherman 
says  that  when  Atlanta  was  taken, 
'The  news  seemed  to  Thomas  almost 
too  good  to  be  true.  He  snapped  his 
fingers,  and  almost  danced.'  The  im- 
age of  Thomas  dancing  for  joy  is  of  a 
peculiar  gayety.  Yet  I  have  seen  just 
such  men  do  just  such  things. 

As  to  the  sense  of  humor,  some  main- 
tain that  Thomas  had  it  not.  Every- 
body has  it,  if  you  can  find  it.  Accord- 
ing to  Horace  Porter,  the  general 
took  great  delight  in  the  jokes  of  a 
vaudeville  entertainment  with  which 
the  officers  whiled  away  camp  tedious- 
ness.  One  story  told  by  Keyes,  though 
homely,  is  so  accordant  with  Thomas's 
methodical  and  mathematical  temper- 
ament that  I  cannot  omit  it.  Keyes  was 
looking  for  a  certain  officer  who  was  a 
great  chewer  and  spitter,  and  as  he 
sat  at  his  desk,  spat  in  winter  into  the 
fireplace,  in  summer  out  of  the  window. 
'Now,'  said  Thomas,  'you  may  come 
in  the  window  and  follow  up  the  line 
of  tobacco  juice  on  the  floor,  or  you 
may  descend  the  chimney  and  trace 
from  that,  and  at  the  intersection  of 
the  two  lines  you  will  discover  B.' 
Something  in  the  anecdote  seems  to 
show  something  in  the  man. 

If  there  is  doubt  about  Thomas's 
humor,  there  is  none  whatever  about 
his  sensibility.  It  was,  indeed,  limited 
in  character.  He  was  a  soldier  and  little 
else,  and  I  find  no  trace  in  him  of  re- 
sponsiveness to  literature  or  art  or  even 
the  beauty  of  nature.  Though  an  in- 
dustrious reader,  his  reading  was  con- 
fined to  his  profession  and  related  sub- 
jects. But  as  a  man  and  a  soldier  his 
feelings  were  of  the  keenest.  The  most 
striking  testimony  to  this  is  the  con- 
temporary observation  of  Quartermas- 
ter Donaldson,  writing  to  his  superior 
Meigs,  of  a  conversation  held  with  the 
general  in  January,  1865.  '  He  feels  very 
sore  at  the  rumored  intention  to  relieve 


GEORGE  H.  THOMAS 


229 


him,  and  the  major-generalcy  does 
not  cicatrize  the  wound.  You  know 
Thomas  is  morbidly  sensitive,  and  it 
cuts  him  to  the  heart  to  think  that  it 
was  contemplated  to  remove  him.  He 
does  not  blame  the  Secretary,  for  he 
said  Mr.  Stan  ton  was  a  fair  and  just 
man.' 

The  last  sentence  is  as  nobly  char- 
acteristic as  the  preceding  one.  But 
the  sensitiveness  was  there,  and  shows 
repeatedly  under  the  stoical  calm,  as 
in  the  remark  just  before  Nashville: 
*  Wilson,  they  treat  me  at  Washing- 
ton and  at  Grant's  headquarters  as 
though  I  were  a  boy ' ;  and  in  the  retort 
to  Stanton,  when  they  met  after  the 
war  was  over  and  the  secretary  de- 
clared that  he  had  always  trusted  the 
general:  'Mr.  Stanton,  I  am  sorry  to 
hear  you  make  this  statement.  I  have 
not  been  treated  as  if  you  had  confi- 
dence in  me.'  Also,  the  general  show- 
ed a  very  human  susceptibility  in  his 
resentment  of  the  criticism  of  Scho- 
field. 

And  as  Thomas  was  sensitive,  so  he 
was  kindly  and  tender,  though  his 
grave  manner  sometimes  bred  the  con- 
trary opinion.  Sherman  even  declares 
that  he  was  too  kind  for  discipline,  and 
that  at  his  headquarters  everybody 
was  allowed  to  do  as  he  liked.  This  is 
Sherman's  exaggeration,  but  Thomas 
was  kind  to  officers  and  men :  kind,  con- 
siderate, approachable.  The  considera- 
tion showed  in  things  slight,  but  emi- 
nently significant.  For  instance,  it  is 
said  that  on  the  march,  if  the  general 
was  riding  hastily  to  the  front,  he 
would  take  his  staff  through  swamps 
and  thickets  and  leave  the  highway  to 
the  trudging  soldiers.  So,  after  the  war, 
he  was  equally  thoughtful  of  his  old 
followers  and  of  the  enemy.  And  the 
proof  of  this  is  not  only  that  his  follow- 
ers adored  'Old  Pap,'  but  that  in  spite 
of  excellent  grounds  for  animosity 
Southerners  usually  speak  of  him  with 


more  admiration  and  respect  than  of 
almost  any  other  Northern  comman- 
der. 

Nor,  in  speaking  of  Thomas's  kind- 
ness, should  we  omit  one  most  impor- 
tant feature  of  it,  his  tender  regard  for 
animals.  Maltreatment  of  them  roused 
him  to  fierce  indignation,  and  horses, 
mules,  dogs,  cats,  and  even  fowls,  look- 
ed upon  him  as  their  peculiar  friend 
and  protector. 

I  wish  I  could  say  something  about 
the  general's  more  intimate  personal 
relations.  But  he  would  have  nothing 
published  bearing  upon  them  and  it 
is  right  that  his  reticence  should  be  re- 
spected, although  I  feel  sure  that  the 
more  closely  we  studied  him,  the  more 
we  should  love  him.  Oddly  enough, 
purely  personal  material  does  not  often 
get  into  the  Official  Records,  yet  with 
Thomas,  most  secretive  of  men,  we 
have  one  of  the  few  documents  that 
seem  to  speak  directly  from  one  heart 
to  another.  Among  the  formal  corre- 
spondence bearing  upon  the  battle  of 
Nashville  we  find  the  following  brief 
dispatch,  —  hitherto  overlooked  by 
the  general's  industrious  biographers. 
*  Mrs.  F.  L.  Thomas,  New  York  Hotel, 
New  York:  We  have  whipped  the  en- 
emy, taken  many  prisoners  and  consid- 
erable artillery.'  These  are  bare  and 
simple  words.  But  when  I  think  who 
wrote  them,  who  read  them,  and  all 
they  meant,  they  bring  tears  to  my 
eyes,  at  any  rate. 

So  now  we  understand  that  this  high- 
souled  gentleman,  for  all  his  dignity 
and  all  his  serenity,  was  neither  cold 
nor  stolid,  and  we  are  better  prepared 
to  understand  the  startling  significance 
of  his  brief  remark  to  one  who  was  very 
close  to  him:  'Colonel,  I  have  taken  a 
great  deal  of  pains  to  educate  myself 
not  to  feel.' 

Truly,  a  royal  and  heroic  figure  and 
one  for  all  America  to  be  proud  of.  Is 
it  not  indeed  an  immortal  glory  for 


230                                         A  TULIP  GARDEN 

Virginia  to  have  produced  the  noblest  grows  every  year  richer,  more  prosper- 

soldier  of  the  Revolution  and  the  no-  ous,  more  fortunate,  more  loyal  in  the 

blest  that  fought  on  each  side  in  the  Union   for   which   he  helped  to  save 

Civil  War?    Some  day  I  hope  to  see  her  her,  she  herself,  whether  she  wills  it  or 

erect  a  worthy  monument  to  one  of  not,  will  more  and  more  become  his 

the  greatest  of  her  sons.    But,  as  she  noblest  monument. 


A  TULIP  GARDEN 

• 

BY   AMY  LOWELL 

GUARDED  within  the  old  red  wall's  embrace, 
Marshaled  like  soldiers  in  gay  company, 
The  tulips  stand  arrayed.   Here  infantry 

Wheels  out  into  the  sunlight.  What  bold  grace 

Sets  off  their  tunics,  white  with  crimson  lace! 
Here  are  platoons  of  gold-frocked  cavalry 
With  scarlet  sabres  tossing  in  the  eye 

Of  purple  batteries,  every  gun  in  place. 

Forward  they  come,  with  flaunting  colors  spread, 

With  torches  burning,  stepping  out  in  time 

To  some  quick,  unheard  march.  Our  ears  are  dead, 

We  cannot  catch  the  tune.   In  pantomime 
Parades  that  army.   With  our  utmost  powers 
We  hear  the  wind  stream  through  a  bed  of  flowers. 


ADVENTURES  IN  AMERICAN  DIPLOMACY 


III.     THfi  TREATY  OF  GHENT 


BY   FREDERICK   TREVOR   HILL 


EXACTLY  at  midday  of  August  7, 
1814,  four  Americans  might  have  been 
seen  earnestly  consulting  together  in 
one  of  the  rooms  of  the  late  Baron  de 
Lovendeghem's  residence  at  the  corner 
of  Rue  des  Champs  and  Rue  des  Fou- 
lons  in  the  city  of  Ghent. 

It  was  a  notable  conference,  not  only 
because  of  its  historical  significance,  but 
by  reason  of  the  singularly  harmonious 
atmosphere  which  pervaded  it,  for  the 
participants  had  nothing  in  common 
save  the  fact  that  they  represented  the 
United  States  as  Commissioners  em- 
powered to  negotiate  a  treaty  of  peace 
with  England,  and  their  earlier  meet- 
ings had  not  always  been  character- 
ized by  unanimity  either  of  thought  or 
of  action.  In  fact,  as  individuals,  the 
distinguished  diplomatists  in  question 
had  acquired  a  very  pronounced  dis- 
taste for  one  another's  society  during 
their  protracted  sojourn  in  Belgium, 
and  as  envoys  they  had  been  subjected 
to  most  mortifying  treatment. 

Under  such  circumstances  it  was  no 
more  than  natural  that  the  nerves  of 
the  official  family  should  have  become 
somewhat  unstrung.  Indeed,  the  only 
remarkable  thing  about  the  situation 
was  that  five  men  of  such  widely  dif- 
fering tastes  and  temperaments  had 
managed  to  live  under  the  same  roof 
even  for  a  day  —  to  say  nothing  of  six 
weeks. 


The  individual  who  sat  at  the  head 
of  the  conference  table  was  a  well- 
dressed,  scholarly-looking,  middle-aged 
man,  with  short,  clerical  side-whiskers, 
whose  solemn,  but  strong,  face,  and 
dignified,  if  not  haughty,  bearing  gave 
him  an  air  of  authority  of  which  he 
was  apparently  quite  sufficiently  aware. 
This  was  John  Quincy  Adams,  as  cul- 
tured and  conscientious  and  altogether 
admirable  a  public  servant  as  Massa- 
chusetts ever  produced;  and  as  fussy 
and  prolix  and  altogether  tiresome  a 
companion  as  was  ever  inflicted  on  any 
company. 

Near  this  impeccable  and  irritating 
gentleman  sat  a  lank,  uncouth,  untidy 
and  generally  unpresentable  citizen  of 
the  soil,  redolent  of  tobacco  and  whis- 
key, whose  thin,  hard,  clean-shaven 
and  somewhat  foxy  face  was  softened 
by  his  twinkling  eyes  and  the  humor- 
ous expression  of  his  mouth.  Indeed, 
the  whole  aspect  of  the  man  depend- 
ed on  his  expression.  At  serious  mo- 
ments he  looked  offensively  ill-temper- 
ed and  withered,  but  when  he  smiled 
he  seemed  positively  youthful,  and  his 
great  mass  of  light-colored  (almost 
white)  hair  added  to  this  effect,  giving 
the  impression  of-a  big  overgrown  boy, 
careless  of  appearance  and  entirely  un- 
awed.  He  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
youngest  of  the  group  assembled  at  the 
table,  for  Henry  Clay  was  only  thirty1 
seven  when  Fate  ordained  that  he 
should  be  delegated  to  adjust  a  quarrel 

231 


232 


ADVENTURES  IN  AMERICAN  DIPLOMACY 


which  he  had  done  his  utmost  to  pro- 
voke.1 

Beside  this  virile  and  vulgar  repre- 
sentative of  Kentucky  sat  a  man  whose 
patrician  face  and  finely  formed  head, 
crowned  with  luxuriant  black  locks, 
emphasized  the  marked  contrast  be- 
tween him  and  his  whitish-haired, 
coarse-featured  neighbor.  But  the  two 
men  were  not  only  physically  different, 
they  were  mentally  and  politically  hos- 
tile, for  James  A.  Bayard,  ex-United 
States  Senator  from  Delaware,  had  bit- 
terly opposed  the  declaration  of  war 
against  Great  Britain  in  1812  and 
thoroughly  disapproved  of  the  swash- 
buckling, fire-eating  appeals  by  which 
Clay  had  influenced  public  opinion  in 
favor  of  the  conflict.  But  Bayard's  en- 
thusiasm for  peace  had  been  consider- 
ably abated  by  his  experiences  in  Eu- 
rope as  a  Peace  Commissioner;  and  had 
Clay  been  his  companion  for  the  fifteen 
months  during  which  he  had  wandered 
over  the  Continent  seeking  peace  but 
finding  none,  it  is  possible  that  he  might 
have  reached  Ghent  in  a  downright 
fighting  mood.  Fortunately  for  all  con- 
cerned, however,  his  traveling  compan- 
ion during  those  trying  days  had  been 
a  man  whose  temperament  was  proof 
against  all  personal  slights  and  whose 
patience  was  well-nigh  inexhaustible. 
He  was,  in  fact,  the  only  one  of  the  en- 
voys who  had  no  inherited  prejudice 
against  England,  and  to  whom  the  war 
was  not  in  any  respect  a  family  quar- 
rel; for  Albert  Gallatin,  though  a  loyal 
American  by  adoption,  was  by  birth 
and  inheritance  a  Swiss.  Doubtless  it 
was  this  saving  quality  that  had  en- 
abled him  to  remain  unperturbed  in 
the  face  of  the  maddening  delays  and 

1  Adams  asserts  in  his  diary  that  Jonathan 
Russell  (the  fifth  American  Commissioner) 
claimed  to  be  Clay's  junior.  But  Russell  was 
then  evidently  seeking  an  excuse  for  his  subser- 
vience to  Clay.  He  was  not  present  at  the  con- 
ference of  August  7. 


disappointments  which  he  and  his  as- 
sociate had  encountered  during  their 
long  diplomatic  pilgrimage. 

That  exasperating  experience  com- 
menced in  May,  1813,  when  Gallatin 
resigned  his  position  as  Secretary  of 
the  Treasury  in  order  to  act  with  Bay- 
ard as  a  Peace  Commissioner,  and  sailed 
from  Philadelphia  with  his  colleagues, 
duly  accredited  to  meet  the  representa- 
tives of  England  at  St.  Petersburg, 
where  the  Emperor  of  Russia  was,  pre- 
sumably, to  act  as  mediator  between 
Great  Britain  and  the  United  States. 

The  journey  proved  long  and  tedious, 
and  when,  at  the  end  of  ten  weeks' 
traveling,  the  envoys  at  last  reached 
their  destination,  they  found  that 
England  had  not  sent  and  did  not 
intend  to  send  any  commissioners,  her 
government  having,  in  the  interim,  de- 
clined the  proffered  mediation. 

This  was,  to  say  the  least,  an  awk- 
ward situation,  and  the  embarrass- 
ment of  the  stranded  envoys  was  in- 
creased by  the  fact  that  they  could  not 
gracefully  retire  from  the  scene,  as  they 
were  advised  that  the  Russian  Em- 
peror was  renewing  his  offer  of  media- 
tion and  that  there  was  good  reason 
to  suppose  that  England  would  not  of- 
fend him  by  again  rejecting  his  friendly 
offices. 

Months  of  uncertainty  had  followed, 
during  which  the  luckless  diplomats 
were  neither  officials  nor  private  citi- 
zens; so  when  they  had  finally  learn- 
ed from  a  friendly  correspondent  that 
England  was  willing  to  treat  directly 
with  the  United  States,  they  traveled 
to  London  on  the  strength  of  that  in- 
formation. But  at  the  British  capital 
they  had  discovered  that  no  commis- 
sioners had  been  appointed  to  meet 
them  and  that  the  plan  for  direct  nego- 
tiation was  still  very  much  in  the  air. 
At  last,  however,  they  received  word 
that  a  new  Commission  had  been  ap- 
pointed by  the  United  States,  consisting 


ADVENTURES  IN  AMERICAN  DIPLOMACY 


233 


of  Adams,  Clay,  Jonathan  Russell  l 
and  themselves,  and  that  Gothenburg 
had  been  selected  as  the  diplomatic 
battleground.  This  was  cheering  news 
indeed,  but  before  they  reached  Goth- 
enburg they  were  advised  that  the 
meeting  place  had  been  changed  to 
Ghent,  and  there  most  of  the  party  had 
assembled  in  the  last  week  of  June, 
1814. 

ii 

After  such  an  experience  it  was,  of 
course,  eminently  fitting  that  the  replre- 
sentatives  of  the  United  States  should 
be  properly  housed.  For  more  than  a 
year  they  had  been  wandering  from  pil- 
lar to  post,  and  the  national  dignity 
demanded  that  they  should  acquire  a 
permanent  abode.  Doubtless  it  was 
this  fact  that  induced  the  envoys  to 
lease  the  de  Lovendeghem  residence 
soon  after  their  arrival  in  Ghent;  and 
had  they  been  content  to  utilize  it  sole- 
ly for  the  transaction  of  their  official 
business  all  might  have  passed  off  well. 
Unfortunately,  however,  they  invited 
trouble  for  themselves  by  deciding  to 
live  as  well  as  work  in  the  building,  and 
the  friction  of  daily  living  in  close  quar- 
ters was  soon  more  than  one  of  the  in- 
mates was  able  to  endure;  for  no  house 
was  big  enough  to  hold  John  Quincy 
Adams  and  his  bete  noire,  Henry  Clay. 

Indeed,  the  official  family  had  not 
much  more  than  begun  to  settle  down 
in  its  new  abode  before  Adams  rebelled 
at  dining  with  his  associates,  who  *  sat 
long  at  table  drinking  bad  wine  and 
smoking  cigars/  and  otherwise  proving 
anything  but  agreeable  companions  for 
a  man  of  his  puritanical  habits  and 
tastes.  He  accordingly  took  refuge  at  a 
neighboring  table  d'hote,  but  after  a  few 
days  he  swallowed  his  disgust  (doubt- 
less at  the  expense  of  his  digestion)  and 
thereafter  schooled  himself  to  partici- 
pate in  all  the  family  repasts.  This  self- 

1  Formerly  Charge  d'Affaires  at  London. 


sacrificing  move  was,  strangely  enough, 
occasioned  by  the  regret  which  Clay 
contrived  to  express  at  his  confrere's 
retirement  from  the  convivial  board; 
and  much  as  the  scion  of  New  England 
is  to  be  commended  for  forcing  himself 
to  rub  elbows  with  the  raw  Kentuckian 
whose  personal  habits  and  table  man- 
ners were  far  from  pleasant,  Clay  is 
entitled  to  something  very  like  heroic 
honors  for  diplomatically  saddling  him- 
self with  the  company  of  a  man  who, 
by  the  very  excess  of  his  virtue,  was  a 
kill-joy  to  the  free  and  easy. 

With  such  commendable  forbearance 
and  courtesy  on  the  part  of  the  pro- 
tagonists in  this  ill-mated  household, 
it  is  probable  that  all  personal  friction 
would  have  been  reduced  to  a  mini- 
mum had  the  English  Commissioners 
arrived  promptly  on  the  scene.  But 
they  were  not  on  hand  by  the  time  the 
Americans  had  completed  their  living 
arrangements,  and  as  day  after  day 
slipped  by  without  any  news  of  them, 
the  waiting  diplomats  grew  more  and 
more  bored  by  their  own  society  and 
dissatisfied  with  their  surroundings. 

Adams  was  the  only  one  of  the  party 
who  had  had  any  extended  experience 
in  diplomacy,  but  that  did  not  recon- 
cile his  associates  to  his  assumption  of 
leadership,  and  his  inborn  superiority 
and  pompous  piety  fairly  maddened 
them.  It  is  not  difficult  to  understand 
this  state  of  affairs.  The  voluminous 
journal  in  which  Adams  recorded  all 
his  thoughts  and  actions  reveals  the 
situation  at  a  glance. 

*  I  usually  rise  between  five  and  six,' 
he  wrote  at  about  this  time, '  but  not  so 
regularly  as  heretofore,  my  hour  of  re- 
tiring at  night  being  more  irregular.  I 
begin  the  day  by  reading  five  chapters 
of  the  Bible  and  have  this  day  finished 
in  course  the  New  Testament.  I  then 
write  till  nine  o'clock,  when  I  break- 
fast alone  in  my  chambers.  ...  I  have 
this  month  frequented  too  much  the 


234 


ADVENTURES  IN  AMERICAN  DIPLOMACY 


theatre  and  public  amusements.  .  .  . 
May  I  be  cautious  not  to  fall  into  any 
habit  of  indolence  or  dissipation.' 

No  wonder  this  worthy  but  compla- 
cent diarist  looked  askance  at  Clay's 
all-night  card  parties  and  general  air 
of  irresponsibility,  and  that  the  friction 
between  the  members  of  that  incongru- 
ous menage  engendered  a  dangerous 
amount  of  heat  as  the  long  summer 
days  dragged  on. 

Meanwhile  nothing  was  heard  of  the 
British  delegation,  and  at  the  end  of  a 
month  and  a  half  the  situation  began 
to  be  humiliatingly  ridiculous.  Here 
were  five  Americans,  who  had  traveled 
thousands  of  miles  to  confer  with  Eng- 
land, left  to  cool  their  heels  in  a  little 
Belgian  town,  without  as  much  as  a 
word  of  apology,  even  of  explanation. 
Such  contemptuous  treatment  would 
have  been  offensive  under  any  circum- 
stances, but  in  view  of  their  elaborate 
preparations  it  was  well  calculated  to 
make  the  marooned  diplomats  and 
their  country  the  laughing-stock  of  the 
whole  world.  It  is  therefore  not  at  all 
surprising  that  the  atmosphere  of  the 
de  Lovendeghem  residence  was  any- 
thing but  genial  during  the  midsummer 
of  1814. 

On  the  evening  of  August  6,  how- 
ever, the  long-expected  British  Com- 
missioners actually  arrived,  but  the 
manner  in  which  their  advent  was  an- 
nounced did  not  tend  to  smooth  the 
ruffled  feathers  of  their  opponents.  On 
the  contrary,  it  added  insult  to  injury, 
for  the  newcomers,  instead  of  apolo- 
gizing for  their  tardy  appearance,  sent 
word  that  they  were  quartered  at  the 
Hotel  Lion  d'Or,  where  the  Americans 
could  attend  them  on  the  morrow  for 
the  purpose  of  exchanging  credentials ; 
and  it  was  to  consider  this  cool  proposi- 
tion that  four  of  the  five  United  States 
Commissioners  assembled  at  noon  on 
Sunday,  August  7. 

It  did  not  take  them  long  to  agree 


upon  a  course  of  action.  Indeed,  if  the 
representatives  of  Great  Britain  had 
studied  how  they  could  best  serve  their 
discordant  adversaries,  they  could  not 
have  hit  upon  a  happier  plan;  for  from 
the  moment  that  they  were  summoned 
to  attend  at  the  Englishmen's  lodgings 
the  American  envoys  laid  aside  their 
personal  differences  and  became,  for  the 
time  being  at  least,  a  unit.  The  imme- 
diate result  was  that  they  determined 
without  a  dissenting  vote  to  decline  the 
patronizing  invitation.  It  was  not  the 
fire-eating  Clay,  however,  but  the  ju- 
dicial Adams  who  was  for  handling  the 
situation  without  gloves.  The  sugges- 
tion which  had  been  made  to  them  was, 
he  declared,  an  offensive  pretension  to 
superiority,  based  on  the  usage  of  am- 
bassadors toward  ministers  of  an  infe- 
rior order;  and  supporting  his  asser- 
tion with  a  citation  from  Martens,  he 
moved  that  the  British  Commissioners 
be  advised  that  the  representatives  of 
the  United  States  would  meet  them  at 
any  time  and  place  other  than  their 
own  lodgings.  Indeed,  once  he  was  in 
the  saddle,  it  was  difficult  to  prevent 
the  doughty  Puritan  from  throwing 
himself  headlong  against  the  foe.  But 
Gallatin  finally  persuaded  him  that  a 
flank  attack  would  be  more  effective, 
and  the  upshot  was  that  a  note  was 
dispatched  to  the  Lion  d'Or,  inform- 
ing its  distinguished  patrons  that  the 
Americans  would  meet  them  at  any 
place  which  might  be  mutually  conveni- 
ent, preferably  the  Hotel  des  Pays 
Bas. 

This  delicate  hint  was  not  lost  upon 
the  Englishmen,  who  promptly  accept- 
ed it,  and  the  honors  of  the  opening 
move  thus  rested  with  those  who,  up 
to  that  moment,  had  been  playing  a 
lone  hand  in  the  diplomatic  game. 

One  o'clock  of  August  8  was  the  day 
and  hour  assigned  for  the  first  joint 
conference  of  the  Commissioners,  and 
at  that  time  the  Americans  appeared 


ADVENTURES  IN  AMERICAN  DIPLOMACY 


235 


at  the  Hotel  des  Pays  Bas,  where  they 
learned  that  the  British  representa- 
tives had  already  arrived.  They  ac- 
cordingly passed  at  once  into  the  apart- 
ment reserved  for  the  occasion,  where 
they  were  courteously  greeted  by  a 
man  of  fine  appearance,  whose  florid, 
clean-shaven,  characteristically  Eng- 
lish face  was  highly  intelligent  and 
brimful  of  health  and  vitality.  This 
was  James,  Lord  Gambier,  Admiral  of 
the  White  Squadron,  ex-Governor  of 
Newfoundland,  and  a  former  lord  of  the 
Admiralty,  whose  life  from  earliest  boy- 
hood had  been  spent  at  sea  and  whose 
vessels  were  known  in  the  British  navy 
as  'praying  ships,'  for  his  Lordship 
was  a  stout  churchman  as  well  as  a 
hard  fighter. 

His  second  in  command  on  this  oc- 
casion was  a  young  man  not  over 
thirty  years  of  age,  with  a  keen,  clean- 
shaven face,  an  ungracious  manner,  and 
a  very  uncertain  temper.  This  youth- 
ful envoy  was  Henry  Goulburn,  Under 
Secretary  for  War  and  the  Colonies, 
who  had  only  recently  been  elected  to 
Parliament  and  who  was  almost  un- 
known in  England,  although  destined, 
before  many  years,  to  become  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Exchequer  and  one  of 
the  foremost  British  statesmen  of  his 
time. 

The  other  English  Commissioner  was 
a  barrister  of  no  particular  distinc- 
tion, for  although  Dr.  William  Adams 
had  a  well-earned  reputation  as  a  spe- 
cialist in  certain  branches  of  the  law, 
he  was  not  a  prominent  member  of  the 
English  Bar,  and  was  utterly  unknown 
outside  his  own  country.  In  fact,  the 
only  qualification  that  he  possessed 
for  the  work  that  lay  before  him  was 
his  knowledge  of  practice  in  the  Ad- 
miralty courts  —  an  advantage  which 
was  more  than  offset  by  his  brusque 
manners  and  by  his  total  unfamiliar- 
ity  with  international  affairs.  Indeed, 
Goulburn  was  the  only  member  of  the 


party  who  had  had  any  training  what- 
soever in  diplomatic  negotiations,  and 
it  was  soon  apparent  that  the  British 
government  did  not  repose  much  con- 
fidence in  its  official  representatives. 

Probably  the  authorities  in  London 
believed  that  the  issue  would  be  con- 
trolled by  events  rather  than  by  ar- 
guments. But  if  this  was  not  the  ex- 
planation of  their  strange  selection  of 
plenipotentiaries,  it  obviously  account- 
ed for  their  delay  in  opening  the  ne- 
gotiations, for  the  success  of  the  Brit- 
ish land  forces  in  America  during  the 
past  seven  months  could  not  be  gain- 
said, and  there  was  every  prospect  that 
the  summer  campaign  would  greatly 
increase  the  advantage.  Certainly  from 
a  military  standpoint  England  could 
not  have  hit  upon  a  more  favorable 
moment  for  discussing  a  cessation  of 
hostilities,  and  doubtless  the  British 
Ministers  felt  that  they  could  practi- 
cally dictate  the  terms  of  peace  by 
the  time  their  negotiators  appeared  in 
Ghent. 

Under  such  circumstances  it  was  to 
be  expected  that  Lord  Gambier  and 
his  associates  would  take  a  high  stand 
with  their  adversaries,  and  the  Ameri- 
icans  well  knew  that  a  hard  fight  lay 
before  them.  But  prepared  as  they 
were  for  serious  work,  they  had  no  sus- 
picion of  the  extravagant  demands 
upon  which  England  had  determined. 
The  surprise  was  not  delayed,  however, 
for  immediately  after  the  interchange 
of  formal  courtesies  Goulburn  proceed- 
ed to  outline  his  instructions,  which 
provided,  among  other  things,  for  the 
inclusion  of  the  Indian  allies  of  Great 
Britain  as  parties  to  the  negotiation, 
and  for  the  creation  of  a  neutral  zone 
for  their  protection.  Both  of  these 
points,  he  stated,  would  have  to  be  re- 
garded as  conditions  precedent  to  the 
conclusion  of  any  treaty.  This  sounded 
vague  and  somewhat  ominous,  but  the 
Americans  made  no  comment,  and*  it 


236 


ADVENTURES  IN  AMERICAN  DIPLOMACY 


was  not  until  after  two  or  three  for- 
mal meetings  that  the  young  cabinet 
official  saw  fit  to  enter  upon  further' 
details  of  the  British  demands,  which 
were  well  calculated  to  make  his  Amer- 
ican auditors  stare  and  gasp.  The  neu- 
tral zone  for  the  benefit  of  the  Indians, 
he  explained,  was  to  be  formed  by  sur- 
rendering to  them  all  of  the  region  now 
occupied  by  Michigan,  Wisconsin,  and 
Illinois,  most  of  Indiana,  and  part  of 
Ohio.  This  was  to  form  a  barrier  be- 
tween Canada  and  the  United  States, 
and  was  not  to  be  alienated  to  either 
England  or  America.  Then,  parts  of 
Maine  and  New  York  were  to  be  ceded 
to  Great  Britain  in  a  revision  of  the 
boundary  line;  the  forts  at  Niagara 
and  Sackett's  Harbor  were  to  be  dis- 
mantled, and  the  United  States  was 
to  agree  that  it  would  never  maintain 
any  armed  force  on  the  Great  Lakes  or 
the  rivers  emptying  into  them;  leaving 
Great  Britain,  however,  free  to  do  so. 

To  these  and  a  few  minor  require- 
ments the  American  Commissioners 
listened  with  unfeigned  astonishment. 
Then  Gallatin  ventured  to  inquire  what 
was  to  become  of  the  citizens  of  Mich- 
igan, Illinois,  and  Ohio  after  their  ter- 
ritory had  been  handed  over  to  the  In- 
dians, and  was  brusquely  informed  that 
they  would  of  course  have  to  shift  for 
themselves. 

This  was  quite  sufficient  to  bring 
the  conference  to  a  close,  and  merely 
requesting  that  the  propositions  be 
reduced  to  writing,  Adams  and  his  col- 
leagues withdrew  to  their  headquar- 
ters. Possibly  this  quiet  reception  of 
their  ultimata  encouraged  the  British 
Commissioners  to  believe  that  they 
had  raised  issues  which  would  effect  a 
welcome  delay  in  the  proceedings  by 
forcing  their  opponents  to  seek  new  in- 
structions from  Washington.  But  if  so, 
they  were  speedily  disillusioned,  for  an 
official  answer  was  promptly  laid  be- 
fore them,  refusing  to  proceed  any  fur- 


ther with  the  negotiations  on  the  lines 
suggested. 

This  response  would  doubtless  have 
been  even  more  promptly  delivered 
had  it  not  been  for  the  fact  that  when 
Adams  attempted  to  draft  it,  all  his 
colleagues  attacked  his  composition, 
amending  and  correcting  it  until  very 
little  of  the  original  remained.  There 
was  something  positively  pathetic  in 
Adams's  bewilderment  at  this  merci- 
less treatment  of  his  carefully  consid- 
ered pages.  He  had  played  the  school- 
master so  long  that  he  could  scarcely 
believe  his  eyes  and  ears  when  he  found 
his  authority  disputed.  But  his  col- 
leagues had  suffered  from  the  worthy 
doctrinaire  for  many  weeks,  and  they 
were  in  no  mood  to  spare  him  when 
their  hour  arrived.  Thus  Gallatin  took 
the  sting  out  of  all  his  spirited  rejoin- 
ders; Clay  eliminated  all  his  figurative 
language;  Bayard  remoulded  all  his 
pet  sentences;  and,  as  a  crowning  in- 
sult, Russell  corrected  his  punctuation, 
his  capitalization,  and  his  spelling! 
Indeed,  among  his  four  critics,  the  in- 
dignant author  had  difficulty  in  saving 
even  a  fraction  of  his  precious  screed, 
for  they  all  supported  one  another  in 
the  work  of  destruction  and,  to  his 
mind,  the  document,  as  finally  sub- 
mitted to  the  British  plenipotentiaries, 
was  a  sorry  piece  of  patchwork,  wholly 
insufficient  and  unscholarly. 

It  served,  however,  to  make  Lord 
Gambierand  hi&  associates  suspect  that 
they  might,  perhaps,  have  gone  a  trifle 
too  far  and  a  bit  too  fast,  and  their 
suspicions  were  confirmed  when  they 
learned  that  the  American  Commis- 
sioners were  preparing  to  depart  from 
Ghent.  This  move  might  have  been 
planned  for  strategic  effect,  but  it  was 
not.  On  the  contrary,  the  majority  of 
the  United  States  envoys  were  firmly 
convinced  that  their  mission  was  at  an 
end,  and  only  one  of  them  entertained 
a  different  view.  This  solitary  optim- 


ADVENTURES  IN  AMERICAN  DIPLOMACY 


237 


ist,  however,  according  to  Adams,  pos- 
sessed 'the  inconceivable  notion  that 
the  British  would  recede  from  their 
position.' 

There  was  no  tangible  basis  for  that 
*  inconceivable  notion.'  But  Clay  was 
an  inveterate  gambler,  accustomed  to 
bluffing,  and  one  of  his  favorite  games 
was  what  was  then  called  'brag.' 

in 

Ten  days  passed  before  anything 
more  was  heard  from  the  British  Com- 
missioners, for  they  had  submitted 
'the  patchwork  reply'  to  their  su- 
periors; and  meanwhile  the  Americans 
continued  to  prepare  for  departure.  In 
fact,  they  actually  notified  their  land- 
lord of  their  intention  to  vacate  at  the 
end  of  August,  but  finally  agreed  to 
continue  the  lease  fifteen  days  longer 
at  the  rate  of  twelve  hundred  francs 
a  month.  It  certainly  seemed  as  if  the 
business  would  be  concluded  within 
that  time,  for  when  the  response  of  the 
British  Commissioners  was  received  it 
did  not  withdraw  the  objectionable  de- 
mands, but  merely  announced  that  the 
neutral  zone  for  the  Indians  need  not 
be  regarded  as  a  condition  precedent 
to  further  discussion.  The  Americans 
therefore  promptly  replied  that  this 
would  not  be  satisfactory,  and  repeat- 
ed their  refusal  to  enter  on  any  nego- 
tiations based  on  such  terms.  Indeed, 
they  had  determined  air  mg  themselves 
to  waste  no  time  debating  impossible 
conditions,  but  to  force  England  to  show 
her  hand  with  the  least  possible  delay. 

This  bold  decision  was  unquestion- 
ably influenced  by  the  'brag'  expert, 
who  continued  to  *  sense '  the  situation 
with  his  gaming  instincts.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  however,  the  whole  party  had 
been  playing  cards  since  its  last  joint 
effort  at  drafting  a  reply,  and  there  are 
two  entries  in  Adams's  diary  of  about 
this  date  which  are  eloquent  proof  that 


while  all  the  diplomats  were  gaining 
experience  at  the  card-table,  some  of 
them  were  showing  far  greater  aptitude 
than  the  others.  For  instance,  on  Sep- 
tember 4,  the  Puritan  Abroad  wrote:  — 
*  We  spent  the  evening  at  cards.  The 
party  broke  up  at  midnight,  and  after 
they  [the  visitors]  were  gone  Mr.  Clay 
won  from  me  at  a  game  of  "all  fours" 
the  picture  of  an  old  woman  I  had 
drawn  in  the  lottery.  He  also  won  from 
Mr.  Todd  the  bunch  of  flowers  which 
Mr.  Russell  had  drawn,  and  which 
Todd  had  won  from  Mr.  Russell.' 

Evidently  the  fever  for  gambling 
was  running  scandalously  high  in  the 
diplomatic  circle.  Again,  on  the  8th, 
Adams  writes, '  I  was  up  nearly  an  hour 
before  I  had  daylight  to  read  or  write. 
Just  before  rising  I  heard  Mr.  Clay's 
company  retiring  from  his  chamber.  I 
had  left  him  with  Mr.  Russell,  Mr. 
Bentzon,  and  Mr.  Todd,  at  cards.' 

It  was  on  the  day  following  this  all- 
night  session  at  'brag'  that  the  Eng- 
lish Commissioners  were  informed  that 
their  'bluff  was  called,'  and  they  has- 
tened to  communicate  the  news  to 
London.  Indeed,  by  this  time  it  was 
apparent  that  they  were  plenipotenti- 
aries only  in  name,  and  that  their  prin- 
cipal function  was  to  act  as  scapegoats 
for  the  mistakes  of  their  superiors.  At 
all  events,  in  this  instance  thjpy  were 
severely  taken  to  task  by  the  London 
authorities  for  having  'misunderstood 
their  instructions,'  and  were  ordered 
to  advise  the  Americans  that  neither 
the  Indian  barrier  nor  the  exclusive 
control  of  the  Lakes  was  a  prerequisite 
to  peace,  although  it  would  still  be  ne- 
cessary to  admit  the  Indians  as  parties 
to  any  treaty  which  might  result  from 
the  negotiations. 

This  was,  of  course,  a  most  material 
concession,  and  to  reject  it  as  insuffi- 
cient required  courage,  for  the  war  had 
been  going  steadily  against  the  United 
States  all  the  summer,  and  the  British 


238 


ADVENTURES  IN  AMERICAN  DIPLOMACY 


envoys  saw  to  it  that  their  adversaries 
were  advised  of  that  fact  by  providing 
them  with  the  latest  London  papers. 
This  thoughtful  attention,  however,  did 
not  produce  its  intended  effect.  On  the 
contrary,  it  seemed  to  the  company 
on  Rue  des  Champs  suspiciously  like 
Overbidding  their  hand,'  and  it  was 
not  surprising  if  the  '  brag '  enthusiasts 
interpreted  the  diplomatic  manoeuvres 
in  the  terms  of  that  game,  for  some 
of  them  were  certainly  devoting  them- 
selves to  its  study.  For  example,  on 
the  day  after  the  British  note  was  re- 
ceived, Adams  carefully  recorded  the 
fact  that '  there  was  another  card  party 
in  Mr.  Clay's  chambers  last  night.  I 
heard  Mr.  Bentzon  retiring  from  it 
after  I  had  risen  this  morning';  and 
under  the  same  date  he  noted  the  atti- 
tude of  his  colleagues  toward  the  lat- 
est demands  from  London,  which  in- 
dicated that  they  would  reject  them 
forthwith. 

The  framing  of  the  formal  reply  to 
that  effect  did  not,  however,  fall  upon 
Adams.  Indeed,  the  high-minded  di- 
arist was  by  this  time  in  a  very  chas- 
tened mood,  for  to  his  intense  chagrin 
his  associates  had  continued  to  treat 
his  literary  efforts  most  disrespectfully, 
virtually  tearing  to  pieces  everything 
he  wrote.  'This  must  be  in  great 
measure  the  fault  of  my  composition,' 
he  naively  remarked  to  his  journal, 
'and  I  ought  to  endeavor  to  correct 
the  general  fault  from  which  it  pro- 
ceeds.' Doubtless  the  estimable  gentle- 
man, whose  humbled  pride  is  surely 
provocative  of  tears,  did  earnestly  en- 
deavor to  correct  his  ponderous  style; 
but,  although  his  ideas  were  often  ap- 
proved, his  voluminous  manuscripts 
never  were,  and  after  weeks  of  painful 
badgering  he  retired  in  favor  of  Galla- 
tin,  who  thereupon  assumed  the  duty 
of  drafting  the  official  correspondence. 

Under  this  new  regime  the  third 
rejection  of  Great  Britain's  demands 


was  prepared  with  a  view  to  its  effect 
in  London  and  with  no  thought  of  in- 
fluencing the  individuals  to  whom  it 
was  formally  addressed.  Indeed,  Gam- 
bier  and  his  associates,  having  been  re- 
legated by  their  government  to  the  role 
of  messengers,  were  no  longer  regarded 
as  factors  in  the  negotiation.  It  was 
therefore  with  no  surprise  that  the 
Americans  learned  that  their  last  com- 
munication had  been  forwarded  to  Eng- 
land, and  that  there  would  be  another 
long  and  wearisome  delay  before  the 
negotiations  could  proceed. 

This  was  of  course  an  inevitable  con- 
sequence of  playing  the  game  of '  brag ' 
by  correspondence,  but  it  placed  the  re- 
presentatives of  the  United  States  at  a 
great  disadvantage,  as  each  day  of  en- 
forced idleness  put  an  additional  strain 
on  their  tempers  and  threatened  to  end 
in  ruining  their  team-work.  Thus  far 
they  had  managed  to  conceal  their  per- 
sonal differences  and  to  present  an  un- 
broken front  to  their  adversaries.  The 
atmosphere  of  the  uncongenial  house- 
hold, however,  had  long  been  too  highly 
charged  for  safety,  and  before  the  re- 
ceipt of  the  fourth  British  note,  Clay 
and  Adams  collided,  an  explosion  fol- 
lowed, and  Jonathan  Russell,  gather- 
ing up  his  belongings,  sought  peace 
and  seclusion  in  the  Hotel  des  Pays 
Bas. 

Indeed,  it  is  quite  possible  that  this 
defection  might  have  ended  in  a  com- 
plete disruption  of  the  official  family 
had  not  news  of  the  capture  and  par- 
tial destruction  of  Washington  cre- 
ated a  diversion.  These  discouraging 
tidings  were  speedily  followed  by  a 
new  note  from  the  British  government, 
and  the  warring  Peace  Commissioners 
again  laid  aside  their  private  quarrels 
to  work  for  the  common  cause. 

But  the  baneful  effect  of  internal 
friction  was  thereafter  apparent  in 
their  official  conferences,  for  even  when 
it  was  known  that  the  long-expected 


ADVENTURES  IN  AMERICAN  DIPLOMACY 


239 


response  from  Great  Britain  accepted 
amnesty  for  the  Indians  in  place  of 
the  objectionable  treaty  rights,  they  al- 
most lost  sight  of  the  significance  of  the 
concession  in  sharply  debating  trifles. 
It  was  finally  agreed,  however,  that  the 
amnesty  should  be  regarded  as  satisfac- 
tory, but  the  drafting  of  the  official 
announcement  of  this  fact  precipitated 
something  very  like  an  open  quarrel. 
Gallatin  and  Clay  wanted  the  docu- 
ment to  be  short.  Adams  insisted  that 
it  be  long,  and  that  it  be  accompanied 
by  an  argument  for  the  cession  of  Can- 
ada to  the  United  States!  Even  the 
lifelong  gamblers  were  staggered  by 
such  reckless  plunging  on  the  part  of 
the  novice  at  cards,  but  the  passion  for 
bluffing  had  taken  possession  of  Adams, 
and  he  stuck  to  his  point  until  it  was 
summarily  vetoed  by  the  other  Com- 
missioners. 

After  this  colossal  attempt  to  out- 
brag  the  other  side,  any  play  naturally 
seemed  tame,  and  the  answer  which 
was  finally  drafted  by  Clay  was  ex- 
tremely distasteful  to  Adams,  who  *  dis- 
liked it  in  all  its  parts'  and  did  not 
hesitate  to  say  so.  Nevertheless  his 
objections  were  overruled,  and  his 
discomfiture  was  not  lessened  by  his 
successful  opponent  who  openly  'rail- 
ed at  commerce  and  Massachusetts, 
and  told  what  wonders  the  people  of 
Kentucky  would  do  if  they  should  be 
attacked.' 

The  next  communication  from  Lon- 
don, however,  tended  to  unite  the  dis- 
putants, for  it  incorporated  a  new  de- 
mand, that  the  existing  state  of  the  war 
should  be  taken  as  the  basis  of  the  con- 
templated treaty.  That  is  to  say,  each 
side  was  to  be  confirmed  in  its  owner- 
ship of  whatever  territory  was  then 
occupied  by  its  military  forces.  The  ac- 
ceptance of  such  a  proposition  by  the 
United  States  would  have  been,  of 
course,  a  virtual  admission  of  defeat, 
for  Great  Britain  had  acquired  control 


of  a  considerable  area  by  the  spring  of 
1814,  and  there  was  reason  to  believe 
that  she  had  more  than  held  her  own 
during  the  summer  months.  But  dis- 
couraging as  the  war  news  had  been, 
the  Americans  were  not  ready  to  ad- 
mit that  their  adversaries  held  more 
than  a  temporary  advantage,  and  they 
promptly  announced  that  unless  this 
was  conceded  the  negotiations  must 
end  then  and  there. 

This  defiant  communication  was  at 
once  forwarded  to  London,  where  the 
authorities  hastened  to  lay  the  situa- 
tion before  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  of- 
fering him  supreme  command  of  the 
British  forces  in  America;  and  the  fate 
of  the  negotiation  hung  on  his  reply. 

But  Wellington  displayed  no  enthu- 
siasm for  the  commission.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  announced  that  while  he  was 
ready  to  obey  the  orders  of  his  gov- 
ernment, he  did  not  believe  that  the 
military  situation  in  any  way  justified 
the  demands  which  were  being  pressed 
upon  the  United  States . l  The  result  of 
this  frank  avowal  was  a  withdrawal 
of  the  claims,  and  an  announcement  of 
that  fact  reached  Ghent  October  31. 


IV 

Meanwhile  the  American  Commis- 
sioners, finding  time  hanging  heavy  on 
their  hands,  had  resumed  their  petty 
wrangling,  the  upshot  of  which  was 
that  Clay  finally  followed  Russell's  ex- 
ample and  retired  to  lodgings  of  his 
own.  But  this  did  not  entirely  clear  the 
social  atmosphere,  for  there  was  some 
confusion  in  the  distribution  of  official 
invitations,  which  resulted  in  Clay's 
finding  himself  at  a  function  at  which 
he  was  not  expected,  and  both  he  and 

1  Wellington's  judgment  was  completely  con- 
firmed by  the  events  of  the  war,  for  during  Sep- 
tember, 1814,  England  met  with  a  series  of  rever- 
ses which  neutralized  all  the  advantages  she  had 
previously  gained. 


240 


ADVENTURES  IN  AMERICAN  DIPLOMACY 


Russell  took  offense  at  being  classed 
among  the  secretaries  when  certain 
courtesies  were  extended  to  the  diplo- 
mats by  local  societies.  The  relations 
between  the  envoys  were  therefore 
none  too  pleasant  when  the  British 
government  suggested  that  they  pre- 
pare and  submit  the  outline  of  a  treaty, 
and  Adams  and  Clay  were  soon  at  log- 
gerheads. 

This  time,  however,  the  differences 
between  the  two  men  were  political  as 
well  as  personal,  for  Clay  insisted  on 
demanding  that  England  surrender  all 
her  rights  to  the  navigation  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi, which  she  had  acquired  by 
a  former  treaty,  Adams  was  equally 
keen  for  the  continuation  of  the  fish- 
ing rights  secured  by  the  same  docu- 
ment, and  each  was  willing  to  sacrifice 
the  other's  pet  project  to  advance  the 
interest  he  espoused.  The  more  this 
subject  was  debated  the  hotter  the  dis- 
putants became,  and  when  Adams, 
notwithstanding  his  resignation  as  offi- 
cial draftsman,  attempted  to  resume 
that  role,  he  found  three  fourths  of  his 
manuscript  ruthlessly  eliminated  by  his 
associates. 

But  accustomed  as  he  had  become 
by  this  time  to  such  treatment,  there 
was  one  provision  in  his  draft  for 
which  the  zealous  statesman  was  pre- 
pared to  fight,  and  fight  for  it  he  did 
with  all  the  resources  at  his  command. 
The  gist  of  his  proposal  was  that  peace 
should  follow  the  mutual  restoration 
of  all  territory  and  property  taken 
by  either  side  during  the  war,  and  that 
all  matters  in  dispute  between  the  two 
countries  should  be  allowed  to  remain 
exactly  as  they  were  before  the  war 
until  decided  by  future  and  pacific  ne- 
gotiations. 

Of  course  under  such  an  arrange- 
ment the  question  of  impressment  of 
seamen  and  the  other  issues  which  had 
brought  about  the  conflict  would  re- 
main wholly  unadjusted,  and  Clay,  re- 


membering his  passionate  crusade  in 
defense  of  American  sailors,  was  loath 
to  see  no  vindication  of  their  rights. 
First  he  declared  that  the  instructions 
of  the  government  did  not  admit  of  a 
treaty  based  on  any  such  proposition; 
and  then,  being  outvoted,  he  protested 
that  he  would  not  sign  any  document 
embodying  it.  But  finally,  after  he  had 
backed  and  filled  for  many  days,  he 
appended  his  signature. 

More  than  two  weeks  passed  before 
any  reply  was  received  to  this  momen- 
tous communication,  and  meanwhile 
dispatches  arrived  from  the  Washing- 
ton government  expressly  authorizing 
the  envoys  to  conclude  peace  on  pre- 
cisely the  terms  for  which  Adams  had 
so  stoutly  and  successfully  contended. 
This,  of  course,  disposed  of  Clay's  ob- 
jections, but  when  on  November  26  the 
long-expected  response  arrived  from 
England,  he  completely  lost  his  tem- 
per, for  the  British  authorities,  while 
making  no  reference  to  the  question 
of  the  fisheries,  expressly  stipulated 
for  the  continuance  of  Great  Britain's 
privileges  in  regard  to  the  navigation 
of  the  Mississippi. 

This  immediately  precipitated  a  vio- 
lent dispute  between  Adams  and  Clay 
which  threatened  to  bring  the  entire 
negotiation  to  a  disastrous  close.  Gal- 
latin,  however,  handled  the  combat- 
ants with  consummate  skill,  displaying 
such  sympathy,  tact,  humor,  and  pa- 
tience that  his  influence  was  irresistible, 
and  a  compromise  was  finally  effected 
which  permitted  the  business  to  pro- 
ceed. This  compromise  took  the  form 
of  an  offer  on  behalf  of  the  United 
States  to  concede  to  England  the 
right  of  navigating  the  Mississippi  in 
exchange  for  the  continuation  of  the 
fishing  privileges;  but  Clay  did  not  sur- 
render with  good  grace.  Indeed,  he  as- 
serted that  the  Commission  was  making 
*a  damned  bad  treaty,'  and  intimated 
more  than  once  that  he  would  not  sign 


ADVENTURES  IN  AMERICAN  DIPLOMACY 


241 


it.  But  by  this  time  Adams  had  re- 
gained control  of  his  temper,  and  when 
Gallatin,  losing  patience,  commented 
severely  on  Clay's  unseasonable  trifling, 
the  Kentuckian  yielded,  and  the  joint 
conferences  were  renewed. 

Had  the  English  envoys  been  aware 
of  the  dangerous  split  in  their  oppo- 
nents' ranks  they  might  have  man- 
oeuvred effectively  to  widen  the  breach. 
Not  a  sign  of  their  bitter  internal  strife 
was  visible,  however,  when  the  Amer- 
icans met  their  adversaries  face  to  face. 
To  all  outward  appearances  they  were 
men  of  one  mind,  with  a  settled  policy, 
ready  to  support  each  other  on  every 
point  at  a  moment's  notice.  Indeed, 
their  magnificent  exhibition  of  team- 
play  and  their  solid,  formidable  front, 
maintained  with  the  utmost  gravity, 
produced  a  moral  effect  which  unques- 
tionably hastened  the  result. 

But  the  heart-breaking  compromise 
which  had  almost  rent  them  asunder 
was  not  accepted  by  the  English  Com- 
missioners, who,  after  much  discussion, 
finally  submitted  a  counter-proposition 
to  reserve  all  questions  concerning  the 
Mississippi  and  the  fisheries  for  future 
negotiation.  The  Americans  immedi- 
VOL.114-N0.2 


ately  saw  that  such  an  agreement 
might  be  construed  as  a  waiver  of  what 
they  deemed  to  be  their  rights.  But 
there  was  no  longer  any  scope  for 
further  give-and-take.  Adams  and  his 
associates  therefore  proposed  that  a 
treaty  be  concluded  without  any  men- 
tion of  either  of  the  hotly  disputed 
claims,  and  this  suggestion  was  event- 
ually accepted  by  the  English  Com- 
missioners. Still,  the  result  was  not 
reached  without  a  hard  struggle,  for 
Gambier,  Goulburn,  and  Dr.  Adams, 
although  overmatched  by  their  oppo- 
nents in  point  of  ability,  displayed 
good  fighting  qualities,  and  the  end  did 
not  come  until  the  year  (1814)  was 
drawing  to  a  close.  On  Christmas  Eve, 
however,  the  Commissioners  gathered 
to  sign  the  completed  document,  and 
as  Adams  delivered  the  American  cop- 
ies to  Lord  Gambier,  he  expressed  the 
hope  that  it  would  be  the  last  treaty 
of  peace  between  Great  Britain  and  the 
United  States. 

Thus  ended  the  great  game  of  diplo- 
matic *  brag '  which,  played  to  a  finish, 
left  each  side  a  winner  and  promoted  a 
friendship  which  has  lasted  throughout 
a  hundred  years. 


THE  AFTERNOON  RIDE  OF 
PAUL  REVERE   COLUMBUS  DOBBS 


BY   VIRGINIA   BAKER 


PAUL  REVERE  COLUMBUS  DOBBS, 
more  generally  known  in  the  family 
circle  and  throughout  Riverport  by  the 
abbreviated  title  of  *  Polly  Clum,'  stood 
before  his  mother  in  an  attitude  of  re- 
spectful attention. 

Mrs.  Dobbs,  tall,  portly,  and  ma- 
jestic, in  a  freshly  ironed  green-and- 
yellow  striped  calico  gown  and  a  tur- 
key-red turban  of  towering  proportions, 
admonished  her  son,  punctuating  her 
mandates  with  a  menacing  forefinger. 

'You  shif'less,  fedder-headed,  re- 
factory  young  one,  you  listen  ter  me 
an*  you  listen  keerful,  too.  I's  goin' 
ter  Brayton  ter  wash  fer  Mis'  Cunnle 
Porter  an'  I  specs  ter  be  gone  mos'  all 
day.  I's  goin'  ter  take  C'nelia  'Melia 
wid  me,  but  de  odder  chilluns  you  done 
got  ter  min'  ter  hum.  An'  doan'  you 
cut  no  sech  monkeyshines  wid  'em  ez 
you  done  cut  de  day  yer  pa  an'  me  went 
ter  de  gin'ral  mustard.  Ef  you  does 
I'll  sholy  skun  yer  hide  when  I  gits 
back.  Youhyerme?' 

Polly  Clum  curled  his  toes  meekly 
on  the  kitchen  floor.' 

'Yas'm,'  he  responded  earnestly, 
*  I 's  lis'nin'  wid  all  mah  ears  an'  eyes/ 

*I  specs  you  ter  do  ebery thing  ter 
'muse  dem  chilluns  an'  keep  'em  outer 
trouble,'  Mrs.  Dobbs  continued.  'Doan' 
you  let  Moses  Pharaoh  git  afire,  an' 
doan'  you  let  dem  twins  paddle  in  dat 
tub  ob  bluein'  water  in  de  yard.  You 
know  dat  whateber  Florindy  Lady 
Washin'ton  does,  Lucindy  Queener 
Scots  is  boun'  ter  foller.  An'  doan'  you 

242 


let  'Mericus  Poleum  touch  de  cole  poke 
an'  beans  tell  dinner  time.  I 's  hid  de 
merlasses  jug  where  none  ob  you  cyan't 
find  it.  You  goin'  ter  'bey  mah  deflec- 
tions, huh?' 

'Yas'm,'  reiterated  Polly  Clum,  'I's 
sholy  goin'  ter  do  zackly  ez  you  tells 
me,  mammy.' 

Mrs.  Dobbs,  somewhat  reassured  by 
Polly  Clum's  humble  and  attentive 
demeanor,  modified  her  tones. 

'Poll  Rebere  C'lumbus,'  she  said 
solemnly,  'inter  yer  han's  I's  done 
c'mitted  de  'tegrity  and  de  poppilar- 
ity  ob  de  Dobbs  fambly  fer  de  res'  ob 
dis  day.  Lib  up  ter  de  ingrejents  ob  yer 
fambly,  Polly  C'lum.  'Member  dat 
yer  pa's  grandpa  warn't  no  common, 
low-down,  slabe  nigger  from  Carliny, 
ner  no  sech  place.  He  was  brung 
straight  ter  Rhode  Islan'  off  'n  de  gole 
coast  ob  Africky.  Neber  fergit  dat  you 
is  a  descenderation  ob  a  Guinea.' 

'No,  mammy,  I  ain't  a-goin'  ter  fer- 
git it,'  replied  Polly  Clum,  rearing  his 
kinky  crest  proudly.  'All  de  time  you 
is  gone  I's  a-goin'  ter  keep  a-sayin', 
"I's  a  descenderation!  I's  a  descen- 
deration!'1 

:  'Member,  too,'  went  on  Mrs.  Dobbs, 
greatly  encouraged  by  the  evident  im- 
pression she  had  produced  upon  her 
offspring,  who  usually  displayed  a 
callous  indifference  to  the  grandeur  of 
the  family  tree, '  'member,  too,  dat  you 
was  n't  baptized  by  no  low-down,  on- 
regeririt  name.  Yer  pa  an'  me  gib  you 
de  names  ob  two  ob  de  most  extin- 


THE  RIDE  OF  PAUL  REVERE  COLUMBUS  DOBBS 


243 


guished  pussons  dat  eber  transmigra- 
ted de  yearth.  Ole  Gin'ral  Poll  Rebere 
owned  de  fastest  racehorse  ob  Rebo- 
lutionary  times.  An'  Cap'n  C'lumbus 
was  a  gret  trabeller  an'  diskivered 
'Merica  afore  Wash 'n' ton  was  selected 
pres'dunt.  You  lib  up  ter  dem  names, 
Polly  Clum.  Tain't  eberybuddy  done 
got  sech  'sponsible  names  ez  you  has.' 

'Yas'm,  mammy,  I's  goin'  ter  lib 
right  clus  'longside  ob  'em,'  cried  Polly 
Clum  with  enthusiasm.  'I's  a-goin'  ter 
hole  on  ter  dem  names  by  de  wool.  I  is 
sholy.' 

Mrs.  Dobbs  heaved  a  sigh  of  satis- 
faction, but  further  admonitions  on  her 
part  were  cut  short  by  the  rumble  of 
wheels  outside  the  house,  and  the  en- 
trance of  Americus  Napoleon,  shouting 
excitedly,  — 

'Cunnle  Porter  done  come  fer  you, 
mammy,  an'  he  done  come  in  a  shay!' 

Mrs.  Dobbs  hastily  shrouded  her 
turban  in  a  green  veil,  wrapped  the 
two-year-old  Cornelia  Amelia  in  an  an- 
cient blue  shawl,  and  hurried  out  to 
the  waiting  conveyance.  The  children 
clambered  upon  the  fence  and  watched 
her  movements  with  interested  eyes. 
As  the  colonel's  old  gray  horse  started 
down  the  dusty  road,  Moses  Pharaoh 
uttered  an  ear-piercing  whoop  expres- 
sive of  delight.  But  whether  delight 
at  his  parent's  departure,  or  at  her 
departure  in  such  state,  did  not  appear. 

Polly  Clum  maintained  a  dignified 
silence  until  the  chaise  disappeared 
around  a  curve  in  the  road.  Then,  as- 
suming as  far  as  possible  his  mother's 
tone  and  manner,  he  proceeded  to  is- 
sue his  commands  for  the  day. 

'You,  Florindy  Washin'ton,  don't 
stan'  thar  a-gappin'  at  me  but  hike 
inter  de  house  an'  tackle  dem  break- 
fus'  dishes.  'N'  you,  Lucindy  Queener, 
lif  dem  lazy  feets  an'  git  Jinson  John- 
son ter  sleep.  'Mericus  Poleum,  did  n't 
you  done  hyer  me  tell  you  ter  grapple 
de  axe?  Youan'Mose  Pharaoh  take 


de  bushel  baxits  an'  romble  inter  de 
grove  an'  c'lec'  some  kin'lin'  wood. 
An'  you,  Prunella  Ar'bella,  you  bresh 
up  de  kitchen  floor  an'  doan'  let  any 
dirt  gedder  under  yer  heels  while  you 
is  doin'  it.' 

Americus  Napoleon,  as  being  next 
in  age  to  Polly  Clum,  displayed  a  some- 
what mutinous  spirit. 

'T'ink  I's  goin'  do  all  de  wuk  an' 
you  do  nuttin'  but  speechify?'  he  de- 
manded. 'I  kin  lick  de  wool  off 'n  yer 
haid,  I  kin.' 

'Mericus,'  Polly  Clum  responded 
loftily,  'de  'tegrity  an'  de  poppilarity 
ob  dis  fambly  is  mistrusted  ter  me  fer 
de  day,  an'  I's  goin'  ter  circumspeck 
'em  both.  You  may  fergit  you  is  a 
descenderation,  but  I's  a-goin'  ter 
'member  it.  Yaas,  sir.  You  hop  out 
ter  dem  woods.' 

Silenced,  if  not  convinced,  Americus, 
followed  by  Moses  Pharaoh,  betook 
himself  to  his  alloted  task,  and  Polly 
Clum  entered  the  kitchen  and  perched 
himself  on  the  back  of  a  broken  chair. 
Thus  enthroned,  he  calmly  chewed 
spruce  gum  while  Florinda  and  Pru- 
nella performed  their  domestic  labors, 
stimulated  to  unusual  diligence  by  oc- 
casional prods  of  his  swinging  foot. 

Lucinda,  obedient  to  orders,  sat 
rocking  the  infant  Jinson  Johnson  in 
her  arms  while  she  crooned  her  own 
particular  version  of  the  nursery 
rhyme,  — 

Bile  ober,  Baby  Buntin', 
Yer  daddy 's  done  gone  huntin' 
Ter  fetch  a  liT  rabbit  skin 
Ter  wrop  de  bilin'  baby  in. 

Incited  by  this  suggestive  ballad, 
Jinson  Johnson  proceeded  to  '  bile  over ' 
in  a  series  of  blood-curdling  shrieks, 
which  were  finally  silenced  only  by 
the  sacrifice  of  a  large  lump  of  moist 
brown  sugar  which  the  harried  Queen 
of  Scots  had  abstracted  from  the  su- 
gar-bowl, that  morning,  for  her  own 
delectation. 


244        THE    RIDE   OF   PAUL    REVERE   COLUMBUS    DOBBS 


When  the  dishes  were  at  last  finish- 
ed, the  kitchen  tidied,  and  Jinson  John- 
son locked  in  saccharine  slumber,  Polly 
Clum  relaxed  his  dignity  sufficiently  to 
propose  an  adjournment  to  the  yard  for 
a  game  of  hide-and-seek.  By  the  time 
this  pastime  was  ended  it  was  high 
noon  and  the  twins  repaired  indoors  to 
prepare  dinner.  Americus  and  Moses 
appeared  with  the  kindling  wood,  very 
tired,  hungry,  and  rebellious.  Even  the 
cold  pork,  beans,  and  brown  bread, 
temptingly  arranged  upon  the  wash- 
bench  under  the  shade  of  a  spreading 
apple  tree,  failed  to  pacify  the  defiant 
spirit  of  Americus. 

*I  tell  you  what,  Polly  Clum,'  he 
declared  shrilly,  'I's  jest  ez  nigh  re- 
lated ter  Guinea  folks  ez  you  is,  an'  I 
ain't  goin'  ter  enjure  no  more  ob  yer 
riotin'  ober  mah  haid.  Is  you  fed  Bel- 
shazzar?' 

'No,  I  ain't,'  Polly  Clum  answered 
shortly. 

'Onlessen  you  feed  him  he'll  go 
hongry,'  returned  Americus.  'Me  an' 
Moses  Pharaoh  is  wukked  enough  dis 
mawnin'.  We's  goin'  ter  loaf  dis  after- 
noon, we  is.'  x 

'Ef  Poleum  an'  Mose  ain't  goin'  ter 
wuk  no  more,  me  an'  Florindy  an' 
Prunella  Ar'bella  ain't  goin'  ter  wuk, 
neider,'  unexpectedly  proclaimed  the 
Queen  of  Scots,  who,  of  all  the  Dobbs 
olive  branches,  was  considered  to  be  the 
most  meek  and  yielding.  'We's  goin' 
ter  set  out  on  de  woodshed  step  and 
knit  stockin's  lak  ladies  does.' 

Polly  Clum's  gaze  swept  the  circle 
of  hostile  faces.  Every  pair  of  darkly 
rolling  eyes  sparkled  defiantly.  He  de- 
cided that  diplomacy  was  the  better 
part  of  valor. 

'I's  'tendin'  ter  deliber  dat  bull  his 
orations,  mahself,'  he  said  with  dignity . 
Ignoring  Americus,  he  addressed  Lu- 
cinda.  'You  is  all  ben  berry  good  chil- 
luns,  ter-day,  an'  I's  goin'  ter  projeck 
a  neward  of  merit.  Arter  dese  dishes 


is  did  I's  goin'  ter  gib  you  all  a  ride 
roun'  de  town.' 

Florinda  Lady  Washington  uttered 
a  squeal  of  mingled  amazement,  delight, 
and  fear. 

'Pappy '11  sholy  skun  you  ef  you 
hitch  up  Belshazzar,'  she  cried.  'He 
done  tole  you  nebber  ter  tech  him  on- 
lessn  he  gib  you  remission  ter.' 

'Mammy  done  demanded  me  ter 
'muse  you  an'  keep  you  outer  trouble,' 
Polly  Clum  responded,  loftily,  'an'  I's 
goin'  ter  f oiler  her  rejections.  I  kin 
dribe  dat  bull  lak  he  is  a  lamb.' 

'I's  afeared  pappy '11  whale  us,' 
whimpered  the  Queen  of  Scots. 

'How  he  goin'  ter  know  'bout  de 
ride?'  questioned  Americus,  suddenly 
veering  to  Polly  Clum's  support.  '  He 
ain't  comin'  back  from  Newport  tell 
ter-morrer.  Who's  goin'  blab  ebery 
triflin'  ting  dat  has  recurred  ter-day?' 

'  I 's  done  begun  ter  dismember  sech 
foolishness  a'ready,'  Moses  Pharaoh 
declared. 

The  twins  gazed  fearfully  at  one 
another.  Then,  simultaneously,  they 
sprang  to  their  feet  and  began  to  hustle 
the  dishes  into  the  kitchen. 

Polly  Clum,  followed  by  Americus 
and  Moses,  hastened  to  a  dilapidated 
shed  which  occupied  one  corner  of  the 
yard.  Belshazzar,  a  large  red  and  white 
animal  whose  naturally  fierce  disposi- 
tion had  been  humbled  by  age  and  much 
hard  labor,  softly  bellowed  a  welcome 
as  the  boys  entered. 

While  the  bull  contentedly  ate  his 
dinner,  the  brothers  drew  a  large  tip- 
cart,  painted  blue,  from  behind  the 
shed.  This  tip-cart  was  one  of  the  most 
valuable  assets  in  the  possession  of  the 
Dobbs  family.  During  the  morning 
hours  Mr.  Dobbs  was  accustomed  to 
make  use  of  it  for  the  purpose  of  col- 
lecting rags,  old  bottles,  bones,  and 
similar  merchandise.  During  the  after- 
noon hours  it  was  utilized  as  a  family 
equipage. 


THE    RIDE   OF   PAUL    REVERE    COLUMBUS   DOBBS 


245 


Polly  Clum  surveyed  the  vehicle 
critically. 

1  'Pears  lak  dis  yere  kerridge  oughter 
'splay  some  desecrations,'  he  observed. 
'You,  Poleum  an'  Mose,  hike  ober  ter 
dat  grove  agin  an'  fotch  me  some  neb- 
bergreens.' 

Moses  and  Americus  hastened  across 
the  road,  quickly  returning  with  sev- 
eral large  hemlock  boughs. 

Polly  Clum  deftly  arranged  these 
along  the  side  of  the  cart. 

'  Huh ! '  grunted  Americus.  '  How  we 
goin'  ter  see  de  sights?  We  done  got 
ter  set  on  de  floor  ob  dat  cyart.  Speck 
we  kin  stretch  our  necks,  lak  geeses 
does,  ober  dem  limbs?' 

'Hole  your  fool  tongue,  Poleum,'  re- 
sponded Polly  Clum.  '  I 's  derangin  'dis 
hyer  ride.  I's  goin'  ter  put  mammy's 
bigges'  washtub  in  dat  cyart.  Den  all 
you  chilluns  kin  set  on  de  aidge  an' 
res'  yer  feets  on  de  tub's  bottom.  What 
goin'  hender  you  all  from  seein'  de 
sights,  I  lak  ter  know?' 

He  reentered  the  shed  and  led  Bel- 
shazzar  forth.  To  the  animal's  horns 
he  fastened  a  much  frayed  and  soiled 
piece  of  sail-cloth  which,  hanging  down 
over  his  eyes,  prevented  the  bull  from 
seeing  anything  save  the  ground.  From 
a  peg  in  the  shed  he  took  down  a  sort 
of  rope  cat's-cradle,  with  which  he  pro- 
ceeded to  harness  Belshazzar  to  the  tip- 
cart.  The  cat's-cradle  was  popularly 
said  to  be  composed  of  every  known 
variety  of  cordage,  from  hawser  to 
signal  halyards,  and  displayed  so  many 
knots  that  rumor  declared  that  Mrs. 
Dobbs  punished  particularly  refractory 
children  by  compelling  them  to  count 
them  over  and  over  until  exhaustion 
conquered  their  rebellious  spirits. 

While  Polly  Clum  adjusted  this  com- 
plicated piece  of  handiwork,  Americus 
and  Moses  brought  from  the  kitchen  a 
mammoth  washtub  which  Mr.  Dobbs 
had  recently  constructed  from  a  quar- 
ter section  of  a  molasses  hogshead. 


This  they  hoisted  into  the  cart.  Bel- 
shazzar was  then  led  to  the  front  of  the 
house. 

Lady  Washington  stood  before  the 
cracked  mirror  in  the  kitchen  putting 
the  finishing  touches  to  her  toilette. 

;  'Pears  lak  dey  stan'  up  lak  a  passel 
ob  squir'ls'  tails,'  she  observed,  sur- 
veying with  marked  disapprobation  the 
eight  stiff  braids  which  surrounded  her 
head  like  a  wooly  halo.  'I's  goin'  ter 
borry  mammy's  back  comb  an'  cotch 
'em  all  inter  a  hunch.' 

'  Ef  you  is  goin'  ter  dress  up  in  dat 
comb  I's  goin'  ter  dedorn  mah  han's 
with  mammy's  white  mitts,'  announced 
the  Queen  of  Scots. 

'An'  I's  goin'  ter  membellish  mah- 
self  with  her  blue  necklidge,'  added 
Prunella  Arabella. 

'Better  let  dem  beads  'lone,'  warned 
Florinda.  'Mammy  say  de  cord  dey 
strung  on  li'ble  ter  bust  any  time.' 

Prunella  surveyed  her  sister  loftily. 

'What  you  t'ink?'  she  demanded. 
'T'ink  caze  you'n'  Lucindy  Queener  is 
goin'  on  ten  an'  I's  goin'  on  eight  dat 
I  ain't  ob  no  quinsequence?  Mammy 
done  say  yistiddy,  dat  I  is  de  genteel- 
est  'pearin'  an'  de  pollutest  manner- 
ed pusson  in  de  fambly.  Ef  you  dpan' 
stop  noratin'  'bout  necklidges  I 's  jest 
sholy  goin'  ter  delighten  mammy  'bout 
dat  comb  an'  dem  mitts  ez  soon'z  she 
'rives  back  from  Bray  ton.  You  better 
recomsider  what  you  done  say.' 

'I  ain't  nebber  out  an'  out  erected  ye 
not  ter  wear  dem  beads,'  returned  Lady 
Washington,  hastily.  'I  on'y  kinder 
hinted  a  s'posin'  sump'n'  might  hap- 
pen. I  sholy  t'ink  dat  dey  would  set 
off  yer  looks,  Ar'bella.  I  done  tell  Lu- 
cindy Queener  more'n  onct,  dat  blue 
is  yer  mos'  becomin'est  color.' 

'An'  I  tink  you  better  both  quit  jaw- 
in'  an'  come  'long  fore  de  day  ends,' 
interrupted  the  Queen  of  Scots,  impa- 
tiently. 'De  kerridge  is  at  de  do'.' 

She  caught  up  Jinson  Johnson,  who 


246 


THE  RIDE  OF  PAUL  REVERE  COLUMBUS  DOBBS 


had  wakened  from  his  nap  in  a  state  of 
cherubic  amiability,  and  hurried  from 
the  house,  closely  followed  by  Florinda 
bearing  a  gay,  albeit  somewhat  tat- 
tered, patchwork  bedquilt.  Prunella, 
triumphantly  dignified,  stalked  majest- 
ically in  their  wake. 

The  quilt  was  carefully  placed  in 
the  tub  and  the  smiling  infant  deposited 
upon  it.  Then  the  three  girls  clamber- 
ed in  and  took  their  seats  besides  Mo- 
ses Pharaoh  and  Americus,  who  were 
already  balancing  themselves  on  the 
tub's  edge.  Lucinda  leaned  back  among 
the  hemlock  boughs  and  carelessly 
dropped  one  mitted  hand  over  the  side 
of  the  cart. 

'Leab  dat  ter  hum,'  she  commanded, 
as  Polly  Clum  was  about  to  slip  the 
tail-board  into  place.  *  How's  any 
pusson  goin*  ter  extinguish  us  ef  you 
puts  dat  t'ing  up?' 

'It  sholy  ought  ter  be  up,'  argued 
Polly  Clum.  '  You  s'pose  dat  Pres  'dunt 
Po'k  dribes  roun'  in  his  scoach  wid  de 
do'  wide  open?' 

'Huh!  What  you  know  'bout  Pres'- 
dunt  Po'k?'  the  Queen  retorted.  'I's 
done  got  'speriunce  dat  you  ain't  neb- 
ber  dreamt  ob.  What  you  t'ink  Mis' 
Po'k  ride  'bout  for,  all  nornamented  wid 
lace  and  fedders,  ef  't  ain't  ter  make 
folkses  gap'  at  her?  You  is  mighty 
donkeyfied  some  ways,  Polly  Clum.' 

Polly  Clum  silently  cast  the  offend- 
ing board  on  the  ground  and  climbed 
into  the  cart.  Gathering  up  the  hemp- 
en reins,  he  struck  Belshazzar  smartly 
with  their  knotted  ends. 

'Gwan,  you  wuthless  ole  piece  ob 
beef!'  he  shouted.  'Kick  up  dem  tur- 
kle  slow  huffs  ol?  yours  ef  you  doan' 
wanter  fin'  yer  tough  hide  in  de  tan- 
yard  befo'  de  chickens  goes  ter  roost! 
You  hyer  me?' 

Thus  admonished,  Belshazzar  start- 
ed off  at  a  brisk  walk,  switching  his 
tail  as  if  conscious  that  unusual  events 
were  happening.  The  Dobbs  residence 


was  located  in  the  suburbs  of  Riverport 
and,  for  some  little  distance,  the  turn- 
out attracted  no  attention.  But  when 
Belshazzar  approached  the  compact 
part  of  the  town,  it  became  the  cyno- 
sure of  all  eyes.  Merchants  hastened 
to  their  shop  doors  to  gaze  at  it;  wo- 
men left  their  household  tasks  to  peer 
curiously  from  windows ;  groups  of  chil- 
dren ran  after  it,  shouting,  hooting, 
and  squealing  with  delight. 

The  circle  of  dusky  faces  that  crowned 
the  washtub  was  radiant  with  pride 
and  satisfaction.  Lucinda  returned  the 
noisy  salutations  by  waving  her  lace- 
mitted  hands.  Florinda  bowed  grace- 
fully to  right  and  left,  displaying  the 
high  comb  to  the  best  advantage. 
Prunella  negligently  fingered  the  blue 
necklace  as  she  occasionally  bent  her 
head.  The  less  aristocratic  Americus 
and  Moses  indulged  in  a  series  of  grim- 
aces that  would  have  driven  a  monkey 
wild  with  envy,  had  such  an  animal 
been  numbered  among  the  spectators. 
Polly  Clum  alone  maintained  an  ap- 
pearance of  stately  indifference  to  his 
surroundings.  The  blood  of  a  long 
line  of  kings  of  the  Guinea  coast  was 
pulsing  rapturously  in  his  veins,  but 
he  gave  no  visible  sign  of  elation.  He 
thought  of  Paul  Revere  and  felt  that 
he  had  a  right  to  bear  that  hero's  name. 

In  Riverport  there  were  two  prin- 
cipal highways  connected  by  a  number 
of  shorter  streets.  Up  one  of  these 
streets  plodded  Belshazzar,  the  long 
line  of  his  followers  increasing  at  every 
corner.  Dogs  added  their  yelps  and 
barks  to  the  general  hubbub.  A  youth- 
ful poet  chanted  in  a  shrill  falsetto,  — 

Rub-a-dub-dub, 

Five  Dobbs  in  a  tub, 

And  who  do  you  think  was  there  ? 

Mose,  Poleum,  'Cindy, 

Prunelle  and  Florindy. 

My  gum!   How  the  people  all  stare! 

At  last  the  boundary  line  of  the  ad- 
jacent town  of  Oldfield  was  reached 


THE   RIDE   OF    PAUL   REVERE    COLUMBUS   DOBBS 


247 


and  the  vehicle  turned  about.  And  then 
occurred  the  catastrophe  which  made 
the  afternoon  ride  of  Paul  Revere 
Columbus  Dobbs  as  famous  in  the  an- 
nals of  his  native  place  as  the  mid- 
night ride  of  his  illustrious  namesake 
is  famous  in  the  annals  of  the  Revo- 
lution. 

Belshazzar,  realizing  that  he  was 
now  being  driven  in  the  direction  of 
home,  quickened  his  pace  almost  to  a 
trot.  Up  the  main  street  bounced  the 
cart  with  a  tremendous  clatter  and 
rattle.  But,  just  as  the  bull  reached  the 
centre  of  the  town,  the  piece  of  cord 
that  held  his  sail-cloth  blinder  in  place 
snapped  and  the  bit  of  canvas  fluttered 
to  the  ground.  At  the  same  moment 
a  peddler's  wagon,  painted  a  glowing 
vermilion,  came  jogging  around  a  near- 
by corner. 

Belshazzar  eyed  this  flaming  appari- 
tion for  a  second  and  then,  with  a  thun- 
derous bellow,  charged  upon  it.  The 
peddler  had  barely  time  to  swerve 
aside  ere  the  bull  dashed  by  at  a  mad 
gallop,  his  horns  lowered,  his  angry 
orbs  emitting  flashes  of  demoniac  fire. 
The  scurrying  bystanders  caught  a 
fleeting  glimpse  of  six  ebony  faces  rigid 
with  terror  and  consternation.  Then 
the  cart  came  into  sudden  and  violent 
contact  with  the  town  pump.  It  ca- 
reened wildly,  the  thole-pin  gave  way, 
and  out  of  the  vehicle  shot  the  wash- 
tub  with  its  cargo  of  human  freight. 
Maddened  by  the  shrieks  of  his  vic- 
tims, Belshazzar  threw  his  heels  high  in 


the  air  and  tore  on  like  a  hurricane, 
leaving  a  trail  of  tub  staves,  hemlock 
boughs,  wearing  apparel,  and  bruised 
and  dust-covered  Dobbses  in  his  wake. 

Americus  Napoleon  was  the  first  to 
recover  his  senses  after  the  rude  shock. 
Slowly  he  got  upon  his  feet  and  blinked 
his  bewildered  eyes.  Then  he  uttered 
a  cry  of  anguish  that  curdled  the  blood 
in  the  veins  of  his  hearers. 

'Cunnle  Porter's  shay!'  he  wailed. 
'It's  a-comin'  wid  mammy  in  it!  It's 
right  here  clus  to  us !  An'  mammy  hez 
too  ken  de  hoss-whip  out  ob  de  socket! 
O  laws-a-mussy,  what  we  pore  frien'- 
less  chilluns  goin'  ter  do  now?' 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  chaise 
came  to  a  halt,  and  Mrs.  Dobbs  de- 
scended upon  her  offspring  like  a  dark 
avenging  angel.  She  gazed  at  the  blue 
beads  rolling  in  the  dust,  at  the  tooth- 
less back  comb  lying  at  her  feet,  at  the 
torn  and  blood-stained  mitts  on  the 
hands  of  the  terrified  Queen  of  Scots, 
at  the  writhing  form  of  Jinson  John- 
son wrapped  in  the  fragments  of  the 
once  gay  quilt.  Then  she  caught  Polly 
Clum  by  the  woolly  top-knot  that  crin- 
kled above  his  brow. 

'You  onsanctified,  distrustable,  nero- 
gatory  descenderation  ob  a  barbarious 
Guinea  nigger  ! '  she  began. 

But  Polly  Clum  with  a  mighty  effort 
wrenched  himself  from  her  grasp  and 
fled  in  the  footsteps  of  Belshazzar, 
leaving  his  less  fortunate  brothers  and 
sisters  to  the  dire  fate  that  awaited 
them. 


THE  GAME 


BY  SIMEON   STRUNSKY 


OFTEN  I  think  how  monotonous  life 
must  be  to  Jerome  D.  Travers  or  Fran- 
cis Ouimet,  —  compared,  that  is,  with 
what  life  can  offer  to  a  player  of  my 
quality.  When  Travers  drives  off,  it  is 
a  question  whether  the  ball  will  go  245 
yards  or  260  yards;  and  a  difference  of 
fifteen  yards  is  obviously  nothing  to 
thrill  over.  Whereas,  when  I  send  the 
ball  from  the  tee  the  possible  range  of 
variation  is  always  100  yards,  running 
from  155  down  to  55;  provided,  that 
is,  that  the  ball  starts  at  all.  To  me 
there  is  always  a  freshness  of  surprise 
in  having  the  club  meet  the  ball,  which 
Travers,  I  dare  say,  has  not  experi- 
enced in  the  last  dozen  years. 

With  him,  of  course,  it  is  not  sport, 
but  mathematics.  A  wooden  club  will 
give  one  result,  an  iron  another.  The 
sensation  of  getting  greater  distance 
with  a  putting  iron  than  with  a  brassie 
is  something  Ouimet  can  hardly  look 
forward  to.  Always  mathematics,  with 
this  kind  of  swing  laying  the  ball  fif- 
teen feet  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
hole,  and  that  kind  of  chop  laying  it 
ten  feet  on  the  nearer  side.  I  have  fre- 
quently thought  that  playing  off  the 
finals  for  the  golf  championship  is  a 
waste  of  time.  All  that  is  necessary  is 
to  call  in  Professor  Miinsterberg  and 
have  him  test  Travers's  blood-press- 
ure and  reaction  index  on  the  morning 
of  the  game,  and  then  take  *  Chick' 
Evans's  blood-pressure  and  reaction 
index.  The  referee  would  then  award 
the  game  to  Travers  or  to  Evans  by  2 
248 


up  and  1  to  play,  or  whatever  score 
Professor  Miinsterberg's  figures  would 
indicate. 

The  true  zest  of  play  is  for  the  duffer. 
When  he  swings  club  or  racket  he  can 
never  tell  what  miracles  of  accomplish- 
ment or  negation  it  will  perform.  That 
is  not  an  inanimate  instrument  he  holds 
in  his  hands,  but  a  living  companion,  a 
totem  comrade  whom  he  is  impelled 
to  propitiate,  as  Hiawatha  crooned  to 
his  arrow  before  letting  it  fly  from  the 
string.  And  that  is  why  duffers  are  pe- 
culiarly qualified  to  write  about  games, 
or  for  that  matter,  about  everything, 
—  literature,  music,  or  art,  —  as  they 
have  always  done.  To  be  sufficiently 
inexpert  in  anything  is  to  be  filled  with 
corresponding  awe  at  the  hidden  soul 
in  that  thing.  To  be  sufficiently  re- 
moved from  perfection  is  to  worship  it. 
Poets,  for  example,  are  preeminently 
the  interpreters  of  life  because  they 
make  such  an  awful  mess  of  the  prac- 
tice of  living.  And  for  the  same  reason 
poets  always  retain  the  zest  of  life  — 
because  the  poet  never  knows  whether 
his  next  shot  will  land  him  on  the  green 
or  in  the  sandpit,  in  heaven  or  in  the 
gutter.  The  reader  will  now  be  aware 
that  in  describing  my  status  as  a  golfer 
I  am  not  making  a  suicidal  confession. 
On  the  contrary,  I  am  presenting  my 
credentials. 

ii 

A  great  many  people  have  been 
searching  during  ever  so  many  years  for 
the  religion  of  democracy.  I  believe  I 
have  found  it.  That  is,  not  a  religion, 


THE  GAME 


249 


if  by  it  you  mean  a  system  completely 
equipped  with  creed,  formularies,  or- 
ganization, home  and  foreign  missions, 
schisms,  an  empty-church  problem,  an 
underpaid-minister's  problem,  a  Social- 
ist and  I.W.W.  problem,  and  the  like; 
although,  if  I  had  the  time  to  pursue 
my  researches,  I  might  find  a  parallel  to 
many  of  these  things.  What  I  have  in 
mind  is  a  great  democratic  rite,  a  cere- 
monial which  is  solemnized  on  six  days 
in  the  week  during  six  months  in  the 
year  by  large  masses  of  men  with  such 
unfailing  regularity  and  such  unques- 
tioning good  faith  that  I  cannot  help 
thinking  of  it  as  essentially  a  religious 
performance. 

It  is  a  simple  ceremonial,  but  im- 
pressive, like  all  manifestations  of  the 
soul  of  a  multitude.  I  need  only  close 
my  eyes  to  call  up  the  picture  vividly: 
It  is  a  day  of  brilliant  sunshine  and  a 
great  crowd  of  men  is  seated  in  the  open 
air,  a  crowd  made  up  of  all  conditions, 
ages,  races,  temperaments,  and  states 
of  mind.  The  crowd  has  sat  there  an 
hour  or  more,  while  the  afternoon  sun 
has  slanted  deeper  into  the  west  and 
the  shadows  have  crept  across  green- 
sward and  hard-baked  clay  to  the  east- 
ern horizon.  Then,  almost  with  a  single 
motion,  —  the  time  may  be  somewhere 
between  four-thirty  and  five  o'clock,  — 
this  multitude  of  divers  minds  and  tem- 
pers rises  to  its  feet  and  stands  silent, 
while  one  might  count  twenty  perhaps. 
Nothing  is  said;  no  high  priest  intones 
prayer  for  this  vast  congregation; 
nevertheless  the  impulse  of  ten  thou- 
sand hearts  is  obviously  focused  into 
a  single  desire.  When  you  have  counted 
twenty  the  crowd  sinks  back  to  the 
benches.  A  half  minute  at  most  and 
the  rite  is  over. 

I  am  speaking,  of  course,  of  the  second 
half  of  the  seventh  inning,  when  the 
home  team  comes  to  bat.  The  precise 
nature  of  this  religious  half-minute  de- 
pends on  the  score.  If  the  home  team 


holds  a  safe  lead  of  three  or  four  runs; 
if  the  home  pitcher  continues  to  have 
everything,  and  the  infield  shows  no 
sign  of  cracking,  and  the  outfield  is  n't 
bothered  by  the  sun,  then  I  always 
imagine  a  fervent  Te  Deum  arising 
from  that  inarticulate  multitude,  and 
the  peace  of  a  great  contentment  fall- 
ing over  men's  spirits  as  they  settle 
back  in  their  seats.  If  the  game  is  in 
the  balance  you  must  imagine  the  con- 
centration of  ten  thousand  wills  on  the 
spirit  of  the  nine  athletes  in  the  field, 
ten  thousand  wills  telepathically  pour- 
ing their  energies  into  the  powerful  arm 
of  the  man  in  the  box,  into  the  quick 
eye  of  the  man  on  first  base,  and  the 
sense  of  justice  of  the  umpire. 

But  if  the  outlook  for  victory  is 
gloomy,  the  rite  does  not  end  with  the 
silent  prayer  I  have  described.  As  the 
crowd  subsides  to  the  benches  there 
arises  a  chant  which  I  presume  harks 
back  to  the  primitive  litanies  of  the 
Congo  forests.  Voices  intone  unkind 
words  addressed  to  the  players  on  the 
other  team.  Ten  thousand  voices 
chanting  in  unison  for  victory,  twenty 
thousand  feet  stamping  confusion  to 
the  opposing  pitcher  —  if  this  is  not 
worship  of  the  most  fundamental  sort, 
because  of  the  most  primitive  sort,  then 
what  is  religion? 

Consider  the  mere  number  of  parti- 
cipants in  this  national  rite  of  the  sev- 
enth inning.  I  have  said  a  multitude  of 
ten  thousand.  But  if  the  day  be  Sat- 
urday and  the  place  of  worship  one  of 
the  big  cities  of  either  of  the  major 
leagues,  the  crowd  may  easily  be  twice 
as  large.  And  all  over  the  country  at 
almost  the  same  moment,  exultant  or 
hopeful  or  despairing  multitudes  are 
rising  to  their  feet.  Multiply  this  num- 
ber of  worshipers  by  six  days  —  or  by 
seven  days  if  you  are  west  of  the  Al- 
leghanies,  where  Sunday  baseball  has 
somehow  been  reconciled  with  a  still 
vigorous  Puritanism  —  and  it  is  appa- 


250 


THE  GAME 


rent  that  a  continuous  wave  of  spiritual 
ardor  sweeps  over  this  continent  be- 
tween three-thirty  and  six  P.M.  from 
the  middle  of  April  to  the  middle  of  Oc- 
tober. We  can  only  guess  at  the  total 
number  of  worshipers.  The  three  major 
leagues  will  account  for  five  millions. 
Add  the  minor  leagues  and  the  state 
leagues  and  the  interurban  contests  — 
and  the  total  of  seventh-inning  com- 
municants grows  overwhelming.  Take 
the  twenty-five  million  males  of  voting 
age  in  this  country,  assume  one  visit 
per  head  to  a  baseball  park  in  the  sea- 
son, and  the  result  is  dazzling. 

It  is  easier  to  estimate  the  number  of 
worshipers  than  the  intensity  of  the 
mood.  I  have  no  gauge  for  measuring 
the  spiritual  fervor  which  exhales  on 
the  baseball  stadiums  of  the  country 
from  mid- April  to  mid-October,  grow- 
ing in  ardor  with  the  procession  of  the 
months,  until  it  attains  a  climax  of 
orgiastic  frenzy  in  the  World's  Series. 
Foreigners  are  in  the  habit  of  calling 
this  an  unspiritual  nation.  But  what 
nation  so  frequently  tastes  —  or  for 
that  matter  has  ever  tasted  —  the  emo- 
tional experience  of  the  score  tied  in  the 
ninth  inning  with  the  bases  full?  For- 
eigners call  us  an  unspiritual  people 
because  they  do  not  know  the  meaning 
of  a  double-header  late  in  September 
—  a  double-header  with  two  seventh 
innings. 

I  began  by  renouncing  any  claim  to 
the  discovery  of  a  complete  religion  of 
democracy.  But  the  temptation  to 
point  out  parallels  is  irresistible.  If 
Dr.  Frazer  had  not  finished  with  his 
Golden  Bough,  —  or  if  he  is  thinking 
of  a  supplementary  volume,  —  I  can 
see  how  easily  the  raw  material  of  the 
sporting  columns  would  shape  itself 
to  religious  forces  and  systems  in  his 
hands.  If  religious  ceremonial  has  its 
origin  in  the  play  instinct  of  man,  why 
go  back  to  remote  origins  like  the  Aus- 
tralian corroboree  and  neglect  Ty  Cobb 


stealing  second  ?  If  religion  has  its  ori- 
gin in  primitive  man's  worship  of  the 
eternal  rebirth  of  earth's  fructifying 
powers  with  the  advent  of  spring,  how 
can  we  neglect  the  vivid  stirring  in  the 
hearts  of  millions  that  marks  the  de- 
parture of  the  teams  for  spring  training 
in  Texas? 

If  I  were  a  trained  professional  soci- 
ologist instead  of  a  mere  spectator  at 
the  Polo  grounds,  it  seems  to  me  that  I 
should  have  little  trouble  in  tracing  the 
history  of  the  game  several  thousand 
years  back  of  its  commonly  accepted 
origin  somewhere  about  1830.  I  could 
easily  trace  back  the  catcher's  mask  to 
the  mask  worn  by  the  medicine-man 
among  the  Swahili  of  the  West  Coast. 
The  three  bases  and  home-plate  would 
easily  be  the  points  of  the  compass,  go- 
ing straight  back  to  the  sun  myth. 
Murray  pulling  down  a  fly  in  left  field 
would  hark  back  straight  to  Zoroaster 
and  the  sun-worshipers.  Millions  of 
primitive  hunters  must  have  anointed, 
and  prayed  to,  their  weapons  before 
Jeff  Tesreau  addressed  his  invocation 
to  the  spit  ball;  and  when  Mathewson 
winds  himself  up  for  delivering  the 
ball,  he  is  not  far  removed  from  the 
sacred  warrior  dancer  of  Polynesia.  If 
only  I  were  a  sociologist! 

An  ideal  faith,  this  religion  of  base- 
ball, the  more  you  examine  it.  See,  for 
instance,  how  it  satisfies  the  prime  re- 
quirement of  a  true  faith  that  it  shall 
ever  be  present  in  the  hearts  of  the 
faithful ;  practiced  not  once  a  week  on 
Sunday,  but  six  times  a  week  —  and  in 
the  West  seven  times  a  week;  professed 
not  only  in  the  appointed  place  of  wor- 
ship, but  in  the  Subway  before  the 
game,  and  in  the  Subway  after  the 
game,  and  in  the  offices  and  shops  and 
factories  on  rainy  days.  If  a  true  re- 
ligion is  that  for  which  a  man  will  give 
up  wife  and  children  and  forget  the  call 
of  meat  and  drink,  what  shall  we  say 
of  baseball?  If  a  true  religion  is  not 


THE  GAME 


251 


dependent  on  aesthetic  trappings,  but 
voices  itself  under  the  open  sky  and 
among  the  furniture  of  common  life, 
this  is  again  the  true  religion.  The  sta- 
dium lies  open  to  the  sun,  the  rain,  and 
the  wind.  The  mystic  sense  is  not  stim- 
ulated by  Gothic  roof-traceries  and  the 
dimmed  light  of  stained-glass  windows. 
The  congregation  rises  from  wooden 
benches  on  a  concrete  flooring;  it  stands 
in  the  full  light  of  a  summer  afternoon 
and  lets  its  eyes  rest  on  walls  of  bill- 
boards reminiscent  of  familiar  things, 
—  linen  collars,  table-waters,  tobacco, 
safety-razors.  Unquestionably  we  have 
here  a  clear,  dry,  real  religion  of  the 
kind  that  Bernard  Shaw  would  approve. 

I  have  said  quite  enough  on  this 
point.  Otherwise  I  should  take  time  to 
show  how  this  national  faith  has  created 
its  own  architecture,  as  all  great  reli- 
gions have  done.  Our  national  contri- 
bution to  the  building  arts  has  so  far 
been  confined  to  two  forms  —  the  sky- 
scraper and  the  baseball  stadium,  cor- 
responding precisely  to  the  two  great 
religions  of  business  and  of  play.  I 
know  that  the  Greeks  and  Romans  had 
amphitheatres,  and  that  the  word  sta- 
dium is  not  of  native  origin.  But  be- 
tween the  Coliseum  and  the  baseball 
park  there  is  all  the  difference  that  lies 
between  imperialism  and  democracy. 
The  ancient  amphitheatres  were  built 
as  much  for  monuments  as  for  play- 
grounds. Consequently  they  were  im- 
pressed with  an  aesthetic  character 
which  is  totally  repugnant  to  our  idea 
of  a  baseball  park. 

There  is  no  spiritual  resemblance  be- 
tween Vespasian's  amphitheatre  with 
its  stone  and  marble,  its  galleries  and 
imperial  tribunes,  its  purple  canvases 
stretched  out  against  the  sun  —  and 
our  own  Polo  grounds.  Iron  girders, 
green  wooden  benches,  and  a  back 
fence  frescoed  with  safety-razors  and 
ready-made  clothing  —  what  more 
would  a  modern  man  have?  The  ancient 


amphitheatres  were  built  for  slaves 
who  had  to  be  flattered  and  amused  by 
pretty  things.  The  baseball  park  is  for 
freemen  who  pay  for  their  pleasures  and 
can  afford  the  ugliest  that  money  can 
buv. 

t/ 

in 

The  art  of  keeping  my  eye  on  the 
ball  is  something  I  no  longer  have  hope 
of  mastering.  If  I  fail  to  watch  the  ball 
it  is  because  I  am  continually  watching 
faces  about  me.  The  same  habit  pur- 
sues me  on  the  street  and  in  all  public 
places  —  usually  with  unpleasant  con- 
sequences, though  now  and  then  I  have 
the  reward  of  catching  the  reflection 
of  a  great  event  or  a  tense  moment  in 
the  face  of  the  man  next  to  me.  Then, 
indeed,  I  am  repaid ;  but  it  is  a  proced- 
ure fatal  to  the  scientific  pursuit  of 
baseball.  While  I  am  hunting  in  the 
face  of  the  man  next  to  me  for  the  re- 
flection of  Doyle's  stinging  single  be- 
tween first  and  second  base,  I  hear  a 
roar  and  turn  to  find  that  something 
dramatic  has  happened  at  third,  and 
a  stout  young  man  in  a  green  hat  be- 
hind me  says  that  the  runner  was  out 
by  a  yard  and  should  be  benched  for 
trying  to  spike  the  man  on  the  bag. 

The  eagle  vision  of  the  stout  young 
man  behind  me  always  fills  me  with 
amazement  and  envy.  I  concede  his 
superior  knowledge  of  the  game.  He 
knows  every  man  on  the  field  by  his 
walk.  He  recalls  under  what  circum- 
stances the  identical  play  was  pulled 
off  three  years  ago  in  Philadelphia.  He 
knows  beforehand  just  at  what  mo- 
ment Mr.  Chance  will  take  his  left 
fielder  out  of  the  game  and  send  in  a 
*  pinch  hitter.'  Long  years  of  steady 
application  will  no  doubt  supply  this 
kind  of  post-graduate  expertship.  But 
when  it  is  a  question,  not  of  theory,  but 
of  a  simple,  concrete  play  which  I  did 
happen  to  be  watching  carefully,  how 
is  it  that  the  man  behind  me  can  see 


THE  GAME 


that  the  runner  was  out  by  a  yard  and 
had  nearly  spiked  the  man  on  the  bag, 
whereas  all  I  can  see  is  a  tangle  of  legs 
and  arms  and  a  cloud  of  dust?  My  eye- 
sight is  normal;  how  does  my  neighbor 
manage  to  see  all  that  he  does  as  quick- 
ly as  he  does? 

The  answer  is  that  he  does  not  see. 
When  he  declares  that  the  runner  was 
out  by  a  yard,  and  I  turn  around  and 
regard  him  with  envy,  it  is  a  comfort 
to  have  the  umpire  decide  that  the  run- 
ner was  safe  after  all.  It  is  a  comfort 
to  hear  the  man  behind  me  say  that 
the  ball  cut  the  plate  squarely,  and  to 
have  the  umpire  call  it  a  ball.  It  shakes 
my  faith  somewhat  in  human  nature, 
but  it  strengthens  my  self-confidence. 
Yet  it  fails  to  shake  the  self-confidence 
of  the  man  behind  me.  When  I  turn 
about  to  see  his  crestfallen  face,  I  find 
him  chewing  peanut  brittle  in  a  state 
of  supreme  calm,  and  as  I  stare  at  him, 
fascinated  by  such  peace  of  mind  in  the 
face  of  discomfiture,  I  hear  a  yell  and 
turn  to  find  the  third  baseman  and  all 
the  outfield  congregated  near  the  left 
bleachers.  I  have  made  a  psychological 
observation,  but  have  missed  the  be- 
ginning of  a  double  play. 

My  chagrin  is  temporary.  As  the 
game  goes  on  my  self-confidence  grows 
enormously.  I  am  awakening  to  the 
fact  that  the  man  behind  me  knows  as 
little  about  the  game  as  I  do.  When 
the  pitcher  of  the  visiting  team  de- 
livered the  first  ball  of  the  first  inning, 
the  man  behind  me  remarked  that  the 
pitcher  did  n't  have  anything.^  My 
neighbor  could  tell  by  the  pitcher's  arm 
action  that  he  was  stale,  and  he  re- 
called that  the  pitcher  in  question  never 
did  last  more  than  half  a  game.  This 
declaration  of  absolute  belief  did  not 
stand  in  the  way  of  a  contradictory 
remark,  made  some  time  in  the  fifth 
inning,  with  our  team  held  so  far  to 
two  scratch  hits.  The  stout  young  man 
behind  me  then  said  that  the  visiting 


pitcher  was  a  wonder,  that  he  had 
everything,  that  he  would  keep  on  fan- 
ning them  till  the  cows  came  home, 
and  that  he  was,  in  fact,  the  best 
southpaw  in  both  leagues,  having  once 
struck  out  eight  men  in  an  eleven-inn- 
ing game  at  Boston. 

When  a  man  gives  vent  to  such  ob- 
viously irreconcilable  statements  in  less 
than  five  innings,  it  is  inevitable  that 
I  should  turn  in  my  seat  to  get  a  square 
look  at  him.  But  I  still  find  him  calm 
and  eating  peanut  brittle;  and  as  I  stare 
at  him  and  try  to  classify  him,  the  man 
at  the  bat  does  something  which  brings 
half  the  crowd  to  its  feet.  By  dint  of 
much  inquiry  I  discover  that  he  has 
rolled  a  slow  grounder  to  third  and  has 
made  his  base  on  it.  Decidedly,  psy- 
chology and  baseball  will  not  mix. 

I  suppose  the  stout  young  man  be- 
hind me  is  a  Fan,  —  provided  there  is 
really  such  a  type.  My  own  belief  is 
that  the  Fan,  as  the  baseball  writers 
and  cartoonists  have  depicted  him,  is  a 
very  rare  being.  To  the  extent  that  he 
does  exist  he  is  the  creation,  not  of  the 
baseball  diamond,  but  of  the  sporting 
writer  and  the  comic  artist.  The  Fan 
models  himself  consciously  upon  the 
typeset  before  him  in  his  favorite  news- 
paper. It  is  once  more  a  case  of  nature 
imitating  art.  If  Mr.  Gibson,  many 
years  ago,  had  not  drawn  a  picture 
of  fat  men  in  shirt-sleeves,  perspiring 
freely  and  waving  straw  hats,  the  news- 
paper artist  would  not  have  imitated 
Mr.  Gibson,  and  the  baseball  audience 
would  not  have  imitated  the  newspa- 
pers. It  is  true  that  I, have  seen  base- 
ball crowds  in  frenzy;  but  these  have 
been  isolated  moments  of  high  tension 
when  all  of  us  have  been  brought  to 
our  feet  with  loud  explosions  of  joy 
or  agony.  But  the  perspiring,  ululant 
Fan  in  shirt-sleeves,  ceaselessly  waving 
his  straw  hat,  uttering  imprecations 
on  the  enemy,  his  enthusiasm  obvious- 
ly aroused  by  stimulants  preceding  his 


THE  GAME 


253 


arrival  at  the  baseball  park,  is  far  from 
being  representative  of  the  baseball 
crowd. 

The  spirit  of  the  audience  is  best  ex- 
pressed in  quite  a  different  sort  of  per- 
son. He  is  always  to  be  seen  at  the 
Polo  grounds,  and  when  I  think  of 
baseball  audiences  it  is  he  who  rises 
before  me  to  the  exclusion  of  his  fat, 
perspiring  brother  with  the  straw  hat. 
He  is  young,  tall,  slender,  wears  blue 
serge,  and  even  on  very  cool  days  in  the 
early  spring  he  goes  without  an  over- 
coat. He  sits  out  the  game  with  folded 
arms,  very  erect,  thin-lipped,  and  with 
the  break  of  a  smile  around  the  eyes. 
He  is  usually  alone,  and  has  little  to 
say.  He  is  not  a  snob;  he  will  respond 
to  his  neighbor's  comments  in  moments 
of  exceptional  emotional  stress,  but  he 
does  not  wear  his  heart  on  his  sleeve. 

I  imagine  him  sitting,  in  very  much 
the  same  attitude,  in  college  lecture- 
rooms,  or  taking  instructions  from  the 
head  of  the  office.  Complete  absorp- 
tion under  complete  control  —  he 
fascinates  me.  While  the  stout  young 
man  behind  me  chatters  on  for  his  own 
gratification,  forgetting  one  moment 
what  he  said  the  moment  before,  —  an 
empty-headed  young  man  with  a  ten- 
dency to  profanity  as  the  game  goes  on, 
-  this  other  trim  young  figure  in  blue 
serge,  with  folded  arms,  sits  immobile, 
watching,  watching  with  a  calm  that 
must  come  out  of  real  knowledge  and 
experience,  enjoying  the  thing  im- 
mensely, but  giving  no  other  sign  than 
a  sharper  glint  of  the  eye,  a  slight 
opening  of  the  lips.  In  a  moment  of 
crisis,  being  only  human,  he  rises  with 
the  rest  of  us,  but  deliberately,  to  fol- 
low the  course  of  a  high  fly  down  the 
foul  line  far  toward  the  bleachers. 
When  the  ball  is  caught  he  smiles  and 
sits  down  and  folds  his  arms.  I  envy 
him  his  capacity  for  drinking  in  enjoy- 
ment without  display.  This  is  the  kind 
of  fan  I  should  like  to  be. 


IV 

Does  my  thin-lipped  friend  in  blue 
serge  read  the  sporting  page?  I  won- 
der. My  own  opinion  is  that  he  does 
not,  except  to  glance  through  the  box- 
score.  It  is  for  the  other  man,  I  imag- 
ine, the  stout  young  man  behind  me 
who  detected  from  the  first  ball  thrown 
that  the  pitcher's  arm  was  no  good,  and 
who  later  identified  him  as  the  best 
southpaw  in  the  two  leagues,  that  the 
sporting  page  with  its  humor,  its  phil- 
osophy, its  art,  and  its  poetry  is  edited. 
The  sporting  page  has  long  ceased  to  be 
a  mere  chronicle  of  sport  and  has  be- 
come an  encyclopaedia,  an  anthology, 
a  five-foot  book-shelf,  a  little  univer- 
sity in  itself.  The  life  mirrored  in  the 
pictures  on  the  sporting  page  is  not  re- 
stricted to  the  prize  ring  and  the  dia- 
mond, though  the  language  of  the  prize 
ring  and  the  baseball  field  is  its  ver- 
nacular. The  art  of  the  sporting  page 
has  expanded  beyond  the  narrow  field 
of  play  to  life  itself,  viewed  as  play. 

The  line  of  development  is  plain: 
from  pictures  of  the  Fan  at  the  game 
the  advance  has  been  to  pictures  of  the 
Fan  at  home,  and  so  on  to  his  wife  and 
his  young,  and  his  Weltanschauung,  un- 
til now  the  artist  frequently  casts  aside 
all  pretense  of  painting  sport  and  draws 
pictures  of  humanity.  The  sporting 
cartoon  has  become  a  social  chronicle. 
It  is  still  found  on  the  sporting  page; 
partly,  I  suppose,  because  it  originated 
there,  partly  because  there  is  no  other 
place  in  the  paper  where  it  can  get  so 
wide  an  audience.  It  entraps  the  man 
in  the  street  who  comes  to  read  base- 
ball and  remains  to  study  contempo- 
rary life-  -  in  violent,  exaggerated  form, 
but  life  none  the  less. 

Even  poetry.  Sporting  columns  to- 
day run  heavily  to  verse.  Here,  as  well 
as  in  the  pictures,  there  has  been  an 
evolution.  From  the  mere  rhymed 
chronicle  of  what  happened  to  Christy 


254 


THE  GAME 


Mathewson  we  have  passed  on  to  gen- 
eralized reflections  on  life,  expressed,  of 
course,  in  terms  of  the  game.  Kipling 
has  been  the  great  model.  His  lilt  and 
his  *  punch '  are  so  admirably  adapted 
to  the  theme  and  the  audience.  How 
many  thousand  parodies  of  'Danny 
Deever'  and  'The  Vampire'  have  the 
sporting  editors  printed?  I  should  hesi- 
tate to  say.  But  Kipling  and  his  young- 
er imitators,  with  Henley's  'Invictus' 
and  'When  I  was  a  King  in  Babylon,' 
and  the  late  Langdon  Smith's  '  Evolu- 
tion': 'When  I  was  a  Tadpole  and 
You  were  a  Fish '  —  have  become  the 
patterns  for  a  vast  popular  poetry 
which  deals  in  the  main  with  the  red- 
blooded  virtues,  —  grit,  good  humor, 
and  clean  hitting,  —  but  which  drops 
with  surprising  frequency  for  an  op- 
timist race  into  the  mood  of  Ecclesi- 
astes : — 

Demon  of  Slow  and  of  Fast  Ones, 
Monarch  of  Moisture  and  Smoke, 
Who  made  Wagner  swing  at  Anyoldthing, 
And  Baker  look  like  a  Joke. 

And  the  writer  goes  on  to  remind  the 
former  king  of  the  boxmen  that  soon- 
er or  later  'Old  Pop'  Tempus  asks 
for  waivers  on  the  best  of  us,  and  that 
Matty  and  Johnson  must  in  due  time 
make  way  for 

Youngsters  with  pep  from  the  Texas  Steppe  — 
The  Minors  wait  for  us  all. 

Yes,  you  prince  of  batsmen,  who  amidst 
the  bleachers'  roar, 

Strolled  to  the  plate  with  your  T.  Cobb  gait, 
Hitting  .364  — 

alas,  Old  Pop  Tempus  has  had  his 
way  with  you,  too:  — 

Your  Average  now  is  Rancid 

And  the  Pellet  you  used  to  maul 

In  Nineteen  O  Two  has  the  Sign  on  you  — 

The  Minors  wait  for  us  all. 

Not  that  it  matters,  of  course.  The  point 
is  to  keep  on  smiling  and  unafraid  in 
Bushville  as  under  the  Main  Tent,  al- 
ways doing  one's  best 


To  swing  at  the  Pill  with  right  good  will, 
Hitting  .364. 

This  is  evidently  something  more 
than  a  sporting  page.  This  is  a  cosmo- 
logy- 


those  gentlemen  who  are  in  the 
habit  of  sneering  at  professional  base- 
ball kindly  explain  why  it  is  precisely 
the  professional  game  which  has  in- 
spired the  newspaper  poets?  Person- 
ally I  like  professional  baseball,  and 
for  the  very  reasons  why  so  many  per- 
sons profess  to  dislike  it.  The  game  is 
played  for  money  by  men  who  play  all 
the  time.  They  would  rather  win  than 
lose,  but  they  are  not  devoured  by  the 
passion  for  victory.  They  will  play  with 
equal  zest  for  Chicago  to-day  and  for 
Boston  to-morrow.  But  when  you  say 
all  this  you  are  really  asserting  what  I 
have  discovered  to  be  a  fact,  —  unless 
Mr.  G.  K.  Chesterton  has  discovered 
it  before  me,  —  that  only  in  profession- 
al sport  does  the  true  amateur  spirit 
survive. 

By  the  amateur  spirit  I  mean  the 
spirit  which  places  the  game  above  the 
victory;  which  takes  joy,  though  it 
may  be  a  subdued  joy,  in  the  perfect 
coordination  of  mind  and  muscle  and 
nerve;  which  plays  to  win  because  vic- 
tory is  the  best  available  test  of  abil- 
ity, but  which  is  all  the  time  aware  that 
life  has  other  interests  than  the  stand- 
ing of  the  clubs  and  the  Golf  Commit- 
tee's official  handicap.  I  contend  that 
the  man  who  plays  to  live  is  a  better 
amateur  than  the  man  who  lives  to 
play.  I  am  not  thinking  now  of  the 
actual  amount  of  time  one  gives  to  the 
game,  though  even  then  it  might  be 
shown  that  Mr.  Walter  J.  Travis  de- 
votes more  hours  to  golf  than  Mr. 
Mathewson  devotes  to  baseball.  I  am 
thinking  rather  of  the  adjustment  of 
the  game  to  the  general  scheme  of  life. 
It  seems  to  be  pretty  well  established 


THE  GAME 


255 


that  when  your  ordinary  amateur  takes 
up  golf  he  deteriorates  as  a  citizen,  a 
husband  and  father;  but  I  cannot  im- 
agine Mr.  Walter  Johnson  neglecting 
his  family  in  his  passion  for  baseball. 
As  between  the  two,  where  do  you  find 
the  true  amateur  spirit? 

I  insist.  Professional  baseball  lacks 
the  picturesque  and  stimulating  acces- 
sories of  an  intercollegiate  game  —  the 
age-old  rivalries,  the  mustering  of  the 
classes,  the  colors,  the  pretty  women, 
the  cheering  carried  on  by  young  lead- 
ers to  the  verge  of  apoplexy.  But  after 
all,  why  this  Saturnalia  of  pumped-up 
emotion  over  the  winning  of  a  game? 
The  winning,  it  will  be  observed,  and 
not  the  playing.  Compared  with  such 
an  exhibition  of  the  lust  for  victory,  a 
professional  game  with  its  emphasis  on 
the  performance  and  not  on  the  result, 
comes  much  nearer  to  the  true  heart  of 
the  play  instinct.  An  old  topic  this,  and 
a  perilous  one.  Before  I  know  it  I  shall 
be  advocating  the  obsolete  standards 
of  English  sport,  which  would  naturally 
appeal  to  a  duffer.  Well,  I  will  take 
the  consequences  and  boldly  assert  that 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  playing  too 
keenly, — even  when  playing  with  per- 
fect fairness,  —  such  a  thing  as  buck- 
ing the  line  too  hard. 

It  is  distortion  of  life  values.  After 
all,  there  are  things  worth  breaking 
your  heart  to  achieve  and  others  that 
are  not  worth  while.  Francis  Ouimet's 
victory  over  Vardon  and  Ray  is  some- 
thing we  are  justly  proud  of;  not  so 
much  as  a  display  of  golf,  but  as  a  dis- 
play of  an  unrivaled  capacity  for  rally- 
ing all  the  forces  of  one's  being  to  the 
needs  of  the  moment;  for  its  display  of 
that  grit  and  nerve  on  which  our  civil- 
ization has  been  built  so  largely.  Only 
observe,  Ouimet's  victory  was  magnifi- 
cent, but  it  was  not  play.  It  was  fought 
in  the  fierce  spirit  of  the  struggle  for  ex- 
istence which  it  is  the  purpose  of  play 
to  make  us  forget.  It  was  Homeric,  but 


who  wants  baseball  or  tennis  or  golf 
to  be  Homeric?  Herbert  Spencer  was 
not  merely  petulant  when  he  said  that 
to  play  billiards  perfectly  argued  a  mis- 
spent life.  He  stated  a  profound  truth. 
To  play  as  Ouimet  did  against  Vardon 
and  Ray  argues  a  distortion  of  the 
values  of  life.  What  shall  it  profit  us  if 
we  win  games  and  lose  our  sense  of  the 
proportion  of  things?  It  is  immoral. 

I  think  Maurice  McLoughlin's  hur- 
ricane service  is  immoral.  I  confess  that 
when  McLoughlin  soars  up  from  the 
base  line  like  a  combination  Mercury 
and  Thor,  and  pours  the  entire  strength 
of  his  lithe,  magnificent  body  through 
the  racket  into  the  ball,  it  is  as  beauti- 
ful a  sight  as  any  of  the  Greek  sculp- 
tors have  left  us.  But  I  cannot  share 
the  crowd's  delight  when  McLough- 
lin's opponent  stands  helpless  before 
that  hurtling,  twisting  missile  of  fate. 
What  satisfaction  is  there  in  develop- 
ing a  tennis  service  which  nobody  can 
return?  The  natural  advantage  which 
the  rules  of  the  game  confer  on  the 
server  ceases  to  be  an  advantage  and 
becomes  merely  a  triumph  of  machin- 
ery, even  if  it  is  human  machinery.  A 
game  of  tennis  which  is  won  on  aces 
is  opposed  to  the  very  spirit  of  play. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  crowd  admits 
this  when  it  applauds  a  sharp  rally  over 
the  net,  for  then  it  is  rejoicing  in  play, 
whereas  applause  for  an  ace  is  simply 
joy  in  winning.  I  repeat:  McLoughlin 
making  one  of  his  magnificent  kills  on 
the  return  is  play;  McLoughlin  making 
his  unreturnable  services  from  place- 
ment is  merely  a  scientific  engineer  — 
and  nothing  is  more  immoral  than 
scientific  management,  especially  when 
applied  to  anything  really  worth  while 
in  life.  Incidentally,  a  change  in  the 
rules  of  tennis  seems  unavoidable.  The 
ball,  instead  of  being  handed  over  to 
McLoughlin  for  sure  destruction,  will 
have  to  be  thrown  into  the  court  by  the 
umpire,  as  in  polo. 


256 


THE  AGRICULTURE  OF  THE  GARDEN  OF  EDEN 


VI 

You  will  now  see  why  I  am  so  much 
drawn  to  the  slender  young  man  in  blue 
serge  who  sits  with  folded  arms  and 
only  smiles  when  Mr.  Doyle  is  caught 
napping  on  first.  It  is  because  I  am 
convinced  that  he  sees  the  game  as  it 
ought  to  be  seen,  —  with  an  intense 
sympathy  and  understanding,  but, 
after  all,  with  a  sense  of  humor  which 
recognizes  that  a  great  world  lies  out- 
side the  Polo  grounds.  You  would  not 
think  that  such  a  world  existed  from 
the  way  in  which  the  stout  young  man 
behind  me  has  been  carrying  on.  It 
will  be  recalled  that  he  began  by  in- 
stantly discovering  that  the  visiting 
pitcher's  arm  was  no  good.  This  dis- 
covery he  had  modified  by  the  end  of 


the  fourth  inning  to  the  extent  that  the 
visiting  pitcher  now  had  everything. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  ninth  inning 
this  revised  opinion  still  held  good. 
The  score  was  2  to  0  against  the  home 
team,  and  the  stout  young  man  got  up 
in  disgust,  remarking  that  he  had  no 
use  for  a  bunch  of  cripples  who  pre- 
sumed to  go  up  against  a  real  team. 

But  he  did  not  go  home.  He  hovered 
in  the  aisle,  and  when  the  home  team, 
in  the  second  half  of  the  ninth,  bunched 
four  hits  and  won  the  game,  the  stout 
young  man  hurled  himself  down  the 
aisle  and  out  upon  the  field,  shrieking 
madly.  But  the  thin  young  man  in  blue 
serge  got  to  his  feet,  smiled,  made  some 
observation  to  his  neighbor  in  an  un- 
dertone, which  I  failed  to  catch,  and 
walked  out. 


THE  AGRICULTURE  OF  THE  GARDEN  OF  EDEN 


BY   J.   RUSSELL    SMITH 


THE  story  of  the  Garden  of  Eden  has 
been  extensively  used  by  those  who 
would  influence  human  action.  But 
strange  to  say,  one  of  its  most  evident 
lessons  appears  to  have  been  over- 
looked. It  is  for  the  farmer  that  the 
well-known  drama  has  the  plainest 
teaching  of  all.  The  race  has  been  sub- 
jected to  needless  toil  because  the 
agriculturist  has  left  this  part  of  Scrip- 
ture entirely  to  the  theologians.  Re- 
gardless of  theological  differences  we 
can  agree  that  the  agriculture  of  the 
Garden  was  good,  because  it  support- 
ed the  race  comfortably  and  without 


labor.   What  more  could  it  possibly  do 
for  mankind? 

The  inhabitants  of  Eden  plainly 
lived  without  toil.  They  were  born  to 
that  leisure  for  which  we  strive  so 
fiercely  in  this  work-a-day  world.  So 
far  as  the  man  was  concerned,  the  sting 
of  the  expulsion  was  the  fact  that  he 
had  to  go  forth  and  eat  bread  in  the 
sweat  of  his  face.  Jehovah  did  not  en- 
force this  sentence  at  hard  labor  by 
putting  a  guard  over  Adam.  Eve  was 
not  placed  in  charge,  nor  yet  the  wily 
serpent.  The  offender  was  merely  driven 
forth  from  the  Garden  that  was  full  of 
trees.  The  trees  had  made  it  Paradise. 
Every  tree  that  was  pleasant  to  the 


THE  AGRICULTURE  OF  THE  GARDEN  OF  EDEN 


257 


sight  and  good  for  food  was  there. 
The  inhabitants  walked  about  in  the 
comfortable  shade  and  ate.  When  thirst 
arose,  there  were  the  juices  of  fruits 
and  palm  wine. 

The  spontaneous  products  of  the 
Garden  even  supplied  the  first  demand 
for  clothes.  On  that  bitter  day  of  ex- 
pulsion these  erstwhile  happy  harvest- 
ers of  tree-crops  were  driven  forth  from 
this  rich  and  fruitful  shade,  driven  to 
the  fields  to  eat  the  herb  of  the  field 
and  to  win  bread  by  the  sweat  of  their 
faces. 

Since  we  are  all  more  or  less  lazy,  and 
only  some  of  us  are  religious,  it  is  for- 
sooth amazing  that  our^efforts  at  being 
restored  to  Paradise  have  been  limited 
so  exclusively  to  the  domain  of  religion. 
This  is  the  more  peculiar  because  the 
religion  has  to  be  taken  on  faith,  while 
the  agriculture  of  Paradise  could  be 
seen  and  felt  and  tasted,  and  that  with- 
out labor.  Even  yet  no  one  has  striven 
to  restore  it  for  the  relief  of  a  weary 
world.  It  is  high  time  the  husbandman 
took  up  his  Scripture. 

Eden  is  a  Babylonian  tale,  and  Baby- 
lonia is  a  land  of  dates.  It  was  so,  long, 
long  before  Abraham  went  up  toward 
Palestine  out  of  Ur  of  the  Chaldees. 
At  a  time  which  was  to  him  mytho- 
logical, the  date  tree  had  become  sa- 
cred to  his  Semitic  ancestors  along  the 
Euphrates.  It  is  from  this  Babylonia 
that  we  now  receive  each  autumn  our 
argosies  of  dates  wherewith  to  regale 
ourselves  at  Christmas  time.  To  us 
they  are  sweetmeats,  but  to  the  dwell- 
ers in  the  land  of  dates  they  are  a 
great  staple  of  life. 

Eden  was  in  this  land  of  date  trees, 
and  a  visit  to  a  date-growing  oasis 
makes  clear  the  whole  story  of  the  Gar- 
den and  the  expulsion.  How  terrible 
was  the  expulsion !  Within  was  shade, 
of  which  the  scriptural  writers  speak  so 
often  and  so  appreciatively,  because 
they  had  it  so  little  in  their  hot  and 

VOL.  114- NO.  2 


arid  landscape.  Without,  the  shimmer- 
ing heat,  the  withering  sun,  beating 
down  almost  like  fire  upon  the  dry  and 
harvestless  earth,  with  the  white  glare 
that  arises  from  the  bare  and  waterless 
soil.  Into  this  they  were  driven  to  eat 
the  herb  of  the  field,  which  indeed  they 
could  not  get  without  much  sweat  in 
their  faces.  Within  the  oasis  was  shade 
and  water;  food  was  there;  and  life 
without  labor,  or  at  least  with  little  la- 
bor. It  is  thus  to-day;  thus  has  it  been 
these  many  thousands  of  years.  The 
fashioner  of  that  allegory  of  old  used 
the  material  at  hand.  Every  listener 
in  the  group  squatting  about  the  first 
narrator  of  the  fall  and  expulsion  of 
man  had  been  burned  by  that  desert 
glare,  soothed  by  the  shade  of  the  fruit- 
ful tree,  fed  by  its  abundant  crop  — 
and  shaken  by  fear  of  expulsion  by  the 
raider. 

No  episode  in  all  the  history  of  the 
land  was  so  common  as  the  raid  of  the 
nomads.  From  the  treeless  expanses 
they  swooped  down  upon  the  dwellers 
in  date  gardens  and  drove  them  forth. 
The  roving  nomad  was  always  strong 
in  attack,  the  dweller  in  the  garden  was 
always  easy  prey.  One  cannot  rightly 
guess  the  extent  of  the  aeons  during 
which  human  history  in  Southwest 
Asia  consisted  of  one  long  and  essen- 
tially unvaried  series  of  captures  and 
possessions  of  the  oasis  gardens,  these 
captures  being  followed  by  yet  other 
captures  and  expulsions  at  the  hand  of 
other  hungry  victors.  Hagars  and  Ish- 
maels  without  number,  accompanied 
at  times  by  equally  hopeless  men,  had 
gone  forth  to  wander,  to  dig,  or  to  per- 
ish. This  picture  was  in  the  legends, 
if  not  in  the  memory,  of  every  house- 
hold. The  maker  of  the  story  of  Eden 
used  the  material  at  hand.  No  other 
land  could  then  or  can  yet  rival  the 
oasis  in  this  picture  it  gives  of  the 
easy  life  and  the  burning  contrast  of 
expulsion. 


258         THE  AGRICULTURE  OF  THE   GARDEN  OF  EDEN 


ii 

This  easy  living  in  the  oasis  is  made 
possible  because  of  the  workings  of 
that  wonderful  engine  of  production  — 
the  date  tree.  That  is  the  agricultural 
lesson  from  Eden  —  that  we  should  go 
back  a  bit  toward  Paradise  and  learn 
to  use  trees,  which  are  Nature's  great- 
est engines  of  food-production.  For  a 
few  thousand  years  we  have  taken  the 
expulsion  and  curse  too  literally,  and 
have  been  living  as  the  fallen  Adam 
was  told  to  —  by  digging  and  sweat- 
ing and  growing  the  herbs  of  the  field. 
Trees  should  be  made  to  work  for  us 
as  they  do  for  the  Semite.  Little  do 
we  of  the  West  appreciate  the  potency, 
the  almost  automatic  potency,  of  these 
botanic  engines.  No  other  type  of  agri- 
culture produces  food  so  easily. 

Now,  as  for  the  last  five  or  ten  thou- 
sand seasons,  the  date-tree  owner  be- 
gins his  year's  work  in  the  springtime 
by  climbing  his  tall  trees  to  fertilize 
their  blossoms.  The  ascent  is  easy  be- 
cause of  the  natural  steps  furnished  by 
the  notchings  left  by  the  stubs  of  the 
leaves  of  past  years.  The  blossoms  of 
the  fruitful  female  palm  are  fertilized 
by  a  dust  of  pollen  shaken  from  a  sprig 
of  male  flowers  in  the  hand  of  the  hus- 
bandman. This  economical  device  per- 
mits a  very  small  proportion  of  male 
trees  to  suffice  and  the  garden  can 
be  filled  to  crowding  with  the  fecund 
female  trees.  Once  the  blooms  are  fer- 
tilized, little  more  is  done  for  the  tree 
but  watering  at  rather  frequent  inter- 
vals, and  this  is  often  a  light  task,  the 
mere  diversion  of  a  stream.  Many  of 
the  palms  are  cultivated  only  one  year 
in  three,  but  with  this  small  labor  they 
are  heavy  yielders.  The  open  feathery 
palm  leaves  permit  much  light  to  filter 
through,  so  that  oranges,  figs,  and  apri- 
cots grow  beneath  the  palms,  and  gar- 
den vegetables  can  grow  among  these 
lesser  fruit  trees.  The  vegetables  pay 


the  cost,  the  rest  is  profit,  and  the  high 
values  are  explained. 

Thus  the  date  garden  leads  all  other 
kinds  of  agriculture  in  the  amount  of 
food  produced,  and  this  tree  merits 
the  title  of  King  of  Crops  on  the  purely 
civil-service  basis  of  leadership  in  per- 
formance. Small  wonder  that  the  pre- 
historic Semite  called  it  sacred.  Pound 
for  pound,  the  date  is  as  nutritious  as 
bread,  and  when  the  harvest  is  weigh- 
ed, it  is  three-  to  twenty-fold  that  of 
wheat.  After  a  score  of  years  or  less, 
the  best  wheat  lands  are  exhausted  by 
continuous  production;  but  we  know 
that  certain  oases  have  yielded  dates 
regularly  since  they  were  visited  and 
described  by  Roman  writers  a  score 
of  centuries  ago.  They  are  torday  so 
prized  that  the  Arab  owner  will  refuse 
five  thousand  dollars  in  gold  for  an 
acre  of  good  date  garden.  Its  yield  war- 
rants the  valuation.  In  May  the  oases 
housetops  beside  the  date  garden  are 
covered  with  drying  apricots;  in  July 
and  again  in  September  the  figs  are 
drying;  in  late  autumn  comes  the  great 
event  of  the  year,  the  date  harvest. 

The  first  thing  that  self-respecting 
Arab  families  do  is  to  fill  goat-skins 
with  dates  packed  solid,  and  store  away 
enough  of  this  staple  article  of  diet  to 
last  until  the  next  harvest.  The  harvests 
are  very  certain  although  of  course 
they  fluctuate  in  amount.  The  surplus 
dates  are  sold  to  caravan  traders,  who 
bring  barley  for  the  coarse  loaf,  animals 
for  meat,  and  manufactures  from  over 
the  sea.  As  the  necessary  vegetable 
gardens  and  other  fruit  trees  cover 
but  a  fraction  of  the  space,  much  of 
the  palm  area  grows  up  in  grass,  which 
is  pulled  out  and  carried  in  bunches  to 
feed  the  donkeys,  and  the  cows  and 
goats  that  furnish  the  milk-supply. 
Since  the  house  of  sun-dried  bricks  is 
small,  and  keeping  it  clean  is  no  neces- 
sity, the  secluded  and  unlettered  woman 
has  plenty  of  time  to  run  the  ancient 


THE  AGRICULTURE  OF  THE  GARDEN  OF  EDEN 


259 


spinning-wheel,  and  hand-loom.  Her 
exercise  she  gets  by  carrying  heavy 
water-jars  from  the  spring  or  well  at 
twilight.  Such  is  the  life  of  the  oasis, 
unchanged  these  many  thousand  years 
since  some  inventive  mind  shaped  from 
it  the  story  of  Adam  and  Eve. 


m 

I  would  not  call  the  American  people 
to  go  and  live  this  life  of  the  Arab  in 
his  oasis,  but  we  can  well  and  profitably 
ponder  this  pregnant  fact.  If  the  Arab 
had  to  cut  down  his  trees  and  live  by 
the  crops  we  grow,  —  the  herbs  of  the 
field,  —  famine  would  sweep  the  oases. 
By  sheer  starvation  the  population 
would  shrink  two  thirds,  four  fifths,  or 
possibly  to  an  even  greater  extent.  It 
is  the  tree  as  a  source  of  support  for 
mankind  that  I  would  emphasize. 

There  will  be  much  food  produced 
if  we  properly  plant  all  our  date  ter- 
ritory down  in  Arizona  at  the  mouth 
of  the  American  Euphrates.  We  are 
already  making  a  good  start  in  that 
direction,  but  the  lesson  for  America  is 
far  wider  than  dates,  good  and  nutri- 
tious though  they  are.  The  date  is  not 
the  only  work  tree  of  the  Orient.  There 
are  many  of  them.  So  great  is  their  ser- 
vice to  man  that  the  definition  of  a 
garden  in  Syria  is  a  place  where  trees 
are  grown,  as  was  the  Garden  of  Eden. 
The  Syrian  garden  is  full  of  trees,  — 
walnut,  almond,  olive,  carob,  fig,  apple, 
peach,  pear,  cherry,  apricot,  orange, 
pomegranate,  and  mulberry.  Beneath 
and  between  the  trees  the  vegetables 
and  grains  are  grown. 

The  trees  in  this  Syrian  garden  are 
an  important  and  practically  necessary 
part  of  the  nutrition  of  the  people. 
Combined  with  grain  in  the  form  of 
coarse  bread,  the  tree-products  make 
a  balanced  and  wholesome  ration.  For 
large  elements  of  the  population,  at 
least  one  meal  a  day  is  commonly  com- 


posed of  bread  and  walnuts.  The  wal- 
nut is  rich  in  both  protein  and  fat,  so 
that  this  combination  virtually  dupli- 
cates in  nutrition  our  occidental  sand- 
wich of  bread,  butter,  and  meat.  The 
oil  to  which  the  scriptural  writers  so 
lovingly  referred  is  still  important  in 
that  land,  and  the  olive  tree  that  pro- 
duces it  is  almost  as  useful  to  the 
Syrian  as  the  cow  is  to  the  American. 
The  cow  gives  butter  and  drink,  and 
the  olive  tree  gives  butter  and  food. 
When  the  workman  on  the  Mediterra- 
nean goes  from  home  for  a  day's  labor, 
he  often  takes  a  pocketful  of  olives  and 
a  piece  of  bread  for  his  lunch.  Remove 
butter,  breakfast  bacon,  and  fat  meat 
from  our  vocabulary,  put  olive  oil  in 
their  place,  and  we  shall  begin  to  think 
the  thoughts  of  Mediterranean  cooks. 
Once  cooks  and  palates  are  educated, 
the  blood  does  not  know  the  difference 
between  the  rich  globules  of  fat  that 
come  to  it.  It  is  fat  that  the  human 
system  wants,  and  it  makes  no  final 
difference  whether  it  comes  from  butter, 
bacon,  lard,  olive,  cocoanut,  goose,  or 
bear.  Fat  is  fat,  once  it  is  in  our  blood. 
The  source  from  which  we  shall  get 
this  fundamental  of  nutrition  depends 
in  part  upon  our  bringing-up,  but  even- 
tually our  getting  it  depends  upon  the 
ease  of  winning  it  from  our  environ- 
ment. From  the  standpoint  of  whole- 
someness  and  digestibility,  olive  oil 
ranks  so  high  that  it  is  often  prescribed 
for  infants  and  invalids  by  American 
physicians. 

Wherewithal  shall  we  be  fatted?  The 
Syrian  with  the  olive  trees  in  the  gar- 
den (which  he  has)  rather  than  with 
cows  in  the  lush  pasture  (which  he  has 
not)  is  all  unintentionally  pointing  to 
us  the  way  out  of  one  of  our  new  diffi- 
culties. The  price  of  butter  mounteth 
higher  and  yet  higher,  and  we  groan, 
but  groans  are  not  generally  recog- 
nized in  economic  circles  as  good  price- 
reducers.  The  truth  is  we  have  had 


260 


THE  AGRICULTURE  OF  THE  GARDEN  OF  EDEN 


cheap  lard,  cheap  butter,  and  cheap 
bacon  because  we  had  cheap  land  for 
the  beasts  to  live  on,  —  cheap  and 
plenty.  The  Federal  government  has 
been  giving  it  away  for  a  century,  but 
for  twenty  years  there  has  been  little 
more  than  agricultural  remnants  to 
give,  and  the  older  lands  are  somewhat 
impoverished.  Hence  land  and  its 
products  are  now  rising  in  price,  and 
there  does  not  seem  to  be  much  com- 
fort in  sight  unless  we  change  our 
methods.  Prices  suggest  the  coming 
change.  Already  good  olive  oil  from 
across  the  sea  is  cheaper  than  butter 
in  the  towns  and  cities  of  our  Atlantic 
seaboard.  There  is  the  vindication  of 
the  Syrian  gardener.  His  gray-green 
olive  trees  with  their'hoary  trunks  cen- 
turies old  are  more  efficient  fat-makers 
than  our  stables  of  cows.  If  we  would 
supply  ourselves  cheaply,  we  too  must 
turn  from  the  beast  to  the  tree. 

This  change  may  be  important  for 
the  development  of  the  higher  life  of 
the  race.  The  mind  and  spirit  of  man 
must  surely  rest  under  a  handicap  if 
he  is  bound  by  the  slavery  of  attend- 
ing upon  the  demands  of  dairy  cattle. 
Morning  and  evening  he  must  minister 
unto  them,  and  also  in  between  times. 
There  is  no  escape  on  the  Sabbath,  or 
Christmas,  or  the  Fourth  of  July,  or 
even  on  Labor  Day  —  day  in  and  day 
out  those  beasts  demand  their  soul- 
deadening  service.  It  is  worse  than  the 
curse  that  was  laid  upon  Adam  when 
he  was  sent  forth  to  dig  the  earth  and 
eat  the  herb  of  the  fields  in  the  sweat 
of  his  face.  How  different  with  the 
olive-dresser!  His  trees  require  care 
to  be  sure,  but  there  are  whole  weeks 
and  months  when  they  shift  for  them- 
selves. The  harvest  is  busy  and  long, 
but  when  it  is  over,  there  is  the  chance 
for  rest,  vacation,  and  the  inviting  of 
soul. 

But  whatever  may  be  the  advantage 
of  occasional  respite  from  labor,  it  can 


scarcely  be  said  that  the  Syrian  keeps 
olive  trees  rather  than  cows  for  that 
reason.  He  has  been  driven  to  it  by  his 
environment.  The  cow  with  her  appe- 
tite for  grass  requires  level  meadows 
and  rich  pastures.  The  Syrian  has 
neither.  The  strong  point  of  his  coun- 
try is  dry  rocky  hills,  and  it  is  upon  this 
forbidding  land  that  he  plants  his  olives 
to  get  his  butter  by  the  aid  of  this  re- 
markable tree  stuck  in  the  most  un- 
promising corners  of  his  garden.  The 
poor  cow  would  perish  with  the  burning 
of  her  pastures,  for  the  Syrian  summer 
is  one  unmitigated  drought  from  spring 
until  autumn.  The  grass  withers  and 
assumes  the  dead  brown  of  our  deepest 
winter.  Dust  characterizes  the  parched 
landscape,  but  under  it  all,  the  olive, 
with  its  leaf,  hairy  on  one  side  and 
glazed  on  the  other,  laughs  at  drought 
and  brings  its  fat  fruit  through  to  au- 
tumn harvest.  If  the  men  in  the  Scrip- 
ture lands  have  by  the  poverty  of  their 
environment  been  forced  to  get  better 
devices  than  we  now  possess,  may  we 
not,  by  the  application  of  our  brains, 
become  their  copyists  and  apply  at 
home  the  agricultural  as  well  as  spirit- 
ual lessons  they  have  taught  us? 


IV 

The  lesson  in  brief  is  that  crop-yield- 
ing trees  may  serve  fundamental  needs 
of  great  importance  and  make  easier 
our  hold  upon  life.  We  are  newcomers 
on  this  continent.  As  Man's  history 
goes,  we  came  here  but  yesterday,  and 
we  are  still  strangers  to  the  land  and  its 
best  uses.  We  found  a  land  of  trees 
which  we  have  destroyed  in  order  to 
apply  and  produce  the  crops  we  brought 
rather  than  those  that  were  best  suited 
to  the  land  and  to  our  present  needs. 

In  many  places  we  are  busily  trying 
to  grow  the  quickest  yielding  plants  ra- 
ther than  those  that  yield  best  both  for 
man  and  for  the  land.  The  wheat  crop 


THE  AGRICULTURE  OF  THE  GARDEN  OF  EDEN 


261 


often  yields  less  than  would  have  been 
produced  by  some  good  tree  crop,  and 
a  monument  of  misplaced  wheat  is  of- 
ten the  gashed  and  gullied  hillside  that 
results.  This  is  the  most  awful  of  all 
our  wasteful  sins  because  it  is  the  most 
irreparable  of  our  destructions.  For- 
tunately this  remorseless  destruction 
may  be  avoided  if  we  attack  the  prob- 
lem with  a  scientific  spirit,  a  broad  view, 
and  the  willingness  to  do  constructive 
things. 

The  trouble  is  that  we  have  not 
taken  tree  crops  seriously.  In  the  au- 
tumn we  go  forth  with  our  children  and 
gather  a  few  nuts  as  a  kind  of  an  out- 
ing, but  it  is  little  more  important  in 
our  eyes  than  the  collecting  of  pretty 
pebbles,  and  it  has  no  appreciable  in- 
fluence on  the  family  budget  or  the 
family's  nutrition.  We  pay  some  rather 
high  prices  at  times  for  fruits,  and  they 
are  tree  crops,  it  is  true,  but  what  do 
they  amount  to  from  the  nutritive 
standpoint  in  comparison  to  the  trees 
of  the  Syrian  garden?  Our  apples, 
peaches,  pears,  and  grapes,  our  grape- 
fruit, oranges,  and  lemons,  are  delight- 
ful and  wholesome  and  needed,  but 
they  meet  no  major  nutritive  need. 
These  needs  of  the  body  are  protein 
for  tissue,  fat  and  carbohydrates  for 
energy.  Except  for  a  small  amount 
of  sugar  (and  sugar  is  already  one  of 
the  cheapest  of  our  foods) ,  our  popular 
fruits  may  properly  be  compared  to  a 
refreshing  drink  or  a  succulent  salad. 
The  Syrian  garden  of  trees  produces 
major  foods.  The  almond  is  high  in 
protein,  the  great  factor  in  meat.  The 
walnut  is  high  in  both  protein  and  fat; 
the  oil  of  the  olive  is  more  nutritious 
than  butter  and  far  more  nutritious 
than  any  flesh  of  animals.  The  fig  is  a 
real  food,  containing  some  protein  and 
much  carbo-hydrate,  and  a  greater 
amount  of  nutriment  per  pound  than 
bread. 

In  many  parts  of  the  Mediterranean 


basin,  millions  of  people  instinctively 
recognize  the  fact  that  the  chestnut  is 
high  in  starch,  thus  permitting  it  to  be- 
come the  substitute  that  it  is  for  bread 
and  for  the  potato.  Even  the  acorn, 
with  an  analysis  surprisingly  like  that 
of  wheat,  is  used  for  food  to  some  extent 
by  many  tens  of  thousands. 

We  need  to  change  our  attitude 
toward  the  trees  as  food-producers. 
We  should  broaden  their  gift  from  the 
class  of  salads  and  frills  of  nutrition, 
and  make  it  the  piece  de  resistance,  a 
substitute  for  some  of  the  staples  we 
find  it  so  increasingly  difficult  to  buy. 
Perhaps  some  one  may  be  inclined  to 
say  that  we  are  already  using  nuts  as  a 
meat  substitute.  We  are.  We  already 
appreciate  them  so  highly  that  they 
have  risen  to  unreasonably  high  prices 
for  which  there  is  no  excuse  in  the  cost 
of  production  except  for  the  time-ele- 
ment involved.  We  need  many  more 
of  them.  Meanwhile,  all  the  money 
that  we  spend  for  nuts  in  a  year  in 
this  country  would  not  buy  a  pound  of 
good  beefsteak  for  each  of  us.  In  that 
connection  we  should  not  lose  sight  of 
the  fact  that  the  pound  of  beefsteak  is 
less  nutritious  than  a  pound  of  any  of 
several  kinds  of  nuts. 

The  Syrian  with  his  garden  of  trees 
(like  Eden)  does  not  forget  the  beast. 
The  prodigal  son  did  eat  the  husks  the 
swine  fed  on.  Those  husks  were  the 
sugary  pods  of  the  carob  bean,  a  stand- 
ard article  of  animal  food  in  Mediter- 
ranean lands  from  that  day  to  the  pre- 
sent. At  this  very  moment  the  rich 
green  and  bean-laden  curob  tree  may  be 
seen  from  Palestine  to  Portugal,  from 
the  edge  of  the  Sahara  to  Syria  and  the 
Riviera.  It  occupies  the  arid  and  rocky 
corners  which  are  not  fit  for  other  crops, 
and  the  beans  sell  for  a  cent  a  pound 
in  competition  with  corn,  for  which 
they  are  a  substitute  in  almost  all  its 
uses. 

Mr.  O.  F.  Cook,  an  economic  botan- 


262 


THE   AGRICULTURE  OF   THE    GARDEN  OF   EDEN 


1st,  has  recently  announced  that  agri- 
culture in  the  Mediterranean  basin 
began  with  tree  crops  like  Eden,  rather 
than  with  the  herbs  that  predominated 
after  the  expulsion.  About  twenty  of 
these  crops  are  yet  of  importance,  and 
the  economic  service  that  tree  crops 
can  render  is  well  shown  by  the  natives 
of  northern  Algeria.  The  ancient  Ber- 
bers who  still  live  in  the  mountain  terri- 
tory of  Kabylia  were  never  conquered 
by  Roman,  Goth,  Vandal,  Arab,  or 
Turk.  They  made  their  first  obeisance 
before  the  firearms  of  the  French  under 
the  Second  Empire.  Through  all  these 
millenniums  they  have  lived  in  their 
populous  villages  perched  high  on  the 
tops  of  steep  hills.  Around  them  in  all 
directions  is  a  zone  of  trees,  with  pas- 
ture above,  beginning  at  about  three 
thousand  feet,  and  the  oft-conquered 
open  valleys  below.  Here  for  unknown 
ages  the  Berber  has  lived  among  and 
from  his  trees.  There  are  four  staples 
of  life  in  Kabylia  —  dried  figs,  olives, 
bread,  and  meat.  For  miles  and  miles 
and  miles  there  is  one  unending  succes- 
sion of  villages  set  in  this  open  forest  of 
figs  and  olives.  Here  and  there  the 
better  spots  are  picked  out  for  grain 
fields  and  a  few  carobs  are  grown  to 
spice  up  the  donkey's  diet  of  straw,  and 
make  a  tidbit  for  the  children  (St. 
John's  bread,  we  call  it) .  The  sheep  and 
goats  which  pasture  beneath  the  trees 
furnish  an  occasional  boiled  or  broiled 
joint,  and  the  much  more  important 
wool  for  the  inclusive  flowing  robe  of 
Arab  style. 

A  diet  of  dried  figs,  coarse  bread, 
olives,  oil,  and  occasional  meat,  may 
seem  to  us  somewhat  monotonous,  but 
it  has  long  supported  a  vigorous  race. 
A  recent  American  agricultural  ex- 
plorer, Mr.  Thomas  Means,  states  that 


the  population  of  this  region  is  twenty- 
five  times  as  dense  where  tree  crops 
are  the  chief  dependence  as  it  is  where 
the  same  people  make  their  living  on 
the  same  hills  by  depending  upon  the 
grains  and  grasses  —  the  herbs  of  the 
field  which  have  characterized  our  agri- 
culture since  the  Fall. 

If  some  one  objects  to  tree  crops  on 
the  ground  that  the  examples  here 
given  are  from  Old  World  peoples  with 
lower  standards  of  life  than  ours,  he 
should  at  once  remember  that  the  same 
peoples  in  the  same  countries  live  no 
better,  and  if  anything  not  so  well, 
when  they  try  our  type  of  agriculture. 
Nor  is  there  any  reason  to  think  that 
tree  crops  would  not  aid  effectively  in 
maintaining  our  high  standard  of  life. 

There  is  small  reason  to  doubt  that 
the  proper  development  of  tree  crops 
would  greatly  enrich  and  cheapen  the 
food-supply  of  the  American  people 
and  their  domestic  animals.  The  chief 
trouble  seems  to  be  that  we  have  not 
thought  about  it.  Most  of  the  crop 
trees  of  value  in  Europe  have  been 
introduced  into  this  country,  such  as 
the  olive,  fig,  date,  the  acorn  and  cork 
oak,  the  walnut,  pistache,  and  almond. 
Our  native  trees,  such  as  the  pecan, 
shagbark,  mulberry,  honey-locust,  mes- 
quite,  and  persimmon,  offer  great  pro- 
mise if  properly  selected,  propagated, 
improved  by  plant-breeding,  and  test- 
ed by  experiment.  All  this  requires  sci- 
entific work. 

Now  that  we  have  spent  a  quarter  of 
a  century  developing  the  equipment  for 
the  promotion  of  agricultural  science, 
the  time  has  probably  come  when  at- 
tention can  be  turned  in  part  from  the 
herb  of  the  field  to  the  more  product- 
ive tree  that  has  long  made  the  Orien- 
tal garden  so  productive. 


LIFE  AND  DEATH 


LIFE  or  death.  Death  or  life.  Take  or  refuse. 

• 

What  do  they  offer  me?  How  shall  I  choose? 


ii 

Said  Life,  *I  can  offer  you  pain  and  distress 
And  trial  and  failure  and  hope  to  the  end, 

The  wealth  of  experience,  joy  of  success, 
The  love  of  a  woman,  the  trust  of  a  friend. 

'Then  turn  not  away,  is't  not  fair  in  the  sunshine, 
To  have  the  pure  freedom  of  drawing  the  breath?' 

And  I  marveled  and  turned,  thinking,  'Can  these  be  mine, 
These  wonderful  gifts?  But  what  sayeth  Death?' 

And  Death  said,  '  Relief  and  a  bound  to  Life's  pleasure, 

An  infinite  peace  and  an  infinite  rest.' 
In  silence  I  pondered  it  measure  for  measure. 

Which  shall  I  cleave  unto?  Which  is  the  best? 


in 

Life  will  I  take  with  its  joy  and  its  sorrow, 
Its  love  and  its  loss  and  its  battles  with  men, 

Fair  Life  for  a  time  thy  fair  gifts  would  I  borrow, 
Till  Death  gives  them  back  to  thy  keeping  again. 

• 

Good  Death  may  thou  never  be  far  from  my  sight, 
Stand  thou  by  the  wheel  as  I  sail  o'er  the  deep, 


264  LIFE  AND   DEATH 

Guard  me  surely  by  day  and  approach  me  by  night, 
Mantling  me  o'er  with  thy  shadow,  deep  sleep. 

Attend  all  my  pleasures,  bend  low  o'er  my  pen, 
Join  my  wild  gallops  wherever  I  ride; 

In  feasting,  in  travels,  in  toil  among  men, 
Let  me  ever  be  conscious  of  thee  at  my  side. 


Yet  shall  I  not  call  thee,  nor  plead  for  thine  aid, 
I  shall  not  complain  and  I  shall  not  implore. 

The  good  game  with  life  shall  be  royally  played, 
So  Death  the  kind  seneschal  stand  at  the  door. 


IV 

Said  Life,  'For  a  space  here  is  all  will  avail  thee, 
Beyond,  the  course  changes,  I  cannot  see  where.' 

And  I  said  in  a  whisper,  *  Death,  thou  wilt  not  fail  me.' 
And  Death  at  my  shoulder  said,  'I  will  be  there.' 


THE  BOY 


BY   ANNA   FULLER 


IT  was  as  sudden,  that  transport- 
ation to  other  scenes,  to  other  days, 
—  sudden  as  a  sea-change;  yet  gentle, 
too,  without  the  disconcerting  chill  that 
a  sea-change  brings.  Could  it  be  some- 
thing about  the  boy  that  had  set  old 
chords  vibrating? 

Little  more  than  a  boy  he  seemed, 
standing  there  so  slim,  so  straight, 
against  the  wide-spreading  background 
of  musicians,  —  so  quietly  withdrawn 
into  himself,  while  the  great  orchestra 
played  the  opening  bars  of  the  new 
concerto;  his,  the  boy's,  concerto.  The 
violin  drooped  so  lightly  at  his  side;  it 
made  her  think,  fantastically  enough, 
of  a  bronzed  oak-leaf,  clinging  to  its 
stem  —  as  if  a  sudden  gust  might  yet 
shake  it  loose.  And  in  the  preluding 
strains  of  the  orchestra  she  seemed  to 
hear  again  the  rustling  autumn  leaves 
at  her  feet,  as  she  and  another  trod  the 
forest  aisles  in  early  spring. 

For  in  Germany  the  forest  has  aisles, 
diverging  plainly  from  any  given  spot, 
in  long  shimmering  vistas.  These  end 
sometimes  in  a  point  of  light,  there 
where  the  forest  gives  upon  the  open. 
But  oftener  they  are  lost  in  the  black 
of  the  distance.  That  was  what  she 
had  liked  best  to  see;  for  then  they 
seemed  unending.  She  had  always  been 
impatient  of  limitations,  and  so  she 
had  become  entangled  in  them.  All  her 
life  had  been  a  network  of  limitations. 
She  knew  that  now,  though  she  had 
been  rather  slow  at  making  the  dis- 
covery. 


Curious,  she  mused,  how  last  year's 
leaves  used  to  linger,  rustling,  in  those 
forest  aisles,  far  into  the  spring.  She 
wondered  how  that  was  here  in  Amer- 
ica. City-bred,  she  could  not  recall 
having  visited  the  woods  so  early  in  the 
season  as  all  that,  excepting  there  at 
Schonheim.  It  was  Ludwig  Meyer  who 
had  been  her  guide  the  first  time;  an 
April  day  it  was,  the  sun  near  its  set- 
ting. He  had  found  that  the  Fraulein 
Miss,  as  the  countryside  called  her, 
had  no  scruples  about  taking  a  solitary 
ramble  with  a  young  man,  and  he  in 
his  turn  had  been  only  too  ready  to 
avail  himself  of  her  innocent  latitude. 

The  forest  spread  itself  over  a  broad 
shoulder  of  hill,  whence  one  looked 
down  upon  the  old  gray  walled  town, 
its  huddling  roofs,  its  massive,  uncouth 
Schloss,  its  hoary  church-tower.  In 
sun  and  shade  it  lay  there,  this  pictur- 
esque survival  of  antiquity,  encircled 
by  the  winding  Fulda,  save  to  the  south, 
where  the  gardens  of  the  townspeople, 
nestling  in  neighborly  proximity  close 
outside  the  walls,  showed  a  roof  of  fruit 
trees,  refreshingly  green  in  contrast  to 
the  bare  brown  of  ploughed  fields  that 
lined  the  valley  on  every  hand.  Only 
on  the  hills  round  about  was  grass  to 
be  seen,  kept  in  discreet  bounds  by 
browsing  cattle  and  nibbling  sheep. 
Her  companion  used  to  tell  her  about 
the  shepherds,  their  primitive  customs, 
their  homely  lore,  gleaned  face  to  face 
with  Nature  at  her  homeliest.  All  this 
and  more,  oh,  far  more,  he  used  to  tell 
her,  as  they  trod  the  rustling  leaves, 
—  'Dead  Leaves  in  Spring.'  That  was 

265 


266 


THE  BOY 


the  title  of  one  of  his  poems.  She  re- 
membered his  repeating  it  to  her  that 
first  day  in  the  woods,  musingly,  hesita- 
tingly, as  if  he  were  composing  it  then 
and  there.  She  found  afterwards  that 
he  was  apt  to  be  like  that,  musing, 
hesitating.  Only  under  strong  emo- 
tion did  he  become  dynamic;  and  mo- 
ments of  strong  emotion  were  rare  with 
him. 

She  wondered  whether  it  was  the 
name  on  the  programme  that  had  set 
her  fancy  pacing  those  forest  aisles 
that  lose  themselves  in  the  distance,  — 
quite  as  her  memories  of  Schonheim 
were  wont  to  do.  Why,  every  tenth 
man  in  Germany  was  a  Meyer.  And 
yet,  if  not  the  name,  what  could  it  be? 
Certainly  not  the  face,  dark,  smooth- 
shaven,  clean-cut.  There  was  nothing 
in  that  to  remind  her  of  her  Meyer, 
Ludwig  Meyer.  At  the  sudden  intru- 
sion of  the  personal  pronoun  a  slow 
flush  made  itself  felt  —  not  seen.  She 
was  not  given  to  blushing  —  visibly,  at 
least.  She  had  always  had  self-control, 
in  small  matters  and  great.  That  was 
why  she  was  to-day  a  New  England 
spinster,  sentimentalizing  over  the 
past,  here,  in  this  brilliant  auditorium, 
and  not  a  German  Hausfrau,  minis- 
tering to  husband  and  children  —  no, 
grandchildren.  It  would  have  been 
grandchildren  by  now.  Thirty  years 
are  reckoned  to  a  generation,  and  for 
thirty  years  those  shadows  in  the  for- 
est had  been  deepening.  Well,  what  of 
it?  What  had  the  forest  aisles  of  Ger- 
many to  do  with  her,  Helen  Bolles, 
firmly  rooted  in  her  own  environment, 
playing  her  part  in  it  handsomely,  effi- 
ciently, always  to  some  excellent  pur- 
pose? She  had  no  overweening  pride  in 
herself,  but  she  very  well  knew  that 
she  was  a  useful  member  of  society. 
Had  not  those  thirty  years,  every  one 
of  them,  gone  to  prove  how  right  she 
had  been  when  she  broke  loose  from 
that  homely,  heart-searching  glamour, 


—  the  glamour  of  Schonheim,  the  gla- 
mour of  Ludwig  Meyer?    In  what  had 
it  consisted,  she  wondered,  and  how 
long  could  it  have  endured,  supposing 
that  in  her  untried  girlhood  she  had 
committed  herself  to  it  for  all  time? 

• 

II 

Well,  well,  how  far  the  mind  could 
travel  in  a  few  short  minutes!  Very 
many  minutes  it  could  not  have  been, 
for  the  preluding  of  the  orchestra  still 
continued,  still  the  violin  hung  in  the 
boy's  light  hold,  —  and  the  boy  was 
slim  and  straight. 

His  name  was  Fritz,  it  appeared. 
Naturally,  a  Fritz  would  be  straight 
and  slim.  Ludwig  had  not  been  like 
that.  Rather  heavy  was  his  build,  and 
low;  indeed,  he  was  hardly  taller  than 
she  was  herself,  —  a  good  height  for  a 
woman,  not  for  a  man,  —  and  he  did 
not  carry  himself  well.  Mere  girl 
though  she  was,  she  had  been  quick  to 
recognize  in  him  the  type  of  man  who 
would  never  force  an  issue,  would  never 
emerge  from  his  native  environment. 
That,  too,  despite  the  touch  of  genius 
that  came  and  went  so  tantalizingly. 
What  an  unforgettable  voice  he  had, 
what  importunate  eyes!  Eyes  that 
could  burn  and  melt,  entreat  and  — 
renounce.  The  importunity  was  never 
long  sustained.  In  truth  he  was  a  mas- 
ter-hand at  renunciation;  he  could  put 
as  much  ardor  into  that  as  other  men 
squandered  upon  a  bootless  insistency. 

No,  Ludwig  Meyer  would  never  so 
far  dominate  circumstance  as  to  emerge 

—  to  assert  himself.  The  little  town  in 
Hessen  Cassel  that  was  his  birthplace 
would  be  his  dwelling-place  to  the  end. 
A  quaint  little  town,  intensely  roman- 
tic to  the  Helen  Bolles  of  thirty  years 
ago,  listening  to  Ludwig  Meyer's  tales 
of  its  chivalrous  past.  A  little  strong- 
hold it  had  been  for  the  honest  burghers 
who  had  built  and  manned  its  watch- 


THE  BOY 


267 


towers,  and  held  it  inviolate  against 
the  robber-barons  who  infested  hill  and 
plain;  a  real  city  of  refuge  to  the  mer- 
chant caravans,  fleeing  thither  for  shel- 
ter. 

She  had  loved  the  plucky  little  " 
stronghold,  when  once  she  knew  why 
it  was  that  the  houses  were  so  huddled 
together,  the  streets  hardly  more  than 
cobbled  alley- ways.  She  came  at  last 
to  love  everything  about  it,  —  the 
squawking  geese  that  went  waddling 
past  the  house  every  morning  on  their 
way  to  the  succulent  pasturage  of  the 
river-banks;  the  old  ferryman  who 
poled  one  across  for  a  groschen  to  the 
railway  station  when  there  was  no  time 
to  go  round  by  the  ancient  bridge,  built 
hundreds  of  years  before  railroads  were 
dreamed  of. 

Dearly  too  had  she  loved  the  little 
pair  of  German  Frauleins,  who  housed 
her  and  petted  her,  taught  her  Ger- 
man, and  thought  her  the  most  won- 
derful young  thing  in  the  world.  Their 
house  stood  on  the  main  thoroughfare, 
lighted  at  night  by  a  clumsy  medi- 
aeval lantern,  that  hung  suspended 
across  the  middle  of  the  street  directly 
under  her  window.  This  ponderous 
contrivance  was  lowered  each  evening 
on  its  clanking  chains  to  within  reach 
of  the  watchman's  hand,  then  hoisted 
aloft  again,  where  it  swung  in  the  wind, 
casting  more  shadows  than  light  upon 
the  cobblestones.  And  the  watchman, 
his  deep  guttural,  harsh  as  those  clank- 
ing chains !  How  safe  one  used  to  feel, 
snugly  stowed  away  in  one's  German 
feather-bed,  when  one  heard  him  ad- 
monishing the  good  burghers,  in  rude, 
immemorial  sing-song,  to  'have  a  care 
of  fire  and  candle-light,  that  no  harm 
befall  the  town  to-night.'  Sometimes, 
even  now,  when  she  was  wakened  in 
the  small  hours  by  rushing,  shrieking 
automobiles,  carrying  belated  revelers 
home,  her  mind  would  recur  to  the 
faithful  watchman,  and  she  would  be 


aware  of  a  quite  irrational  longing  for 
the  stillness  which  used  to  fall  when, 
with  the  pious  injunction,  'And  now 
praise  God  the  Lord,'  he  would  go  shuf- 
fling off,  his  heavy  step  echoing  fainter 
and  fainter  in  the  distance. 

The  peace,  the  stillness  of  Schon- 
heim !  There  had  been  years  when  she 
had  hardly  thought  of  it  at  all,  unless 
it  were  idly  to  speculate  as  to  who 
might  remain  among  the  living,  now 
that  the  dear  little  Frauleins  had,  one 
after  the  other,  adventured  the  long 
journey,  and  there  was  no  one  left 
to  chronicle  the  primitive  doings  of 
the  little  community.  She  smiled  in- 
wardly at  thought  of  the  delicacy  with 
which  they  had  always  refrained  from 
any  mention  of  Ludwig  Meyer's  name; 
a  smile  which  went  a  bit  awry  as  her 
mind  just  grazed  the  squeamishness 
which  had  deterred  her  from  herself 
making  any  inquiries  about  him.  Of 
one  thing  she  had  no  doubt :  that  if  still 
among  the  living,  he  would  surely  be 
there,  writing  his  inspired  lyrics,  or, 
when  deeply  moved,  setting  his  lyrics 
to  music. 

There  was  one  tune  that  he  had  made 
expressly  for  her,  the  Fraulein  Miss.  A 
persistent  little  tune,  that  went  sing- 
ing away  in  one's  head  all  day.  And  the 
worst  of  it  was  that  it  somehow  made 
you  want  to  cry.  It  had  taken  her  quite 
a  long  time  to  forget  it.  Perhaps  she 
might  not  have  succeeded  in  doing  so 
at  all  if  he  had  let  her  hear  the  words 
which  he  said  it  was  written  for.  But 
he  always  refused.  'No,  mein  Frau- 
lein,' he  would  say,  *y°u  are  not  ready 
to  hear  those  words.  When  you  are, 
they  will  be  your  words,  too,  and  so 
you  will  have  the  right  to  them.  But 
not  now,  not  now.'  And  he  would  give 
her  one  of  those  looks  of  his  which  drew 
and  repelled  her,  until  there  had  been 
nothing  for  it  but  to  turn  right  about 
face  and  go,  —  go  without  ever  having 
made  those  mysterious  words  her  own. 


268 


THE   BOY 


How  her  family  had  exulted  over  her 
when,  in  July,  she  had  written  them 
that  after  all  perhaps  they  had  better 
pick  her  up  on  their  way  to  Switzerland. 
They  had  known  from  the  beginning 
that  she  could  never  stand  six  months' 
grind  at  German  in  that  stuffy  little 
hole. 

Yes,  there  had  been  years  when  she 
had  not  thought  like  this  of  Schon- 
heim,  its  quaintness,  its  stillness.  But 
of  late,  perhaps  because  of  the  increas- 
ing roar  and  racket  of  the  present,  or 
perhaps  because,  at  fifty,  evening  and 
bedtime  do  not  seem  quite  so  far  away 
as  they  do  at  twenty,  she  was  be- 
coming liable  to  a  certain  mood  of  wist- 
ful reminiscence  that  was  curiously 
beguiling. 

What  was  that  poem  of  Ludwig 
Meyer's  that  he  had  sent  her  after  she 
came  away.  'Lethe'  was  the  title.  So 
like  Ludwig  to  console  himself  with 
writing  a  poem,  instead  of  really  doing 
something  about  it!  Did  she  wish 
that  he  had  done  this  apocryphal  some- 
thing? And  what  would  have  been  the 
upshot  of  so  uncharacteristic  a  proceed- 
ing? Well,  in  the  first  place,  it  would 
not  have  been  Ludwig  Meyer;  so  where 
was  the  good  of  speculating? 

The  last  two  lines  of  the  little  poem 
had  haunted  her,  in  a  queer,  poignant 
way  until,  in  sheer  self-defense,  she 
had  put  the  thing  into  English,  arid  so 
rendered  it  innocuous.  The  original 
had  long  since  slipped  her  memory,  but 
somehow  the  translation  had  stayed  by 
her;  no  doubt  because  she  herself  had 
made  it.  A  person  does  not  forget  her 
own  children,  —  if  she  is  lucky  enough 
to  have  any.  This  was  the  way  the 
poem  ended :  — 

We  must  make  our  peace  with  memory, 
Or  our  lives  consume  in  fretting. 

Those  were  the  lines  she  had  once  found 
so  disquieting.  They  did  not  seem  so 
now;  quite  the  contrary  in  fact.  It  must 
have  been  the  German  of  them  that 


lent  them  their  appeal.  And  it  was  the 
German  of  Ludwig  Meyer  that  had 
drawn  her  and  repelled  her.  They  were 
so  intimately  sympathetic,  yet  so  hope- 
lessly at  odds. 

He  was  not  only  German,  but  klein- 
stddtisch  —  little  -  townish  —  as  well. 
His  views  about  women,  for  one  thing, 
though  never  over-emphasized,  were 
as  mediaeval  as  the  old  church  that  had 
stood  there  since  Charlemagne's  day, 
its  women,  of  a  Sunday,  herded  to- 
gether in  the  body  of  it,  its  men  en- 
throned in  the  galleries.  How  those 
men's  voices  used  to  roar  out  thehymns, 
reverberating  from  wall  to  wall,  pound- 
ing down  upon  the  defenseless  tym- 
panum, until  one  came  to  feel  that  to 
be  a  woman,  here  in  Germany  at  any 
rate,  was  to  be  a  sort  of  anvil  for  Fate 
to  do  its  pounding  on. 

Yes,  it  was  the  German  of  Ludwig 
Meyer  that  had  drawn  her  and  repell- 
ed her,  rendering  her,  nevertheless,  per- 
versely unsusceptible  to  any  other  ap- 
peal. And  so  it  was,  —  she  had  come  to 
admit  the  truth  at  last,  —  so  it  was  that 
she  had  never  married;  that  her  child- 
ren were  all,  so  to  say,  translations 
—  children  of  other  people,  who  loved 
her  because  she  was  kind  to  them  and 
they  were  grateful,  or  flattered,  or  in 
need  of  something  that  she  could  give, 
and  not  because  they  were  her  own 
and  could  not  help  themselves. 

Ill 

She  had  not  taken  her  eyes  off  the 
young  violinist,  though  she  had  quite 
forgotten  him.  Now,  of  a  sudden,  she 
noticed  him  again.  How  short  the  time 
must  have  been  that  she  had  spent  on 
her  impromptu  travels!  The  boy  had 
not  shifted  his  position;  still  the  violin 
hung,  mute,  detachable,  in  the  droop- 
ing hand,  and  still  the  orchestra  held 
the  field.  But  now,  shadows  were  deep- 
ening in  the  bass-viols,  deepening  to  a 


THE  BOY 


269 


portent,  the  listener  might  feel,  only 
that  the  great  body  of  the  strings  was 
gathering  a  rhythmic  force  and  ur- 
gency that  dominated  all  the  rest.  One 
hardly  heeded  the  wood-winds,  rising 
from  time  to  time,  light  of  wing,  keen 
of  flight,  yet  tending  none  could  say 
whither,  till,  at  a  stroke,  the  big  brass- 
es entered,  with  their  clear,  indisput- 
able affirmative.  Whereupon,  all  that 
surging  sound  resolved  itself  into  a 
great  chalice  of  luminous,  vibrant  tone, 
to  receive  the  wine  of  the  composer's 
ultimate  vintage. 

The  soloist  had  lifted  his  violin,  the 
clean-cut  chin  resting  upon  it,  the  bow- 
hand  poised  above.  And  then  —  the 
luminous,  vibrant  chalice  was  filled. 

It  seemed  to  Helen  Bolles  that  she 
had  never  heard  the  single  voice,  even 
of  a  violin,  so  permeate,  so  vivify,  a 
great  orchestra,  —  heightening,  sub- 
duing, yet  never  overtopping  it  to  the 
detriment  of  its  plastic  substance,  its 
essential  harmony,  formed  of  a  thou- 
sand pulsing  modulations. 

She  had  forgotten  Schonheim,  she 
had  forgotten  that  identity  of  name  she 
had  been  speculating  upon;  she  was 
listening,  as  all  that  great  audience  was 
listening,  with  a  mind  single  to  the  su- 
preme experience  of  the  moment.  For 
a  supreme  experience  it  was,  to  every 
music-lover  there. 

The  first  movement  had  gone  its  tri- 
umphant way,  the  great  chalice  glow- 
ing, expanding,  vibrating,  to  the  keen 
elixir  of  the  master-instrument,  —  an 
elixir  piercing  now  to  the  depths  of  it, 
now  glancing  in  prismatic  colors  across 
its  face,  now  brimming  its  furthest 
edge,  until,  when  the  flood  was  at  its 
height,  the  radiant  element  freed  it- 
self and,  soaring,  as  it  were,  on  one 
golden  note,  was  lost  in  the  empyrean. 
Then  once  more  the  shadows  deepened 
in  the  great  basses,  even  as  night  de- 
scends upon  the  sea;  the  clamor  of  the 
brasses  was  hushed,  the  wood-winds 


ceased  their  fretting,  and,  with  one  last, 
heaving  breath  of  the  darkening  waters, 
silence  fell. 

There  was  an  instant's  pause,  long 
enough  for  the  violinist  to  lift  his  in- 
strument, testing  a  string.  Then  the 
storm  broke,  —  a  storm  of  handclap- 
ping  that  would  have  kindled  a  musi- 
cian of  the  Latin  race  to  flame.  But  the 
quiet  Teuton  stood  there,  gravely  re- 
garding the  commotion  he  had  evoked, 
gravely  inclining  his  head,  but  not 
oftener  than  courtesy  demanded,  evi- 
dently waiting  his  chance  to  test  that 
doubtful  string.  He  was  like  a  wary 
mariner,  heedful  only  of  sheet  and  rud- 
der, deaf  to  the  waves  thundering  at 
his  prow. 

And  now  he  was  playing  again,  and 
to  the  merest  accompaniment  of  the 
orchestra,  an  accompaniment  so  sim- 
ple, in  its  first  phrasings,  that  it  might 
have  been  written  for  the  piano.  A  new 
quality  had  crept  into  his  tone :  drama- 
tic before,  it  was  now  pure  lyric.  Helen 
Bolles  felt  a  stirring  of  premonition, 
deepening  throughout  the  opening 
strains  of  the  movement.  So  subtle,  so 
pervasive,  was  this  sense  of  something 
imminent,  that  when,  at  last,  the  old 
familiar  tune  blossomed,  as  on  a  magic 
stem,  she  was  conscious  of  no  surprise. 
She  had  known  all  along  what  was 
coming,  —  she  had  known  what  was 
to  be  the  flower  of  this  strange,  dream- 
like experience. 

Curiously  enough,  the  haunting  mel- 
ody, so  familiar  to  her,  yet  so  incred- 
ibly remote,  no  longer  touched  the  vein 
of  reminiscence.  Her  thoughts  did  not 
again  recur  to  Schonheim;  hardly  was 
she  reminded  of  Ludwig  Meyer.  It 
was  the  content  of  the  music  itself  that 
held  her  fast,  the  meaning,  the  true 
meaning,  of  the  song,  the  words  of 
which  had  been  denied  her  because  she 
could  not  make  them  her  own.  But 
now  she  perceived  that  no  words  were 
needed;  only  the  interpretation  that 


270 


THE  BOY 


resides  in  beautiful  harmony,  whether 
of  music,  or  of  life  itself. 

The  simple  melody  was  caught  up 
and  carried  forward  in  flowing  modu- 
lations, interwoven,  infiltrated,  with 
many  a  gleaming  light  and  melting 
shadow,  yet  never  losing  that  primal 
simplicity  which  makes  of  the  true 
lyric  a  thing  for  all  men,  for  all  time. 
And  still,  throughout  the  singular  re- 
vealment  of  her  mood,  she  was  con- 
scious mainly  of  a  new  clearness  of 
vision,  harmonizing,  tranquilizing,  lift- 
ing her  quite  out  of  and  beyond  her- 
self. She  perceived  that  the  little  song 
as  Ludwig  Meyer  had  conceived  it,  had 
been  personal,  limited,  —  that  in  the 
hands  of  this  wonderful  boy  it  had  be- 
come universal. 

So  complete  was  her  self-enfranchise- 
ment that,  when  the  adagio  was  past, 
—  the  echoes  of  the  little  song  quite 
blown  out,  as  it  were,  in  vehement 
gusts  of  applause,  —  she  found  herself 
listening  to  the  final  movement  with  a 
mind  as  wholly  given  over  to  that  as  if 
no  haunting  lyric  had  ever  searched  her 
soul.  Her  joy  in  its  splendid  rhythms, 
its  ringing  cadences,  was  as  spontan- 
eous as  had  been  her  joy  in  the  great 
snow-peaks  of  Switzerland  whither  she 
had  once  fled,  to  find  in  those  mighty 
presences  appeasement  and  new  life. 

And  yet,  when  the  concerto  was  over, 
it  was  neither  the  exaltation  of  the 
great  finale,  nor  the  still  revealment 
of  the  adagio,  that  filled  her  mind. 
For,  as  Fritz  Meyer  stood  bowing  be- 
fore the  wildly  applauding  audience, 
recalled  again  and  again,  —  as  he  stood 
there,  his  violin  drooping  like  a  last 
year's  oak-leaf  at  his  side  (for  he  had 
not  left  it  behind  as  is  the  wont  of  your 
virtuoso), — her  one  concern  was  lest 
that  bronze  oak-leaf,  that  had  all  the 
voices  of  the  forest  in  its  keeping, 
should  detach  itself  from  his  loose 
hold  and  fall,  shattered  and  crumbling, 
at  his  feet. 


Then,  presently,  the  tumult  having 
spent  itself,  and  the  audience  settling 
back  to  relax  over  the  Freischiitz  over- 
ture, she  found  herself  still  keyed  to  an 
unwonted  receptivity  until,  of  a  sud- 
den, and  quite  unaccountably,  her  at- 
tention swerved,  diverted  by  a  trivial 
recollection  of  the  past.  She  caught 
herself  thinking  of  the  little  Landrath's 
daughter  at  Schonheim,  of  the  fervor 
with  which  she  would  stand  up  and  sing 
the  pious  Agatha's  song:  'Leise,  leise, 
fromme  WeiseJ  —  a  fervor  so  dispro- 
portioned  to  her  capacities  that  it  used 
to  be  quite  pathetically  droll.  Queer 
little  round-faced,  round-eyed  person, 
a  little  rosebud  thing,  that  always  had 
the  air  of  waiting  to  be  picked  and  set 
in  a  glass  of  water.  The  splendid  play- 
ing of  the  orchestra  to-day  was  like  a 
merciless  light  cast  upon  the  incapaci- 
ties of  the  devout  little  songstress. 

Indeed,  so  superb  had  been  the  ren- 
dering of  that  "final  number,  that  the 
impression  of  it  was  really  uppermost 
in  her  mind  as  she  rose  at  last  and  left 
her  seat.  Insomuch  that  when,  as  she 
passed  out  with  the  throng,  a  man  she 
knew  —  a  man  whom  she  had  once 
come  rather  near  marrying  —  remark- 
ed upon  the  sensational  triumph  of  the 
evening,  she  heard  herself  answering, 
'Yes,  indeed,  it  was  extraordinary. 
But,  did  you  ever  hear  the  Freischiitz 
played  like  that?' 

\ 

IV 

As  she  descended  the  steps  outside, 
now  unaccompanied,  —  for  the  man 
she  might  have  married  had  a  wife  and 
daughter  of  his  own  to  look  after,  - 
she  found  that  all  the  world  was  talk- 
ing of  the  new  concerto.  She  did  not 
herself  join  in  the  chorus;  in  such  self- 
evident  encomiums  she  seemed  to  have 
no  part.  As  speedily  as  might  be,  she 
disengaged  herself  from  the  crowd, 
making  her  way  toward  a  point,  a 


THE   BOY 


271 


block  distant,  where  her  chauffeur  had 
orders  to  await  her.  Suddenly,  close 
before  her,  she  espied  the  figure  of  the 
young  violinist,  —  the  boy,  as  she  had 
called  him  from  the  first,  —  standing, 
violin-case  in  hand,  on  the  curbstone, 
about  to  cross  the  street.  His  head  was 
thrown  back,  much  as  Ludwig  Meyer's 
used  to  be  when  he  took  to  mental 
star-gazing.  So  he  had  stayed  to  hear 
the  concert  out,  just  as  his  father  would 
have  done.  His  father?  Why  had  she 
thought  that?  The  song  had  no  doubt 
been  common  property  for  years.  The 
composer  of  to-day  had  simply  used  it, 
as  he  might  have  used  a  folk-song,  as 
he  might  have  used  this  song,  had  his 
name  happened  to  be  any  other  name 
than  Meyer. 

She  had  stayed  her  step,  in  obedience 
to  a  half- formulated  purpose,  and  at 
that  instant  she  saw  the  young  star- 
gazer  step  off  the  curb,  directly  across 
the  path  of  a  motor-car,  —  her  own  car, 
as  it  chanced,  coming  to  meet  her  half 
way.  It  was  moving  at  very  moderate 
speed;  there  was  really  not  the  slight- 
est danger.  But  an  officious  fool  must 
needs  seize  the  boy  by  the  arm,  and 
jerk  him  backward.  The  boy  was  safe, 
as  he  had  been  all  along,  but,  at  the 
unexpected  onslaught,  the  violin-case 
was  flung  from  his  hand,  straight  into 
the  middle  of  the  thronging  roadway. 
Without  a  moment's  hesitation  Helen 
Bolles  leaped  forward  and,  with  a  swift, 
rather  daring  movement,  rescued  the 
instrument  almost  from  under  the  feet 
of  a  pair  of  prancing  horses.  A  little 
flurry  of  excitement  stirred  the  lookers- 
on,  but  it  had  all  happened  too  quick- 
ly for  active  intervention. 

As  she  regained  the  sidewalk,  Fritz 
Meyer  was  at  her  side, 

'Ah,  madame,'  he  stammered,  breath- 
less with  emotion.  'How  can  I  say,  in 
my  bad  English?  How  can  I  t'ank 
you?' 

'And  I,'  she  rejoined,  with  one  of 


her  rare  and  very  beautiful  smiles. 
'How  can  I  thank  you  —  in  my  bad 
German  —  for  your  wonderful  music?' 

She  had  not  at  her  first  words  been 
aware  that  she  was  speaking  German. 
It  was  the  flash  in  the  boy's  face  that 
reminded  her,  and  already  her  half- 
formulated  purpose  had  taken  shape. 
With  a  word  of  dismissal  to  her  chauf- 
feur, she  turned  again  to  the  young 
musician. 

'  I  wonder  if  you  would  be  so  kind  as 
to  escort  me  home?'  she  queried.  'It 
is  not  very  far. ' 

'  Oh,  madame ! '  came  eagerly.  '  May 
I?  Dare  I?' 

'  It  is  such  a^fine  evening  for  walking, 
and  there  are  things  I  want  to  speak 
about.' 

As  they  fell  into  step  —  'Please,  gra- 
cious lady,'  he  begged,  'do  not  praise 
my  playing.' 

'Nor  your  composition?'  she  asked, 
endeavoring,  meanwhile,  to  adjust  her 
mind  to  the  elaborate  courtesy-title, 
the  like  of  which  had  never  afflicted 
her  girlish  ears  of  long  ago. 

'No,  nor  my  composition.' 

'Because  you  are  modest?' 

'No,  gracious  lady.  Because  it  is 
such  a  beautiful  evening,  and  because, 
if  it  were  not  for  you,  I  should  have  no 
eyes  for  its  beauty.  I  should  be  mourn- 
ing my  violin.' 

The  fall  of  the  voice  upon  these  words 
was  Ludwig  Meyer's  own.  But  she  did 
not  find  it  in  the  least  disconcerting. 
It  all  seemed  so  natural,  so  inevitable 
—  as  things  always  seem  in  a  dream. 
She  would  hardly  have  marveled,  had 
she  found  the  city  pavements  strewn 
with  fallen  leaves. 

They  had  escaped  the  crowd,  by  a 
way  she  knew;  a  quiet  side  street  unin- 
fested  by  troHey-caror  shrieking  motor. 
Although  it  was  mid-December,  the 
evening  was  only  cool  autumnal.  There 
were  stars,  but  no  moon. 

'You    don't    mind  my  kidnapping 


272 


THE  BOY 


you?'  she  asked,  no  whit  surprised  at 
the  ease  with  which  the  German  phrase 
came  to  her,  after  all  these  years.  '  You 
see,  I  am  quite  old  enough  to  be  your 
mother/ 

'My  mother!  But,  gracious  lady, 
never!  I  am  twenty-five  years  of  age ! ' 

'Ah,'  with  mock  gravity.  'That 
would  make  your  mother  quite  an  old 
woman,  would  n't  it?' 

'Oh,  yes.  She  would  be  nearly  fifty 
if  she  were  living.  Think  of  it !  Nearly 
half  a  century!'  And  he  added,  wist- 
fully, 'She  was  so  little  and  so  young. 
I  don't  think  it  was  meant  that  she 
should  grow  old/ 

'And  your  father?  Were  you  named 
for  him?' 

'No.  I  was  named  for  my  grand- 
father. He  was  Landrath  at  Schon- 
heim,  where  we  lived.  He  was  tall,  like 
me,  and  dark,  and  I  think  he  was  proud, 
too,  and  looked  down  on  us.  But  he 
was  no  such  man  as  my  father,  plain 
Ludwig  Meyer.  Everything  I  have, 
1  owe  my  father;  my  bit  of  talent,  my 
love  of  the  beautiful,  even  the  best 
thing  in  my  concerto,  the  little  air  in 
the  adagio  that  makes  the  tears  come. 
Did  you  notice  that,  gracious  lady?' 

He  was  looking  into  her  face,  and  she 
smiled  her  answer. 

'  So  that  was  your  father's,  the  little 
air  that  makes  the  tears  come?  And 
your  father?  Is  he  living?' 

'He  died  a  year  ago.  His  last  bequest 
to  me,  —  he  had  hardly  anything  else 
to  leave,  —  was  the  permission  to  use 
the  little  song  in  my  concerto.  Before 
that,  no  one  but  me  had  heard  it  since 
the  time,  many,  many  years  ago,  he 
said,  when  it  was  first  written.' 

'No  one  at  all?' 

'He  said,  no  one  but  me.' 

They  walked  some  paces  in  silence. 
They  had  come  out  now  on  the  avenue, 
whose  broad  spaces  made  nothing  of 
passing  vehicles.  Even  the  noise  of 
them  had  room  to  dissipate  itself. 


Presently  — '  Was  it  written  to 
words,  the  little  tune?' 

'Yes,  to  his  own  words,  I  think.' 

'  You  know  the  words  ? ' 

She  had  spoken  as  under  compulsion, 
and  with  a  sharp,  protesting  catch  of 
the  breath.  But  there  was  nothing  to 
fear;  she  might  have  known  that  there 
was  nothing  to  fear.  For  — 

'No,'  came  the  reply.  'He  said  no 
one  knew  them.  That  he  himself  knew 
them  because  he  had  lived  them.  After 
that  I  could  not  ask  for  them,  could  I, 
gracious  lady?'  And  again  he  looked 
her  in  the  face. 

It  was  the  old  look,  the  old  appeal 
of  voice  and  glance,  that  had  once 
wrought  such  trouble  in  her  young 
blood.  To-night  it  was  the  boyishness 
of  it  all  that  chiefly  touched  her,  and 
as  she  answered,  'No,  of  course  you 
could  not,'  she  was  thinking  how  this 
youth,  this  mere  stripling,  whom,  for 
all  his  amazing  genius,  she  had  been 
regarding  as  a  boy,  was  scarcely  young- 
er than  had  been  the  man,  whose  influ- 
ence, repudiated  though  it  was  long 
years  ago,  had  really,  in  a  sense,  shaped 
her  life. 

The  avenue  was  almost  deserted.  It 
was  the  pause  between  the  concert- 
goers  and  the  theatre  folk.  They  had 
walked  half  a  block  without  speaking. 
Then:  'Tell  me  about  your  brothers 
and  sisters.'  The  question  was  but  a 
stop-gap;  of  that  she  was  well  aware. 
And  indeed  what  mattered  all  the  rest, 
since  here  beside  her  walked  the  heir- 
apparent? 

'  I  have  none,'  he  was  saying.  '  I  was 
the  first.  My  mother  died  when  I  was 
born.'  His  voice,  Ludwig  Meyer's 
voice,  was  very  wistful,  very  tender. 

They  had  reached  the  steps  of  her 
sightly  house,  facing  southward  on  the 
avenue;  the  house  of  which  she  had 
been  sole  mistress  now  these  twenty 
years. 

'You  will  come  in  for  a  moment?' 


THE  BOY 


273 


she  begged.  'You  will  let  me  give  you 
some  refreshment,  after  your  great 
evening?' 

He  pulled  out  his  watch. 

'Alas,  no,  gracious  lady.  I  must  re- 
turn to  my  hotel.  My  train  leaves  at 
midnight.' 

Well,  that  was  as  it  should  be.  It 
kept  the  whole,  dreamlike  experience 
in  solution,  as  it  were.  She  shrank  from 
any  materialization  of  it. 

'And  where  do  you  go  next?' 

As  if  that  were  of  any  importance ! 
But  one  gets  the  trick  of  talking. 

'I  don't  quite  know,'  he  deprecated. 
'  It  is  all  so  strange  to  me,  this  big  coun- 
try. But  my  manager  knows.  He  says 
we  do  not  reach  San  Francisco  until 
late  in  the  spring.  It  is  a  queer  life 
for  a  Schb'nheimer.'  Then,  with  a  lit- 
tle shrug  of  regret,  that  none  but  a 
Teuton  could  have  given,  'I  would 
far  rather  have  come  in;  though  I  have 
already  had  my  refreshment,  gracious 
lady.' 

She  was  standing  now  on  the  single 
broad,  low  step  before  her  own  door. 
In  a  moment  he  would  be  gone. 

'Shall  you  like  the  queer  life?'  she 
asked. 

'Oh,  yes,  I  shall  like  it.  Every  place 
is  home  to  me,  while  I  have  my  violin 
—  that  the  gracious  lady  saved  for 
me.' 

At  the  word,  he  swept  his  hat  from 
his  head,  with  a  very  foreign  gesture, 
and,  bending  above  her  outstretched 
hand,  lifted  it  to  his  lips. 

Touched  by  the  boyishness  of  the 
act,  —  for  there  was  no  trace  of  gal- 

VOL.  114 -NO.  2 


lantry  in  voice  or  manner,  —  she  leaned 
forward  and,  resting  her  disengaged 
hand  upon  the  bent  head, '  I  do  that  for 
your  mother,'  she  said,  very  gently. 

He  looked  up,  with  eyes  that  melted 
and  glistened  in  the  half-shadow. 

'The  poor  little  mother!  You  pity 
her  too?' 

'No,'  she  murmured,  more  gently 
still.  '  I  do  not  pity  her.  I  think  —  I 
almost  think  —  I  envy  her.' 

And  now  she  was  standing  at  her 
open  door,  listening  to  the  receding 
footsteps  of  the  boy,  —  Ludwig  Meyer's 
boy,  whose  mother  that  was  to  be  had 
sung  her  little  song  with  so  much  more 
of  feeling  than  of  art.  Till,  presently, 
the  light  step  was  lost,  not,  as  had  been 
the  old  watchman's  shuffling  tread,  in 
the  echoing  distance,  but  in  the  hum 
of  an  approaching  automobile,  — swept 
away  as  it  were,  in  the  headlong  spirit 
of  the  age.  She  had  no  wish  to  recall 
him.  He  had  gone  on  his  beautiful  mis- 
sion to  the  world,  the  world  of  to-day, 
than  which  no  world  was  ever  more  in 
need  of  the  gospel  of  divine  harmonies. 

And  she?  Why,  how  right  every- 
thing was,  to  be  sure.  How  right  it 
had  been  from  the  beginning.  She  could 
almost  hear  the  watchman's  call,  echo- 
ing in  the  distance:  *And  now  praise 
God  the  Lord.'  And,  as  she  stood  once 
more  on  her  own  hearthstone,  looking 
down  into  the  glowing  embers,  where 
so  much  of  warmth  and  cheer  still 
dwelt,  a  very  beautiful  smile  lit  the 
brooding  face.  For  she  knew  that,  at 
last,  after  all  these  years,  she  too  had 
made  her  peace  with  memory. 


ON  NOSES 


BY  LUCY   ELLIOT  KEELER 


'SOME  time/  I  had  long  promised 
myself,  *I  will  write  my  reminiscences 
on  Noses.' 

'Some  time,'  I  had  still  longer  pro- 
mised myself,  *I  will  read  Tristram 
Shandy.' 

Yesterday,  the  horizon  of  some 
time  grew  nearer:  *  To-morrow,  I  will 
indulge  in  Noses;  and  to-night,  apro- 
pos of  this  package  of  new  books,  I 
will  rejad  Tristram  Shandy.9 

At  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  chapter 
—  pray  what  little  hobgoblin  attends 
to  such  coincidences?  — began  a  Shan- 
dean  skit  on  noses:  Tristram's  own 
nose,  his  great-grandfather's  nose,  his 
father's  system  of  noses,  his  Uncle 
Toby's  dictum  on  noses,  the  tale  of  the 
Strassburger  who  at  the  Promontory 
of  Noses  had  taken  such  a  noble  spe- 
cimen for  his  own.  The  Nose  having 
thus  served  as  a  frigate  to  launch 
Sterne  into  the  gulf  of  a  new  digres- 
sion, he  sailed  before  the  wind.  In  my 
case  it  brings  me  back  to  terra  firma. 

The  triangular  pyramid  projecting 
from  the  centre  of  the  face  has  always 
had  peculiar  interest  for  me.  In  in- 
fancy I  used  it  as  a  pocket,  stowing 
therein  an  occasional  bean  filched  from 
the  book's  store;  and  I  remember  the 
stir  one  such  instance  occasioned  in  the 
household  as  well  as  in  me,  when  a 
canny  country  doctor  put  his  open 
mouth  to  mine  and  with  a  mighty  blast 
persuaded  the  bean  to  stand  not  upon 
the  order  of  its  exit.  Later,  a  coasting 
accident  left  me  with  some  nasal  vacu- 
ity and  the  ability  to  run  a  grassblade 
up  one  nostril  and  down  the  other. 

274 


Thus  I  became  persona  grata  at  juve- 
nile circuses,  the  price  of  admission  for 
my  performance  going  all  the  way  up 
from  five  pins  to  three  cents,  my  profits 
invariably  being  paid  in  pins,  the  dis- 
taff side,  I  suppose,  very  properly. 

The  next  landmark  of  my  theme  was 
that,  literally.  Mumble-the-peg  for  all 
comers  frequently  resulted  in  my  doing 
the  mumbling.  Down  the  vista  of  the 
years,  memory  still  sings  the  fashion- 
ing of  the  peg,  its  unnecessary  brevity 
and  point,  its  smoothness  to  resist  all 
friction  of  a  sympathetic  earth.  I  hear 
the  thumps  on  its  head  of  the  handle 
of  the  jack-knife  —  three  knocks  each 
with  your  eyes  shut  and  three  with  them 
open.  It  never  failed  to  be  driven  in  to 
the  head;  and  to  enable  me  to  pull  it  out 
with  my  teeth  the  resourceful  boys  dug 
a  hole  in  the  ground  for  my  nose.  Once 
started  on  the  run,  I  was  safe  enough, 
for  I  was  fleet,  and  the  peg  dropped  into 
the  big  myrtle  bed  was  seldom  recov- 
ered for  re-pegging. 

About  this  time,  I  seem  to  recall,  I 
was  initiated  into  the  idiom  of  the  sub- 
ject. I  learned  to  count  noses,  *Ena, 
Meena,  Mina,  Mo';  to  follow  my  nose; 
to  be  led  by  the  nose;  to  have  my  nose 
put  out  of  joint;  to  thrust  my  nose  into; 
to  turn  my  nose  up  at,  —  the  latter 
precipitated  by  the  arrogance  of  city 
children  in  clothes  too  fine  to  paddle  in 
the  brook,  but  with  abysmal  ignorance 
of  how  to  climb  a  tree.  I  did  not  need 
a  Horace  to  tell  me  in  delectable  Latin 
that  it  is  the  common  way  to  turn  up 
your  nose  at  what  you  yourself  do  not 
know:  I  knew  it  already. 


ON  NOSES 


275 


About  this  time  the  literature  of  the 
nose  dawned  above  my  horizon.  There 
was  the  wish  for  the  yard  of  black  pud- 
ding, its  dramatic  attachment  to  the 
French  housewife's  nose,  and  the  de- 
cent moral  precipitated  by  its  fall;  and 
there  was  the  elephant's  child  whose 
nose  grew  longer  and  longer  with  each 
pull  till  it  'hurt  him  hijjis,'  folio  wed  by 
the  consoling  bit  of  philosophy:  *  Van- 
tage number  one  —  you  could  n't  have 
hit  the  fly  with  a  mere  smear  nose', 
and  about  then  childhood  bloomed  into 
adolescence. 

Now  I  began  to  regard  my  nose  in 
the  looking-glass,  with  results  that  led 
to  clothes-pin  experiments  in  sleeping 
hours;  and  fingers  anxiously  pressing 
down  knobosities  as  I  sought  to  solve 
why  X  plus  Y  made  Z.  Being  told  that 
a  liberal  diet  of  carrots  would  reduce 
color  in  the  complexion,  I  showed  a 
craving  for  those  hitherto  despised  veg- 
etables; and  hearing  that  lemon  juice 
was  a  panacea  for  nose-freckles,  three- 
miles-from-a-lemon  was  no  hindrance. 
At  this  period,  also,  thanks  to  nu- 
mismatics, I  mastered  the  distinction 
between  the  Roman  nose  and  the  Gre- 
cian; the  derivation  of  the  word  aqui- 
line, and  the  accentuating  or  reducing 
effects  of  styles  of  coiffures  and  hat- 
brims.  Being  in  the  conundrum  stage 
of  humor,  I  used  to  propound  an  in- 
volved interrogation  to  which  I  was  al- 
ways given  the  privilege  of  answering 
myself,  —  *  No  nose  can  be  more  than 
eleven  inches  long  because  if  it  were  it 
would  be  a  foot.' 

Then  I  saw  Mansfield  play  Cyrano 
de  Bergerac.  'His  nose  terrifying,'  read 
the  stage  direction.  His  own  mother 
had  thought  him  unflattering,  and  he 
himself  fostered  no  illusions:  *  Some- 
times in  the  violet  dusk  I  yield  to 
dreamy  mood  and  think  of  love.  With 
my  great  devil  of  a  nose  I  sniff  the 
April.  I  forget.  I  kindle;  and  then  sud- 
denly I  see  the  shadow  of  my  profile 


upon  the  garden  wall!'  To  the  world, 
however,  Cyrano  was  proud,  proud  of 
such  an  appendage,  inasmuch  as  an 
enormous  nose  is  the  index  of  a  kind- 
ly, courteous,  witty,  liberal,  and  brave 
man.  Many  were  the  sprightly  pleas- 
antries which  Cyrano's  fertile  fancy 
showered  upon  his  nose,  —  aggressive, 
amicable,  descriptive,  inquisitive,  minc- 
ing, blunt,  anxious,  tender,  learned,  off- 
hand, dramatic,  deferent,  rustic,  milit- 
ary, —  the  sum  total  '  not  a  quarter  of 
the  tenth  part  of  the  beginning  of  the 
first'  of  what  might  be  said.  And  how 
we  adored  him !  It  was  not  a  handsome 
nose  he  reared  aloft :  it  was  his  soul  he 
held  erect;  and  at  that  age  we,  too,  were 
soulful. 

Now  the  girl  began  to  experience  the 
curious  truth  known  to  all  practiced  in 
life,  that  interest  in  a  subject  forces  it 
to  spring  up  on  all  sides.  She  was  taken 
to  a  picture-gallery,  and  Ghirlandaio's 
portrait  of  the  old  man  with  the  great 
nose  and  the  lovely  smile  and  the  ador- 
ing grandchild  beckoned  from  the  near- 
est wall.  She  paused  before  the  portrait 
of  Thackeray  and  noticed  for  the  first 
time  that  he  had  a  broken  nose.  She 
dipped  into  Don  Quixote  only  to  find 
new  light  on  the  Scuyer  du  bachelier, 
Samson  Carrasco,  whose  colossal  nose 
frightened  Sancho.  In  Westminster 
Abbey  she  learned  that  American  van- 
dals were  especially  fond  of  snapping 
off  the  nose  from  the  tablet  erected  in 
memory  of  Major  Andre,  the  spy.  Her 
first  visit  at  Oxford  was  to  Brasenose 
College,  the  brass-nose  knocker  of 
which  had  been  lately  returned  to 
Oxford  after  an  absence  of  five  and  a 
half  centuries. 

No  list  of  my  reminiscences  can  ig- 
nore the  fact  that  much  of  my  omni- 
vorous reading  was  due  to  the  recur- 
ring hope  of  becoming  more  nosey- wise. 
Socrates  first  attracted  me  because  he 
claimed  to  be  able  to  turn  his  promi- 
nent eyes  inward  till  they  gazed  full 


276 


ON  NOSES 


into  each  other  across  the  narrow 
bridge  of  his  nose.  Ben  Jonson,  Chap- 
man, and  Mars  ton  became  human  for 
me  when  I  heard  them  sentenced  to 
have  their  noses  mutilated  by  the  pub- 
lic hangman  for  some  imaginary  insult 
to  the  Scot  in  Eastward  Ho,  which  they 
had  written  in  collaboration.  The  spir- 
it of  liberty  in  Dante's  day  revealed  its 
wild  tenor  when  I  read  that  his  friend 
Recoverino  de  Cerchi  had  his  nose  cut 
off  in  a  ballroom.  I  followed  many  of 
Brougham's  speeches,  trying  to  discern 
just  where  he  used  to  punctuate  his 
sentences  with  his  nose,  turning  it  up 
at  the  end  of  a  long  parenthesis,  which 
served  to  mark  the  change  of  subject 
better  than  a  printed  mark.  I  ran 
down  a  French  pastor  who,  Diderot 
said,  praised  with  his  nose,  blamed 
with  his  nose,  decided  and  prophesied 
with  that  expressive  member;  and  of 
whom  Grimm  said  that  whoever  un- 
derstood the  pastor's  nose  had  read  a 
great  moral  treatise.  I  learned  to  dis- 
tinguish the  portraits  of  the  whole 
Kemble  family  by  the  eagle  beak  which 
ran  through  that  talented  tribe,  and  I 
laughed  over  Gainsborough's  baffled 
ejaculation  to  Mrs.  Siddons,  as  he  threw 
down  his  brush,  'Damn  it,  madame, 
there  is  no  end  to  your  nose! '  Shandy 
pere  had  prophetic  vision  when  he 
opined  that  six  or  seven  long  and  jolly 
noses  would  hoist  a  family  into  the 
best  vacancies  in  the  kingdom. 

My  theme  seems  of  adequate  anti- 
quity. Two  thousand  years  ago  the 
poet  Vyasa  described  his  hero,  Battle- 
strong,  as  '  possessed  of  slender  height, 
a  monstrous  nose  and  enormous  eyes.' 
The  Rig  Veda  refers  contemptuously 
to  'foes  with  no  noses,'  as  opposed  to 
those  gods  gifted  with  good  noses.  An- 
other Hindu  describes  his  heroine  thus : 
'She  has  fair  hair  and  fair  is  her  nose.' 
One  wishes  he  had  particularized  in 
what  the  fairness  of  her  nose  consist- 
ed. We  know  that  Lavater  hated  'an 


authoritative  nose'  in  women.  It  was 
rare,  he  admitted,  and  stood  for  rare 
qualities,  all  of  them  bad.  It  suggested 
to  him  the  '  wretched  pride  of  their  si- 
lence.' Does  such  a  nose  turn  up  or 
down?  Lavater  does  not  say.  Goethe, 
in  referring  to  this  great  physiognomist 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  says  it  was 
his  duty  as  minister,  on  Sundays  after 
the  sermon,  to  hold  the  little  velvet 
bag  toward  those  going  out,  and  to  re- 
ceive the  donations  with  a  blessing. 
One  Sunday  he  set  himself  the  task  of 
looking  at  no  one,  but  of  taking  note 
only  of  hands  and  construing  their 
shape.  Not  only  did  he  observe  the 
forms  of  the  fingers,  —  the  very  ex- 
pression of  them  as  they  dropped  in 
the  gift  did  not  escape  his  attention. 
I  wonder  just  how  he  carried  out  his 
observations  on  women's  noses,  to  de- 
cide which  were  authoritative.  Were 
they  beguiled  to  smell  a  rose  in  his 
presence,  or  to  sit  for  a  silhouette,  or 
to  remark  a  fresh  fashion  on  a  rival 
belle? 

Montaigne  would  have  delighted  in 
such  studies.  He  himself  wrote  a  chap- 
ter on  Thumbs,  though  it  was  else- 
where that  he  recorded  that  his  father, 
at  the  age  of  sixty,  could  go  round  the 
dinner  table  on  his  thumbs.  Whenever 
this  essayist  found  the  horizon  distant 
and  its  objects  vague,  he  'looked  at 
his  feet  and  at  things  in  reach  of  his 
hand.'  Noses,  oddly  enough,  seem  to 
have  escaped  him.  No  doubt,  however, 
about  his  flair.  He  had  it  for  the  mi- 
nutest things  of  this  passing  show,  per- 
fuming even  the  violet,  as  did  that  un- 
known writer  in  the  Greek  Anthology: 
'I  send  thee  sweet  perfume,  giving 
grace  to  the  perfume,  not  to  thee;  for 
thyself  thou  canst  perfume  even  the 
perfume.'  Or,  like  Catullus  sending  to 
his  friend  Fabullus,  'perfume  which 
the  Venuses  and  Loves  gave  to  my 
lady;  and  when  you  snuff  its  fragrance 
you  will  pray  the  gods  to  make  you  no- 


ON  NOSES 


277 


thing  but  nose.'  I  have  always  liked  the 
oriental  legend  of  Azrael  holding  to  the 
nostril  of  the  elect  an  apple  from  the 
tree  of  life.  In  the  physical  sense,  de- 
licacy of  nostril  was  once  a  matter  of 
life  and  death  to  our  ancestors,  as  it  is 
to  hosts  of  creatures  to-day.  At  a  din- 
ner party  not  long  ago  my  neighbor 
commented  on  the  beauty  of  the  roses, 
regretting  that  he  could  not  smell 
them,  and  it  turned  out  that  five  of 
the  twelve  guests  had  lost  the  sense 
of  smell.  Dean  Stanley  once,  at  men- 
tion of  such  a  catastrophe,  vehemently 
tapped  his  own  nose,  exclaiming,  '  Here, 
here!' 

Coleridge,  who  always  had  an  excuse 
for  any  of  his  own  bad  habits  and  be- 
havior, told  Proctor  that  perhaps  snuff 
was  the  final  cause  of  the  human  nose. 
Must  one  conclude  that  with  the  fail- 
ing keenness  of  the  sense  of  smell  man's 
nose  will  shrink  to  the  proportions  of 
those  deliberately  crushed  down  in 
Crim  Tartary,  or  those  that  Panta- 
gruel  found  on  the  island  of  Enuasin, 
shaped  like  the  ace  of  clubs?  Would 
conservatives  then  depend  for  the  up- 
keep of  noses  upon  the  surgeon  and  the 
physicist,  or  upon  such  an  expert  as 
the  German  chemist  whose  name  was 
Nose?  Would  the  character  change  in 
arithmetical  proportion  to  the  exterior 
changes  of  the  face's  promontory? 

The  Earl  of  Chatham  used  to  bow  so 
low  when  he  met  a  Bishop  that  his  nose 
could  be  seen  between  his  knees.  Such 
suavity  is  more  appalling  than  the 
most  exalted  nose  on  any  young  'rye.' 
The  common  French  phrase  is  'lifting 
the  nose'  rather  than  the  eyes,  grant- 
ing it  thus  a  more  independent  person- 


ality. A  modern  novelist  goes  further 
in  speculative  subtlety  and  ambidex- 
terity of  argumentation  when  he  prac- 
tically argues  that  instead  of  saying, 
'That  little  squinting,  humpbacked 
snub-nose  has  a  splendid  soul,'  we 
might  put  it,  'That  splendid  soul  has 
a  little  squinting,  humpbacked  snub- 
nose.'  Certainly  we  all  know  souls 
whose  noses  do  not  express  them. 
Madame  de  Sevigne  went  to  the  root 
of  the  matter  when  she  said  of  the 
Dauphine  that '  her  face  became  her  ill : 
her  wit  perfectly.' 

Physically  beautiful  men,  the  glory 
of  the  race  when  it  was  young,  are 
almost  an  anachronism  now.  Will  it 
happen,  militant  and  feminist  auto- 
suggested,  that  physically  beautiful 
women  may  become  an  anachronism 
likewise?  Shall  the  hidden,  inner  char- 
acter be  made  incarnate  in  the  way  of 
Balzac's  hundreds  of  delineative  noses, 
where  was  a  certain  play  of  expression 
which  revealed  the  workings  of  the 
mind?  After  Burne-Jones  painted  his 
attenuated  figures  and  Rossetti  his 
haunting  faces,  such  figures  and  faces 
became  common  on  London  streets. 
Can  we  argue  with  Shandy  that  the  ex- 
cellence of  the  nose  is  in  direct  propor- 
tion to  the  excellence  of  the  wearer's  or 
of  the  artist's  fancy?  Or  that  instead 
of  the  fancy  begetting  the  nose,  the 
nose  begot  the  fancy?  This  mystic  and 
allegorical  scent  has  led  me  far,  and  I 
am  fain  to  follow  the  example  of  Doc- 
tor McCosh  when  a  teasing  student 
stopped  him  to  inquire  about  some  in- 
tricate process  of  the  mind,. —  pull  my 
long  nose  and  walk  off,  leaving  you 
plante  /a,  unanswered. 


THE  MODERNIST 

AN  ESSAY  IN  VERSE 

/ 

BY  O.   W.   FIRKINS 

OUR  age  for  charms  untold  is  rhymed  and  feted, 
But  I  —  I  like  its  human  antics  best: 

The  man  cosmopolite,  expatriated, 

Who  hugs  the  wandering  planet  to  his  breast; 

The  man  who,  with  religions  satiated, 

Still  jests  at  faith  and  finds  a  faith  in  jest; 

The  specialist  whom  ponderings  deep  enable 

To  frame  an  index  or  affix  a  label; 


The  pessimist  who  finds  in  facts  horrific 

Occasions  for  exultant  self-applause; 
The  statesman,  sure  that  nations  grow  pacific 

The  more  they  furnished  are  with  teeth  and  claws; 
The  symbolist  with  verse  hieroglyphic; 

The  cubist  undisheartened  by  guffaws: 
All,  all  I  love,  but  topmost  on  the  list 
I  rank,  to-day,  the  gallant  modernist. 

He's  what  I  call  —  in  trope  —  the  'early  riser.' 
Astir  when  all  the  household  are  abed ; 

At  breakfast,  primed,  inestimably  wiser  — 

The  weather  presaged  and  the  journals  read  — 

He  holds  forth  to  the  dutiful  surprise  or 

Faint  thanks  of  those  on  whom  is  richly  shed 

His  affluence,  whom  an  hour's  disastrous  lateness 

Has  made  his  almsmen,  parasites  to  greatness. 


THE  MODERNIST  279 

He  views  time  as  a  pyramid  inverted, 

Poised  deftly  on  the  apex  of  the  Now; 
Or  ship  whereon,  by  order  preconcerted, 

His  post  is  always  neighboring  to  the  prow, 
The  spot  where,  as  in  mockery  inserted, 

The  figurehead  —  his  emblem  —  shades  the  bow; 
Each  barge,  each  headland,  swims  into  his  ken 
Ten  seconds  ere  it  greets  his  fellow  men. 

He  deems  that  God  himself  is  journalistic,/ 
Each  daytime 's  issue,  smoking  from  the  press, 

Remanding  by  succession  fatalistic 

All  earlier  dates  to  chaff  and  nothingness; 

Each  form,  howe'er  ingenious  or  artistic, 

Born  with  the  day,  exhales  with  day's  recess; 

Time  like  a  broom  or  snow-plough  is  designed; 

Ahead  lies  substance  —  vacancy  behind. 

His  glance  is  still  round  far  horizons  playing, 

Where  gas-jets  loom  like  planets  to  the  eye; 
He  loves  in  lettered  fields  to  walk  a-maying, 

Where  through  the  drifts  peep  buddings  faint  and  shy; 
For  him  the  only  ore  that  tempts  assaying 

Is  that  new-mined,  bared  freshly  to  the  sky. 
The  past  is  but  time's  ash-heap  dim  and  gray: 
Hades  is  synonym  for  yesterday. 

He  loves  to  make  in  nascent  reputations 

Investment  of  discreet,  precursive  praise, 
Which,  later,  when  fame  passes  expectations, 

Its  dividend  of  honor  duly  pays. 
The  stocks  are  scanned:  'Those  Meredith  quotations 

Scale  high  —  with  Bennetts  all  the  mart's  ablaze; 
Wards  falling  slowly  —  water  in  the  stock; 
Hold  Shaws,  buy  Masefields  in  the  solid  block!' 


280  THE  MODERNIST 

He  nurses  fames.    *  This  stripling  Archidamus  — 
I've  called  him  hopeful  —  Really?  classed  as  sound 

In  Archer's  foot-note?  Why,  the  fellow's  famous! 
I  think  I'll  risk  the  epithet  "renowned"! 

Besides,  his  voyages  to  Crete  and  Samos 
Kind  notice  from  the  Argonaut  have  found. 

What?  two,  three  columns  in  the  Polypus? 

Strike  out  "renowned"  and  write  "illustrious." 

And,  not  content  with  altruistic  nursing, 
He  loves  to  wind  fame's  earliest  bugle-horn; 

For  him,  Pope's  motto  poignantly  reversing, 
At  every  word  a  reputation's  born; 

The  babe  may  thrive,  its  sponsor  reimbursing, 
Or  if,  by  ailments  infantile  uptorn, 

It  dies  —  what  matter?   It  finds  cosiest  room 

For  the  belied  prognostic  in  its  tomb. 

And  then,  since  praise  unmixed  is  meretricious, 
A  pinch  of  blame  must  season  our  critique; 

We'll  drop  betwixt  'enthralling '  and  *  delicious/ 
Some  muttered  hint  like  *  structurally  weak'; 

Faults  shine  like  merits  in  a  phrase  judicious; 
*  Crux  writes  in  cipher :  dub  his  style  unique. 

Pax  raves:  why,  yes,  berserker-like,  convulsive. 

Nex  stabbed  his  brother:  true,  Nex  is  impulsive.' 

He  loves  a  dashing  word,  a  phrase  new-minted, 
But  new  words  age  so  lamentably  fast; 

There's  *  colorful,'  no  longer  blithely  tinted, 
And  *  artistry'  with  damaged  wares  is  classed; 

I  fear  lest,  too  assiduously  printed, 

'Convincing'  leave  us  skeptical  at  last; 

'Mordant'  has  lost  its  tooth.   We  need  *  invasive'; 

'Compelling'  —  that's  as  lamblike  as  *  persuasive.' 


THE  MODERNIST  281 

'Not  mine/  he  says,  'to  count  tradition  folly; 

In  youth  I  could  read  Tennyson  at  sight; 
And  Arnold,  reticent  and  melancholy, 

In  whom  fond  antiquarians  delight; 
I  once  perused  an  ancient  named  Macaulay, 

Who  spake  of  Burke,  the  vanished  Troglodyte; 
Our  libraries  these  prehistoric  data 
Guard,  fossil-like,  in  shelves  that  mimic  strata. 

'There's  Shakespeare,  now,  a  most  ingenious  fellow  — 

Read  him  some  idle  week  at  Spa  or  Ems  — 
The  daisies  in  his  meads  are  fair  and  yellow, 

Though  Avon's  force  is  surely  not  the  Thames'; 
His  works  re-read  from  Tempest  to  Othello, 

Yield  copious  store  of  pungent  apophthegms; 
A  man  not  void  of  humor;  and  his  dramas 
Serve  still  as  trestle-work  for  panoramas. 

'  The  truths  we  love  are  many-hued  as  Iris  — 

Be  they  but  fresh,  they're  palatable  all; 
With  Bergson  all  our  spirits  can  desire  is 

More  draughts  and  lustier  of  the  elan  vital; 
We  '11  carve  our  God,  like  primitive  Osiris, 

For  James'  (the  elder's)  sake,  in  pieces  small; 
Nietzsche  is  godless  —  paeans  be  upraised-, 
And  Chesterton 's  religious,  Heaven  be  praised ! ' 

The  age  draws  truth  into  its  own  mutations 
(For  us  the  ship's  course  guides  the  polar  star) 

It  nods  —  responsive  to  our  lucubrations  — 
Which  proves  that  affirmations  priceless  are; 

It  turns,  it  winds,  in  unforeseen  gyrations, 
Which  make  it  plain  that  truth  is  circular; 

It  gives  itself  the  lie;  we  know  by  trial 

The  heart  and  pith  of  truth  is  self-denial. 


282  THE  MODERNIST 

He  joys  to  find  the  generous  earth  productive 
Of  those  rich  cacti  called  the  pessimists; 

He  loves  a  soul  that 's  wholesomely  destructive, 
A  soul  that  carries  falcons  on  its  wrists; 

Malevolence  is  wooingly  seductive; 

What  blandishment  so  sure  as  doubled  fists? 

If  his  god  chides  him:  'Dastard,  slave,  unbred,' 

He  bows  in  meekness:  'Master,  thou  hast  said/ 


He  loves  each  note  in  the  incessant  howling, 
Emitted  from  his  strange  menagerie: 

The  Swedish  bear,  insatiately  prowling, 

With  woman's  flesh  fed  hourly,  —  grim  to  see; 

Sp-t-zz!  the  cat  Nietzsche  with  his  valiant  growling 
At  love,  faith,  patience,  'mouse'  morality; 

See,  his  fur  sparkles!   From  the  adjoining  yard 

Heard  ye  that  baying?  That's  our  St.  Bernard!9 

The  clocks  tick  faster  in  the  stimulation 

His  presence  yields.   That  loafing  earth  and  skies 

Should  twice  twelve  hours  consume  in  one  saltation 
Affects  him  with  intolerant  surprise; 

Fired  newly  by  his  kindling  expectation, 
The  sun  feels  fresh  encouragements  to  rise; 

He,  supple  athlete,  sound  in  wind  and  limb, 

Keeps  gray  time  breathless,  chasing  after  him. 

Long  may  it  be  ere  Death,  that  grim  precisian, 
Halts  his  gay  car  for  speeding  over-fast. 

Shall  he  incur  that  uttermost  derision, 
Consignment  to  the  stationary  past? 

Must  he  behold  from  shaded  fields  Elysian 
The  saucy  Now  fade  in  the  formless  vast, 

And  Time  and  all  Time's  couriers  such  as  he 

Stalled  in  that  mighty  pound,  Eternity? 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


THE   FEARSOME   GARTER-SNAKE 

I  AM  accounted,  among  my  friends, 
a  woman  of  rare  courage.  Humanity's 
subtlest,  most  inveterate  enemy,  the 
unseen  disease-germ,  has  for  me  no 
terrors;  I  tramp  for  hours  umbrellaless 
in  wind  and  rain  without  dread  of 
catching  cold;  only  yesterday  I  walked 
calmly  into  a  measles-smitten  house- 
hold; in  China  I  have  looked  without 
fear  on  the  body  of  a  coolie  lying  dead 
by  the  wayside.  Nor  do  I  flinch  in  time 
of  misadventure :  hooky  cows  and  set- 
ting hens  I  boldly  confront;  I  have 
ridden  a  bucking  pony  through  a  yel- 
low-jacket's nest,  have  been  in  a  motor 
accident  on  a  lonely  road  in  Asia,  four 
thousand  miles  from  a  repair  shop, 
have  traveled  on  an  ocean  liner  when 
fire  smouldered  in  her  cargo  of  cotton 
bales,  and  on  a  treacherous  railway 
during  spring  freshets  —  and  this  with- 
out blenching.  Apprehensions  of  mid- 
night burglars,  or  the  possible  man- 
under- the-bed,  trouble  me  not  at  all, 
nor  am  I  haunted  by  the  thought  that 
the  maid  is  about  to  leave  and  I  may 
fall  downstairs  and  break  a  leg.  The 
bugaboos  of  society  do  not  daunt  me: 
I  vote;  I  occupy  a  gallery  seat  at  the 
opera  with  unruffled  enjoyment;  a 
street  gown,  new  this  week,  has  a  skirt 
wide  enough  for  a  free  step. 

A  fine  picture  of  an  Amazon,  is  it  not? 
A  modern  woman  emancipated  from 
the  shackles  of  timidity,  submission, 
and  superstition  which  have  bound  her 
sex  for  centuries.  And  yet  in  my  ar- 
mor of  fearlessness  there  is  a  flaw. 

As  if  each  crawling  specimen  were 
the  original  one  that  harbored  Satan  in 
Eden,  I  fear  the  *  spirited,  sly  snake/ 


Not  necessarily  the  rattlesnake  —  him 
I  seldom  meet  —  but  the  innocuous 
garter-snake,  common  in  garden,  forest, 
and  meadow.  There  is  no  poison  in  his 
fangs;  I  am  not,  like  Achilles,  vulner- 
able in  the  heel;  yet,  some  day,  I  know, 
a  garter-snake  will  twine  himself  about 
my  ankle  and  my  screams  will  pierce 
the  empyrean. 

In  my  little  girlhood  I  proved  by  re- 
peated experiments  the  saying,  known 
of  every  country  child,  that  *a  snake's 
tail  does  not  die  until  sundown,'  where- 
upon the  snake  became  for  me  an  ob- 
ject of  loathing  more  uncanny  by  far 
than  those  lizards  whose  tails  fly  off  at 
a  blow.  If  Fate  had  given  me  an  elder 
brother,  if  some  teasing  boy  friend  had 
appeared  during  this  period  of  investi- 
gation, my  future  tremors  might  all 
have  been  spared,  for  such  an  one 
would  have  taught  me,  willy  nilly,  to 
pick  up  the  reptile  by  the  tail,  to  let 
him  coil  his  cold  length  on  my  palm. 
Into  my  hands,  instead,  fell  a  copy  of 
Paradise  Lost,  illustrated  by  Dore,  and 
the  garter-snake  became  fixed  in  my 
mind  forever  as  an  ally  of  the  Evil  One, 
a  devouring  dragon  in  the  path. 

He  is  so  often  in  the  path !  —  a  terror 
that  makes  me  choose  my  steps  with 
infinite  care  in  forest  and  field.  In 
early  spring  —  with  us  the  first  wild 
flowers  bloom  in  February  —  I  stoop 
to  pick  a  violet,  and  a  garter-snake 
glides  from  under  my  hand.  Walking 
in  March  on  the  first  warm  day,  I  can 
spare  but  fleeting  glances  for  the  glories 
of  the  fir  woods,  radiant  with  yellow 
violets,  white  trilliums,  and  the  gay, 
red  bells  a-swing  on  the  wild  currant; 
for  my  eye  must  be  ever  on  the  road 
where  numberless  garter-snakes  go 

283 


284 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


*  streaking  the  ground  with  sinuous 
trace/  In  midsummer,  by  a  trout 
stream,  high  in  the  Cascade  Moun- 
tains, I  find  a  serpent, 

In  labyrinth  of  many  a  round,  self-rolled, 
His  head  the  midst, 

sunning  himself  on  a  log  where  I  must 
stand  to  cast. 

Again,  I  pause,  entranced,  in  the 
depth  of  the  forest,  listening  to  a  wee, 
brown  wren,  warbling  rapturously  on  a 
stump  near  by;  to  a  russet  thrush,  afar 
in  the  green  aisles,  singing  his  vesper 
song;  I  half  expect  to  see  a  faun  caper 
with  a  flourish  of  goat  legs  from  behind 
the  trunk  of  a  tree,  I  half  expect  to  see 
some  fish-tailed  god  of  the  trout  rise 
from  behind  a  boulder  in  the  stream 
below;  then,  expectant,  charmed  with 
melody,  I  slide  down  a  steep  bank  to 
reach  a  pool  of  promise,  and  my  de- 
scending heel  barely  misses  a  striped 
reptile  coiled  on  the  river's  edge.  He 
crawls  away  hissing;  I  try  to  calm  my 
fears  with  the  facts  of  evolution.  Sci- 
entists tell  us  that  the  snake  is  merely 
a  distant  cousin  of  the  sweet-voiced 
wren  and  russet  thrush,  beloved  of  my 
soul;  but  the  knowledge  does  not  lessen 
my  fright  or  temper  my  dislike. 

In  spring  and  summer  he  cumbers 
the  earth.  Even  in  November,  when  I 
cut  a  branch  of  flaming  vine  maple  in  a 
suburban  lot,  he  is  there,  drowsing  at 
the  base  of  the  shrub,  and  he  slinks 
away  with  a  rude  darting  of  his  forked 
tongue  and  a  hint  of  rheumatism  in 
his  wriggling  motion.  Only  during  our 
brief  and  rainy  winter  may  I  walk 
abroad  in  peace. 

Nor  is  the  garter-snake  peculiar  to 
America.'  Chance  has  led  me  to  many 
lands  and  many  are  the  coppers  I  have 
given  to  be  quit  of  rag- clothed  beggars 
accompanied  by  pet  reptiles,  harmless 
yet  capable  of  twining  about  one's 
ankle.  Once,  in  Japan,  I  made  a  pil- 
grimage to  a  shrine  dedicated  to  some 
god  of  pedestrians.  It  was  picturesque- 


ly situated  on  a  hillside  in  a  grove  of 
giant  cryptomerias.  The  god  sat  framed 
in  hundreds  of  sandals  left  as  votive 
offerings :  little  sandals  of  toddling  chil- 
dren, larger  ones  of  countrywomen,  big 
sandals  of  men,  and  one  great  pair  of 
the  size  of  the  seven-league  boots.  As 
I  gazed,  twisting  down  among  them, 
long,  and  thick  as  my  arm,  came  a 
serpent;  and  straightway  a  miracle  of 
swift  walking  came  to  pass. 

By  good  fortune  I  reached,  at  last, 
during  my  travels,  a  snakeless  Eden. 
In  the  blessed  island  of  St.  Patrick  ser- 
pents may  not  live.  Even  those  of  the 
Dublin  Zoo,  it  is  said,  pine  away  and 
die.  In  Ireland  I  sauntered  by  gently 
flowing  rivers,  through  meadows  knee- 
deep  with  grass,  and  no  fear  was  in 
my  soul.  Old  habit,  at  first,  made  me 
walk  warily,  but  there  were  no  snakes 
in  snaky  places,  and  finally  the  glad 
freedom  was  mine  of  walking  with  my 
eyes  on  the  sheep  and  white-washed 
cottages  and  colleens  and  beech  trees 
and  even  on  the  lark  aloft,  *  singing  at 
heaven's  gate.' 

Since  those  carefree  days,  St.  Pat- 
rick has  always  seemed  to  me  a  man 
born  before  his  time.  What  might  not 
that  vigorous  saint  have  accomplished 
in  the  way  of  banishing  reptiles  from 
America  had  he  been  born  after  Co- 
lumbus !  Why  did  Dame  History  grant 
the  gracious  gift  of  St.  Patrick  to  a 
small,  green  isle  of  the  sea  in  the  fifth 
century,  when  a  vast  continent  inhab- 
ited by  copper-heads,  rattlers,  and  gar- 
ter-snakes was  to  be  discovered  in  the 
fifteenth? 

Angling  is  to  me  the  sport  of  sports, 
tramping  is  one  of  my  chief  joys,  and 
yet,  like  Eve,  through  a  serpent  I  lose 
Paradise.  A  son  of  Adam  would  doubt- 
less trace  this  childish  cowardice  to  the 
long-suffering  mother  of  us  all,  but 
Eve's  daughter  must  refrain.  It  is  an 
inheritance,  a  primitive  instinct,  a  use- 
less survival,  a  kind  of  mental  vermi- 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


285 


form  appendix ;  an  inheritance,  not  from 
Eve,  I  take  it,  but  from  some  remote 
jungle  ancestress  to  whom  all  serpents 
were  deadly  enemies,  to  be  shunned 
in  the  open  and  driven  from  the  cave 
that  was  her  home.  To  this  primeval 
woman,  this  occupant  of  sunless  cav- 
erns, I  owe  that  little  twilit  corner  of 
my  brain  where  timidity  and  super- 
stition dwell,  where  lurks  the  fear  of 
garter-snakes. 

Yet  I  am  accounted  a  woman  of  rare 
courage. 

THE   VICARIOUS    CAREER 

THE  applause  which  followed  the 
closing  period  of  the  address  made  the 
sturdy  rafters  of  the  Opera  House 
quake.  The  repeated  recognition  of  the 
tribute  by  the  Splendid  One  as  she 
slowly  retreated  backward  up  the  stage 
was  in  keeping  with  her  personality.  It 
was  impressive,  majestic,  superb,  yet 
not  unfeminine.  For  the  moment,  she 
was  the  young  queen,  and  we  her  de- 
voted subjects,  vowing  allegiance.  I 
am  ready  to  admit  that,  though  a  mere 
man  and  not  very  much  of  a  feminist 
in  the  narrower  meaning  of  the  term, 
I  was  carried  away  with  enthusiasm 
like  the  rest.  Not  that  I  could  have 
recalled  much  of  what  she  had  said :  I 
remembered  chiefly  that  it  was  good, 
in  its  manner  of  presentation,  if  not  in 
its  substance.  The  spell  was  broken 
when  Amelia,  laying  her  hand  upon 
my  arm,  whispered,  — 

'How  is  that  for  a  self-made  wo- 
man?' 

I  started,  for  she  had  touched  me  on 
a  tender  spot. 

'There  is  no  such  thing,'  I  answer- 
ed; and  on  the  way  home  I  explained 
myself. 

One  of  my  philosophic  hobbies  is 

that  the  '  self-made '  man  or  woman  is 

—  I  was  going  to  say  a  fraud,  but  that 

implies  a  certain  consciousness  of  per- 


petration, so  I  will  modify  the  epithet 
—  a  victim  of  self-delusion.  Many  a 
man  who  craves  the  distinction  of  hav- 
ing made  himself  deserves  great  credit 
for  having  availed  himself  of  his  oppor- 
tunities, but  the  opportunities  came  his 
way  through  the  handiwork  of  another 
or  others.  What  would  an  actor  be 
without  the  opening  made  for  him  by 
the  playwright,  and  the  choice  of  a  psy- 
chological moment  by  the  manager? 
How  much  should  we  ever  hear  of  a 
lawyer  without  clients,  or  a  physician 
without  patients?  Even  a  headsman 
cannot  rise  to  fame  if  his  generation  is 
too  virtuous  to  furnish  its  crop  of  capi- 
tal criminals.  Every  one  of  these  agen- 
cies must  be  recognized  in  making  up 
our  estimate  of  the  man  who  has  at- 
tained success.  The  romancers  appre- 
ciate the  fact.  Do  we  ever  think  of 
Robinson  Crusoe  without  his  man  Fri- 
day, or  of  Gulliver  without  his  Lillipu- 
tians? 

'  Never  mind  fiction,'  remarked  Ame- 
lia, cynically,  'let's  stick  to  history, 
and  talk  about  Lincoln  and  his  rails, 
Burritt  and  his  anvil,  Hugh  Miller 
and  his  rocks.  I  trust  that  if  you  ever 
write  an  essay  on  how  great  men  are 
made,  you  will  pay  a  suitable  compli- 
ment to  the  wood  and  iron  and  stone 
that  entered  into  the  composition  of 
.their  fame.' 

I  am  used  to  Amelia's  satire,  so  I 
gratified  her  with  a  mild  but  non-com- 
mittal chuckle,  and  proceeded.  Pass- 
ing from  the  more  remote  agencies  to 
those  of  a  man's  own  household,  you 
must  have  seen  Dietrichstein  in  The 
Concert.  Barrie,  too,  has  hit  off  my 
idea,  though  somewhat  broadly,  in 
What  Every  Woman  Knows.  The  poor 
egotist  who  attributed  all  his  advance 
in  politics  to  his  own  statesmanlike 
qualities,  but  awoke  in  the  last  act  to 
discover  how  much  he  owed  to  his  wife, 
is  a  type  by  no  means  extinct  in  real 
life.  I  half  suspect  that  Barrie  had 


/ 


286 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


Carlyle  and  Jane  Welsh  in  mind  when 
he  wrote  his  play. 

None  of  us  liveth  to  himself,  not 
the  strongest  or  most  gifted;  some- 
where we  touch  elbows  with  our  neigh- 
bor and  draw  upon  him  for  support, 
material  or  moral.  As  a  result,  none  of 
us  can  justly  be  said  to  have  made  him- 
self, or  to  have  a  wholly  separate  indi- 
viduality. The  most  dominant  mem- 
ber of  the  community,  though  he  may 
boast  of  having  made  his  own  way  in 
life  without  help,  is  really  a  composite 
product.  To  the  public,  his  career  ap- 
pears to  have  been  his  alone;  for  a  fact, 
he  embodies  the  careers  of  several  per- 
sons who  have  been  so  associated  with 
him  that,  if  any  of  them  had  dropped 
out  of  place,  the  result  would  have 
been,  perhaps  not  spoiled,  but  at  least 
not  so  complete.  The  Opera  House  is 
lighted  by  electricity.  The  unthinking 
credit  the  brilliancy  of  the  illumination 
wholly  to  the  great  dynamo;  I  insist 
that  every  cog-wheel  and  lever  and 
band  and  pin  in  the  entire  mechanism 
has  a  vicarious  function  in  the  produc- 
tion of  the  current.  Let  one  of  these 
break  when  the  machinery  is  in  full 
motion,  and  wjiat  happens? 

So,  let  us  take  the  case  of  the  Splen- 
did One.  Would  she  have  produced  the 
effect  she  did  on  that  audience  if  she 
had  been  an  ill-nourished,  anaemic,  hag- 
gard, careworn  dowdy,  instead  of  the 
magnificent  creature  who  could  have 
commanded  a  hearing  anywhere  by 
merely  standing  up  and  letting  us  look 
at  her,  whether  we  believed  we  were 
going  to  hear  something  worth  listen- 
ing to  or  not?  And  who  was  respon- 
sible for  her  appearance?  Her  dress- 
maker? In  part.  But  the  most  perfect 
costume  would  have  been  powerless  to 
make  up  for  the  lack  of  that  clear  skin, 
that  glowing  color,  those  sparkling 
eyes,  that  aura  of  physical  soundness 
and  energy  which  enveloped  her  so  as 
to  prepare  every  man  and  woman  in 


the  audience  for  something  good  to 
come.  I  hazarded  a  guess  that  her 
mother  was  a  fine  housekeeper. 

'She  is,'  assented  Amelia,  'fine  at 
everything  that  enters  into  home-mak- 
ing. If  she  were  n't  — ' 

'The  Splendid  One  would  go  hungry 
sometimes,'  I  suggested,  'or  all  the 
time;  or  have  indigestible  food  to  eat? 
I  '11  make  another  guess  —  that,  if  the 
daughter  is  presiding  at  a  committee- 
meeting,  or  deep  in  the  throes  of  com- 
position, or  what  not,  when  luncheon 
time  comes,  the  mother  sees  to  it  that  a 
hot  and  fresh  tidbit  shall  be  in  waiting 
for  her  as  soon  as  she  is  released.  If  the 
daughter  is  out  late,  as  to-night,  for  in- 
stance, you  may  believe  that  the  mo- 
ther has  an  appetizing  trayful  of  some- 
thing for  her  to  eat  and  drink  before 
she  goes  to  bed;  and  if  she  feels  like 
sleeping  over  to-morrow  morning,  the 
old  lady  will  guard  the  approaches  to 
her  chamber  as  jealously  as  a  watch- 
dog. What  kind  of  a  man  is  her 
father?' 

'A  very  ordinary  person,'  answered 
Amelia,  with  just  a  hint  of  contempt  in 
her  tone,  'very  ordinary  indeed.  He  is 
what  would  be  called  a  plodder  —  the 
last  man  in  the  world  you  would  expect 
to  have  been  the  parent  of  so  magnifi- 
cent a  creature  as  she.  He  has  spent  his 
whole  life  over  a  counting-room  desk. 
His  one  trait  which  protrudes  above 
the  level  is  his  interest  in  her  career. 
He  has  not  been  able  financially  to.  help 
her  much,  but  he  never  put  anything  in 
the  way  of  her  doing  what  she  had  set 
her  heart  upon.' 

'I  think  I  can  picture  him,'  I  ven- 
tured. 'He  is  somewhat  colorless,  and 
a  little  shy.  After  mousing  all  day  over 
his  account-books,  he  comes  home  and 
reads  the  papers.  The  Splendid  One, 
with  her  round  of  public  duties,  has 
scant  time  to  do  that,  so  he  tells  her  the 
news,  and  comments  on  it,  and  proba- 
bly clips  a  few  of  the  articles  he  finds 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


287 


that  bear  on  subjects  within  her  range 
of  thought  and  activity.  In  an  unosten- 
tatious way,  his  good  name  in  the  com- 
munity has  given  her  a  standing  there 
which  it  would  have  taken  her  a  long 
time  to  win  for  herself.  When  she  has 
got  a  little  money  ahead,  he  advises  her 
about  taking  care  of  it.  He  also  gives 
her  the  benefit,  when  she  asks  him  to, 
of  his  experience  and  observation  of 
men  and  affairs  through  a  life  which  is 
from  two  to  three  times  as  long  as  hers. 
And  possibly  there  are  some  other 
members  of  the  household  ? ' 

'Only  one,  a  sister,  who  is  common- 
place like  the  father.  She 's  a  good  girl, 
I  suppose,  but  one  who  will  never  be 
heard  of.  I  rarely  meet  her  anywhere 
except  making  a  call  at  some  one's 
house  or  in  the  audience  on  an  occasion 
like  to-night.  She  went  behind  imme- 
diately after  the  speech.' 

*  Just  so.  She  was  probably  carrying 
the  Splendid  One's  cloak,  gladly  play- 
ing the  part  of  a  maid  that  the  star  of 
the  evening  might  have  that  much  less 
to  think  about.  Few  geniuses  can  en- 
dure distractions  of  a  purely  mundane 
order.  Unless  I  miss  my  guess,  the 
Splendid  One  turns  over  her  modicum 
of  social  duties  to  her  sister  to  attend 
to.  The  Sister  makes  the  calls,  answers 
the  invitations,  keeps  the  minor  house- 
hold records  in  which  the  Splendid  One 
figures.  It  is  the  sister  who  takes  care 
of  the  little  garden,  cuts  the  flowers, 
and  arranges  them  for  the  table;  it  is 
she  who  counts,  and  assorts,  and  mends 
the  clothes  when  the  laundress  has 
done  her  worst  with  them;  nay,  now 
that  I  am  on  the  subject,  how  do  you 
know  that  she  does  not  darn  the  stock- 
ings which  the  Splendid  One  is  too  busy 
to  keep  in  order,  or  — ' 

'You  need  not  go  on,'  interrupted 
Amelia.  'You  have  drawn  the  family 
portrait  pretty  true  to  life.  Where  did 
you  learn  so  much  about  them?' 

'They  are  simply  an  epitome  of  the 


family  universal,'  said  I,  feeling  for  my 
latchkey  as  we  walked  up  the  path  to 
the  front-door.  'We  are  apt  to  single 
out  a  certain  member  who  is  in  the 
public  glare,  and  say,  "So-and-so  has 
achieved  a  career;  the  rest  are  nobod- 
ies, or  nearly  so."  We  rarely  pause  to 
reflect  that  the  career  of  the  one  who 
stands  in  the  spot-light  is  only  a  part  of 
a  joint  career  in  which  those  dimly 
descried  figures  in  the  gray  background 
are  sharers.  The  Splendid  One  enjoys 
hers  directly,  the  others  enjoy  theirs 
vicariously,  but  with  not  less  real 
desert.' 

FAULT   FOUND   WITH   FORTY 

WHERE  is  that  dainty  sweet  melan- 
choly with  which  I  hoped  to  regale  a 
sentimental  disposition  on  the  ap- 
proach of  the  middle  of  middle  age? 

Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
In  looking  on  the  happy  (what,  happy?)  autumn 
fields. 

It's  too  provoking  to  find  thirty-nine 
looking  down  the  west  road  for  forty 
with  a  come-hither  in  its  eye.  Is  one 
never  to  become  wistful,  ironical,  ten- 
der, resigned  and  interesting? 

*  Can't  you  feel  sad  over  growing 
old?'  inquired  J.  sympathetically.  (J.'s 
interest  in  the  phenomena  of  growing 
old  is  purely  academic.  She  has  n't 
had  any  practical  experience  in  that 
line,  though  her  age  by  the  Bible  is  a 
little  more  than  mine.) 

'Why,  the  worst  of  it  is,  Miss 
Thoughtful,  I  don't  know  what  to 
make  of  this  sense  of  competence,  and 
calmness,  and  contented  expectation 
of  good  luck.  There's  nothing  about 
it  to  harmonize  with  forty.  I  'm  at  my 
wits'  end  for  sorrowful  and  cynical  feel- 
ings :  I  have  n't  been  able  to  lose  an 
ounce  of  cheerfulness;  I  don't  know 
which  way  to  turn.  Do  you  know  I  'm 
even  beginning  to  be  afraid  that  I'm 
getting  over  being  afraid  of  death.' 


288 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


'But  you're  still  afraid  of  pain?' 
she  inquired  hopefully,  having  winter- 
ed and  summered  with  my  physical 
cowardice. 

*  Why,  that 's  another  thing  that  I  'm 
disappointed  in,  after  all,'  I  confessed. 
'I  can  generally  imagine  pain  a  good 
deal  worse  than  anything  I  ever  feel, 
unless  it 's  when  a  dentist  touches  a  live 
nerve;  and  that's  really  more  a  sort  of 
frantic  shudder  — ' 

'Don't  talk  about  it!' 

'  Well,  I  don't  really  care  to,  myself. 
But  ordinary  pain,  —  why,  the  only 
thing  you  notice  much  is  that  it  makes 
you  rather  cross  and  feeble  and  silly. 
It  used  to  wear  such  a  horrible  thrilling 
false  face  in  my  young  dreams  about 
it;  and  death  used  to  have  a  whole  out- 
fit of  melodramatic  properties,  blue 
lights,  sepulchral  music,  and  so  on,  —  I 
do  feel  resentful  at  the  idea  of  losing  all 
those  interesting  shivers!' 

'I  'm  afraid  I  can't  wait  and  hear 
you  complain  any  longer,'  said  J.  'I  'm 
off  for  the  Tuesday  dancing  class.' 

'  That 's  another  thing ! '  I  called  after 
her.  'These  new  dances  only  make  it 
harder  and  harder  to  get  the  proper 
tone  for  forty.' 

I  went  oh  thinking  about  it  after 
she  'd  gone,  and  resigned  myself  as  well 
as  I  could  to  the  prospect  of  a  frankly 
cheerful  middle  age.  I  resolutely  gave 
up,  once  for  all,  trying  to  work  up  pen- 
sive moods  and  irrevocable  regrets.  It 
was  too  warm  for  such  hard  work,  any- 
way; and  I  looked  over  my  materials 
and  found  almost  nothing  suitable. 


There  were  all  my  friendships  of 
'teens  and  twenties  perfectly  intact, 
fast  colors,  not  shrunk  a  particle.  On 
most  of  them,  in  fact,  the  pattern 
seemed  to  have  spread,  and  stood  out 
brighter:  and  on  one  in  particular  I 
found  some  gold-thread  applique  work 
which  I  can't  remember  at  all  in  the  old 
days  when  D.  and  I  were  cutting  it  out 
and  stitching  it  together. 

My  old  Sunday  silk,  too,  —  since  I 
made  it  over  the  fourth  or  fifth  time, 
I  believe  the  breadths  have  actually 
grown  wider! 

My  working  clothes  have  rather 
toughened  with  wear,  and  the  sun  and 
rain  are  steadily  bleaching  my  aprons 
whiter. 

I  wish  I  had  n't  been  led  to  expect 
that  my  enthusiasms  would  wear  thin 
by  this  time.  I  was  going  to  trade  them 
away,  in  that  case,  for  a  nice  tin  dip- 
per when  the  rag-man  came  round;  but 
I  don't  see  my  way  to  dispense  with 
them  at  present.  I  believe  those  dura- 
ble old  enthusiasms  will  make  me  an 
excellent  one-piece  everyday  dress;  it 
will  be  cool  in  summer,  and  warm  in 
winter,  and  just  right  for  spring  and 
fall. 

The  fact  is,  reader,  this  so-called 
Middle-age  is  a  consummate  humbug. 
It 's  nothing  in  the  world  but  that  poor 
little  delicate  Youth,  grown  bronzed, 
broad-shouldered,  (becomingly)  stout, 
and  less  addicted  to  amateur  theatri- 
cals. 

Ah,  well !  It 's  only  one  more  illusion 
gone! 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


SEPTEMBER,  1914 


PHILANTHROPY  WITH  STRINGS 


BY  EDWARD   ALSWORTH   ROSS 


IF  there  is  one  thing  on  which  all 
men  have  at  all  times  agreed,  it  is  the 
beauty  and  excellence  of  philanthropy. 
In  the  days  before  the  common  people 
had  gained  control,  government  made 
no  effort  to  relieve  human  suffering,  and 
the  resources  for  its  alleviation  had  to 
be  coaxed  out  of  private  hands.  To  the 
ministers  of  relief  the  generous  giver 
seemed  a  saint,  and  so  the  tradition 
grew  up  that  it  is  unbecoming  to  *  look 
a  gift  horse  in  the  mouth.' 

Inevitably  the  gratitude  and  admi- 
ration which  the  public  feels  for  bene- 
volence is  taken  advantage  of  by  those 
seeking  to  ingratiate  themselves  with 
their  fellow  citizens.  It  has  long  been 
recognized  by  the  sponsors  for  charit- 
able enterprises  that  the  candidate  for 
public  office  offers  an  easy  mark  for 
the  collector.  The  popularity-hunter 
has  always  appreciated  the  wisdom  of 
subscribing  handsomely  to  benevolent 
enterprises.  Infamous  businesses  have 
sought  to  insure  tolerance  for  their  ne- 
farious operations  by  giving  heavily 
and  conspicuously  to  charities  with  a 
strong  sentimental  appeal.  Liquor  deal- 
ers and  the  proprietors  of  gambling 
houses  and  keepers  of  low  resorts  have 
been  prompt  with  big  contributions  for 
the  relief  of  visible  dramatic  suffering, 
VOL.  114 -NO.  s 


such  as  the  hunger  or  cold  of  women 
and  children. 

In  the  bad  old  days  of  bank  failures, 
the  capitalist  who  had  slipped  out  of 
the  back  door  of  a  bank  with  a  satchel 
of  loot,  while  the  tricked  depositors 
were  hammering  in  vain  at  the  front 
entrance,  sought  to  turn  aside  public 
odium  and  win  his  way  back  to  respect- 
ability by  a  consistent  course  of  diplo- 
matic and  ostentatious  giving.  Public- 
utility  companies  have  often  made  a 
point  of  subscribing  to  charitable  and 
civic  undertakings,  and  their  generos- 
ity has  fluctuated  pretty  closely  with 
the  imminence  of  attack  upon  their 
privileges  and  their  policies. 

The  resort  to  philanthropy  as  a 
means  of  propitiation  becomes  more 
general  as  the  public  becomes  more  and 
more  critical  of  the  ways  of  business. 
Eight  or  nine  years  ago  it  was  often 
predicted  that '  muck-raking '  would  so 
wound,  exasperate,  and  alienate  the 
rich  that  the  fountains  of  benevolence 
would  dry  up.  Exactly  the  opposite  has 
occurred.  Exposure  has  had  a  wonder- 
ful effect  in  loosening  the  purse-strings 
of  the  exposed  and  the  exposable.  As 
the  impertinent  question,  *  Where  did 
he  get  it?'  becomes  more  insistent,  and 
busybodies  with  lanterns  go  poking 
and  peering  about  the  foundations  of 
majestic  fortunes,  the  rush  to  philan- 


£90 


PHILANTHROPY  WITH  STRINGS 


thropic  cover  becomes  ever  more  no- 
ticeable. 

All  the  gifts  by  which  wrong-doers 
contrive  to  cover  their  nakedness  with 
the  mantle  of  respectability,  cost  soci- 
ety more  than  they  are  worth.  They 
are  virtually  purchases  of  unmerited 
leniency  with  money,  and  tend  to  break 
down  the  moral  law  just  as  compound- 
ing a  felony  breaks  down  the  criminal 
law.  It  would  be  well  if  gifts  of  ill- 
gotten  wealth  were  cast  back  into  the 
teeth  of  the  giver  until  he  gave  evi- 
dence of  repentance  and  restitution. 
But,  from  the  nature  of  the  case,  a 
compromising  donation  almost  never 
meets  with  such  a  reception.  It  is  a 
gift  to  a  particular  charity  —  a  babies' 
fresh-air  fund,  a  newsboys'  home,  or  a 
rescue  mission.  The  directors  of  the 
charity  have  this  work  at  heart  and 
naturally  feel  that  the  Spartan-like  re- 
jection of  a  large  and  much-needed 
contribution  would  be  tantamount  to 
engaging  in  moral  sanitation  at  the 
expense  of  the  babies  or  newsboys  or 
Magdalens.  Each  charity,  therefore,  is 
under  a  strong  inducement  to  stick  to 
its  own  task,  take  thankfully  whatever 
money  comes  to  it  for  its  work,  and  re- 
frain from  facing  broad  questions  as  to 
the  relation  between  modes  of  wealth- 
getting  and  the  social  welfare. 

This  is  the  reason  why  private  unen- 
dowed charities  must,  on  the  whole,  be 
listed  among  the  static  rather  than  the 
dynamic  forces  in  society.  They  have 
every  temptation  to  centre  their  atten- 
tion on  their  own  bit  of  blessed  work 
and  to  take  the  world  as  they  find  it. 
Why  should  they  entertain  question- 
ings that  might  oblige  them  to  discrim- 
inate between  donations?  What  wel- 
come will  they  have  for  ideas  which  are 
likely  to  offend  or  alarm  their  donors? 
Have  they  not  every  inducement  to  re- 
gard the  class  of  poor  whom  they  serve, 
and  the  class  of  rich  who  provide  them 
with  the  means  of  serving  the  poor,  as 


natural  and  fixed  features  in  the  so- 
cial system?  So  we  have  the  anomaly 
that  groups  of  people  who  have  a  very 
wide  knowledge  of  special  conditions, 
and  who  have  acquired  precious  expe- 
rience in  particular  lines  of  social  ser- 
vice, have  little  to  say  when  projects  of 
social  reconstruction  are  brought  upon 
the  carpet.  Not  only  do  many  of  them 
hold  aloof  from  constructive  social  re- 
formers, but  often  they  throw  cold  water 
on  proposed  remedies  and  policies 
which  are  in  successful  operation  else- 
where. 

There  is  another  and  a  greater  lim- 
itation upon  private  philanthropy.  Of 
late  we  have  dropped  the  old,  simple, 
soothing  explanation  of  the  cause  of 
human  misery.  Nowadays  we  know  too 
much  about  distress  to  dismiss  it  as 
merely  the  result  of  unfitness  for  the 
struggle  for  existence.  We  have  learned 
that  people  struggle,  not  in  still  water, 
but  in  an  agitated  medium  full  of  up- 
currents  and  down-currents;  that  poor 
swimmers  may  be  borne  up  and  good 
swimmers  may  be  carried  down.  It  is 
twenty  years  or  more  since  social  work- 
ers took  to  investigating  seriously  the 
head-waters  of  the  endless  flow  of  mis- 
erable people  defiling  before  them. 
They  have  traced  up  the  tributaries  of 
this  flood,  and  instead  of  finding  their 
sources  to  be  individual  congenital  de- 
fects, they  have  found  many  of  them  to 
be  adverse  social  conditions.  This  being 
true,  the  really  big  thing  to  do  is  not 
just  to  handle  the  current  of  depen- 
dents as  it  flows  past,  but  to  get  at  the 
sources  and  find  a  way  of  plugging 
them  up.  Nature  cannot  be  changed, 
—  save  by  the  slow  methods  of  eugen- 
ics, —  congenital  weakness  cannot  be 
cured,  but  an  adverse  social  condition 
admits  of  being  removed. 

Some  of  these  conditions  can  be 
removed  without  disturbing  anybody 
much,  unless  it  be  the  tax-payer.  Such 
are  city  congestion,  or  convivial  social 


PHILANTHROPY  WITH  STRINGS 


291 


customs,  or  truancy,  or  lack  of  recrea- 
tion facilities.  But  most  of  the  adverse 
social  conditions  are  mixed  up  with 
some  lucrative  business,  and  you  can- 
not go  about  to  abolish  them  without 
having  a  business  interest  on  your  back. 
The  social  conditions  which  create 
down-currents  are  usually  conditions  of 
work  or  conditions  of  living  —  including 
under  this  latter,  housing,  food,  and 
recreation.  Now,  the  caterers  to  vice 
who  seize  upon,  pervert,  and  exploit  the 
instinct  of  young  people  for  pleasure, 
have  been  pretty  well  outlawed,  and 
there  is  no  danger  lest  social  workers 
be  embarrassed  by  donations  from  that 
quarter. 

Few,  indeed,  are  the  legitimate  char- 
ities which  have  been  brought  under 
any  obligation  to  the  liquor  traffic, 
gambling,  the  social  evil,  or  the  com- 
mercialized theatre.  Only  a  few  years 
ago,  however,  very  respectable  donors 
were  protesting  against  raising  the 
question  of  the  housing  of  the  working- 
class  population.  Happily,  the  move- 
ment for  the  betterment  of  housing  is 
now  so  far  advanced  that  it  has  be- 
come disgraceful  knowingly  to  draw 
rentals  from  rotten  and  disease-breed- 
ing tenement  houses.  People  who  covet 
respectability  have  bowed  to  the  re- 
quirements of  the  housing  laws  or  else 
shifted  their  investments  to  other  kinds 
of  property.  This  leaves  the  real  fight 
to  centre  around  the  questions  of  the 
conditions  and  pay  of  labor. 

Now,  there  are  few  fortunes  which 
do  not  rest  on  businesses  that  are  more 
or  less  sensitive  to  such  questions.  The 
proposition  that  the  conditions  of  labor 
need  amendment  if  we  are  going  to  les- 
sen Very  much  the  flow  of  misery  and 
degradation,  is  a  terrible  shock  to  the 
whole  policy  of  reliance  on  private  phil- 
anthropy. Few  indeed  are  the  admin- 
istrators of  unendowed  philanthropies 
who  can  advance  many  steps  along  this 
path  without  barking  their  shins. 


ii 

In  Pennsylvania  steel  towns  the 
Young  Men's  Christian  Association 
has  been  quite  inert  with  respect  to  any 
problem 'of  the  steel- workers  which  in- 
volves their  relations  to  the  company 
—  such  as  the  effects  of  the  seven-day 
week,  the  twelve-hour  day,  the  all- 
night  shift,  the  twenty-four-hour  turn 
every  other  week,  or  the  preventable 
work  accidents;  for  the  reason  that 
much  of  the  money  that  runs  it  comes 
from  the  officers  and  superintendents 
of  the  mills. 

To  be  sure,  the  Association  inspires 
young  men  to  lead  a  cleaner  life,  but 
what  in  mill  towns  is  this  problem  com- 
pared with  the  problem  of  conditions 
of  work?  I  talked  once  with  an  Asso- 
ciation secretary  about  conditions  in 
the  West  Virginia  coal  field.  In  one  dis- 
trict where  he  has  a  strong  work,  the 
company  owns  35,000  acres  of  land,  — 
everything  except  the  right-of-way  of 
the  railroad  through  that  district.  The 
moment  one  leaves  the  right-of-way, 
the  company  may  treat  him  as  a  tres- 
passer. If  an  investigator  goes  there 
without  company  authorization  he  may 
be  treated  as  a  trespasser  the  moment 
that  he  steps  from  the  depot  plat- 
form; if  a  labor  organizer  goes  in  there, 
the  company  can  order  him  out  of  the 
house  of  any  employee;  a  missionary 
going  in  there  must  have  a  company 
permit.  Moreover,  a  band  of  com- 
pany sluggers,  known  as  'the  wrecking 
crew/  takes  in  hand  any  agitator  or 
organizer  who  comes  in,  and  beats  him 
up  so  that  he  cannot  proceed  with  his 
purpose. 

I  asked  the  Association  secretary 
what  he  thought  of  this  feudalism.  He 
replied  that  such  a  system  is  necessary 
under  the  conditions  and  that  it  pro- 
duces wonderful  results.  Prostitutes 
and  gamblers  are  kept  out,  there  are  no 
saloons,  liquor  can  be  brought  in  only 


PHILANTHROPY  WITH  STRINGS 


on  order,  and  the  company  allows  no 
liquor  wagon  to  leave  a  case  of  beer  at 
any  house  where  lately  there  has  been 
drunkenness  or  *  rough-house/  This 
man  was  a  good  man,  but  he  did  not 
consider  whether  the  system  was  mak- 
ing men  or  making  serfs.  He  was  inter- 
ested only  in  whether  the  miners  drank, 
and  how  they  lived.  The  only  Associa- 
tion secretary  who  could  succeed  in 
that  district  would  be  one  who  took 
that  point  of  view,  for  much  of  his  sup- 
port came  from  the  company,  which 
was  interested  in  preventing  the  men 
from  making  themselves  unfit  for  their 
work. 

In  a  certain  city  an  energetic  Asso- 
ciation secretary  was  just  completing 
his  fund  for  a  fine  new  building.  One 
night  his  wife  was  called  out  to  a  case 
of  distress,  through  which  he  got  an  in- 
sight into  the  bad  conditions  surround- 
ing young  working  women  in  his  city. 
After  carefully  getting  up  his  facts,  he 
formed  a  committee,  secured  speakers, 
and  announced  that  on  Friday  there 
would  be  a  public  meeting  to  consider 
the  problem  of  the  young  working  wo- 
men in  local  industries.  Promptly  he 
was  summoned  by  telephone  to  meet 
the  directors  of  his  Association,  and 
when  he  entered  the  room,  one  of  his 
Christian  backers  burst  out  upon  him 
with,  'What  in  h — 1  do  you  mean  by 
getting  up  this  public  meeting?  Don't 
you  know  I '  ve  got  eighty  girls  working 
in  the  basement  of  my  department 
store? '  His  other  directors  were  equal- 
ly stern,  and  he  was  ordered  to  call 
off  his  meeting  or  lose  all  the  import- 
ant contributions  to  his  building  fund. 
He  held  his  meeting  and  immediately 
thereafter  resigned. 

I  greatly  admire  the  Young  Men's 
Christian  Association,  and  the  only 
reason  that  I  mention  it  so  often  here 
is  because  I  have  oftener  stumbled  up- 
on its  problems.  But  it  is  no  more  em- 
barrassed in  this  respect  than  are  the 


church  and  the  church  philanthropies. 

Nor  are  the  secular  charities  free. 
During  a  strike  of  the  iron-moulders  in 
a  mining-machinery  works  in  a  state 
capital,  the  company  declared  a  lock- 
out and  advertised  throughout  the 
state,  'Wanted,  skilled  iron-moulders. 
Good  pay.  No  strike.'  Some  moulders 
removed  to  the  capital  to  get  this  work 
and  found  too  late  that  they  were  to 
be  used  as  strike-breakers.  Two  such 
families  sought  relief  of  the  Associated 
Charities,  and  the  secretary  expostu- 
lated with  the  president  of  the  ma- 
chinery company  for  bringing  up-state 
iron-moulders  into  distress  by  luring 
them  into  a  strike  situation.  The  reply 
he  got  was,  'You  people  can't  complain 
of  having  to  handle  such  cases.  Don't 
we  contribute  $150  a  year  to  your 
work?' 

A  student  of  mine,  after  three  years 
of  charity  organization  work,  said  to 
me,  'Professor,  I've  quit.  There's  no- 
thing in  it.  The  game's  too  thin.  We 
coax  money  from  the  people  who  are 
the  beneficiaries  of  the  abuses  that  pro- 
duce the  wrecks  we  deal  with.  They 
let  us  deal  with  the  wrecks,  but  we 
can't  touch  or  even  show  up  the  condi- 
tions that  produce  them,  because  that 
would  affect  their  income/  And  the 
young  man  concluded,  'No  more  for 
me.  I'm  going  to  be  a  factory  inspec- 
tor, or  something  of  that  sort,  where  I 
won 't  be  a  dead  letter/ 


in 

The  head  worker  of  a  social  settle- 
ment, who  had  made  plans  for  a  much- 
needed  housing  investigation  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  settlement,  had  to  ditch 
the  investigation  because  real-estate 
owners,  who  contributed  each  a  few 
hundred  dollars  a  year  to  the  settle- 
ment fund,  sent  word  that  they  were 
able  to  look  after  their  property  them- 
selves. 


PHILANTHROPY  WITH  STRINGS 


293 


In  another  case,  a  board  represent- 
ing the  *  donor '  point  of  view  so  curbs 
the  head  worker  in  his  endeavors  to 
take  part  in  the  movements  affecting 
the  welfare  of  his  neighborhood,  that  he 
avows  to  me  that  he  is  straining  every 
nerve  to  gain  sufficient  financial  sup- 
port in  his  neighborhood  to  justify  him 
in  cutting  loose  entirely  from  up-town 
philanthropists. 

A  social  worker  who  had  resided  in 
many  settlements  said  to  me :  *  Most  of 
the  successful  settlement  heads  that  I 
know  are  one  thing  to  their  boards  and 
a  quite  different  thing  to  their  clientele. 
Unless  they  can  play  this  game  well, 
they  are  lost.  For  if  at  the  demand  of 
their  boards  they  exclude  radicals  and 
socialists  from  settlement  clubs  and 
gatherings,  censor  the  list  of  speakers 
and  denature  the  discussions  before  the 
men's  club,  they  lose  their  hold  on  the 
neighborhood.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  settlement  is  a  place  for  free  speech 
and  the  residents  show  a  lively  interest 
in  everything  affecting  the  welfare  of 
the  neighborhood,  no  matter  what  em- 
ployers or  corporations  they  may  fall 
afoul  of,  they  lose  their  hold  on  the 
board.' 

The  opposition  of  boards  of  directors 
of  settlements  to  giving  any  real  power 
in  respect  to  policy  to  a  house-council 
consisting  of  the  residents  themselves, 
or  to  conceding  any  place  in  its  direc- 
tion to  representatives  of  the  various 
neighborhood  associations  which  the 
settlement  has  called  into  being,  dis- 
closes an  attitude  of  patronage  inspired 
by  upper-class  ideas  as  to  the  steward- 
ship of  the  rich  over  the  poor. 

The  recent  action  of  the  entire  body 
of  eight  volunteer  resident  workers  in 
one  of  the  oldest  and  most  renowned 
social  settlements  in  this  country,  in 
withdrawing  from  the  house  because 
the  council  (half  of  them  Wall  Street 
men  who  never  come  near  the  house 
and  little  comprehend  the  needs  of  the 


neighborhood)  regarded  it  as  an  act  of 
insubordination  for  them  to  join  the 
settlement  society  and  elect  one  of  their 
own  number  to  the  council,  illustrates 
how  those  who  give  mere  money  arro- 
gate to  themselves  the  control  of  the 
policy  of  the  settlement  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  those  who  give  time  and  serv- 
ice. No  wonder  that  the  social  centre, 
which  uses  public  property  and  stands 
for  community  self-help,  inspires  so 
much  more  hope  than  the  social  set- 
tlement which  represents  the  spirit  of 
philanthropy. 

Talk  with  a  working  man  and  he  will 
tell  you,  'To  h — 1  with  philanthropy! 
I  want  not  charity,  but  justice.'  When 
an  injured  workingman  receives  com- 
pensation, as  he  does  now,  he  can  hold 
his  head  higher  than  he  could  when  he 
was  aided  by  a  charity. 

A  wise  settlement  warden  once  de- 
clared in  his  report  that  a  large  part 
of  the  work  at  his  settlement  was  'of 
a  disappearing  character.'  He  main- 
tained a  playground  in  the  settle- 
ment back-yard  just  long  enough  to 
induce  the  park  commission  to  estab- 
lish a  better  one  in  the  park  across  the 
street.  He  held  cooking  classes  in  the 
settlement  until  the  public  schools  put 
in  cooking.  He  provided  evening  in- 
struction for  working  boys  until  the 
state  put  in  a  continuation  school.  He 
ran  a  little  employment  office  until 
the  state  established  a  big,  well-equip- 
ped employment  bureau  in  his  neigh- 
borhood. 

Here  is  the  natural  and  logical  rela- 
tion of  philanthropy  to  social  reform. 
It  is  the  function  of  private  philan- 
thropy -to  pioneer,  to  experiment,  to 
try  out  new  things  and  new  methods, 
and  just  as  soon  as  it  has  found  the 
right  way  and  standardized  the  meth- 
od that  gives  results,  the  time  has 
come  for  the  community  to  take  over 
the  function.  This  releases  a  certain 
amount  of  private  time  and  money  to 


294     SYNDICALISM  AND  THE   GENERAL  STRIKE  IN  ITALY 


go  on  and  tackle  something  else.  The 
means  for  initiating  and  carrying  on 
experimental  lines  of  social  work  must 
come  from  private  benevolence,  but 
the  standardized  lines  of  social  work 
ought  to  be  provided  for  by  the  com- 
munity or  state. 

Once  the  philanthropist  set  up  a 
drinking  fountain;  now  there  is  good 
city  water  laid  on  everywhere.  In  old- 
en times  kindhearted  people  provided 
'  ragged  schools '  for  the  waifs  of  the  al- 
leys; now  there  are  public  schools  for 
all.  Once  the  benevolent  created  funds 


to  provide  meals  for  indigent  prisoners 
in  the  jails,  but  John  Howard  induced 
the  state  to  feed  its  prisoners.  Time 
was  when  the  defectives  were  cared  for 
by  charitable  groups;  now  the  state 
provides  for  these  unfortunates.  There 
will  always  be  opportunity  for  private 
philanthropy  to  render  signal  services; 
but  a  democratic  society  with  a  proper 
spirit  of  independence  will  not  allow 
itself  to  form  the  bad  habit  of  leaning 
upon  the  large  private  donor,  but  will 
take  as  its  maxim,  'Let  us  do  it  our- 
selves.' 


SYNDICALISM  AND  THE  GENERAL  STRIKE  IN  ITALY 


BY   GEORGE   B.   McCLELLAN 


THE  events  which  occurred  through- 
out Italy  on  June  9  and  10  of  this  year 
have  brought  home  to  the  friends  of 
existing  social  institutions  everywhere 
the  appalling  fact  that  the  syndicalist- 
ic general  strike  is  no  longer  a  vague 
theory,  but  has  become  a  stern  reality, 
which  must  be  reckoned  with  in  the  fu- 
ture as  a  constant  menace  to  law  and 
order  wherever  syndicalism  has  taken 
root. 

Syndicalist  strikes  have  been  called 
from  time  to  time  in  different  coun- 
tries, or  cities,  and  in  various  industries, 
with  only  partial  success,  and  more  for 
the  purpose  of  practice  than  with  any 
hope  of  bringing  about  the  social  revo- 
lution. 

The  so-called  general  strike  in  Russia 
in  1905,  which  secured  from  the  govern- 
ment some  more  or  less  useful  reforms, 
was  really  a  revolution  on  a  small  scale, 
organized  by  the  anarchist  terrorists, 


and  carried  on  in  the  usual,  old- 
fashioned  revolutionary  way.  In  May, 
1911,  the  few  syndicalists  in  Hungary 
joined  with  the  socialists  of  all  sorts 
and  kinds  in  proclaiming  a  general 
strike  at  Budapest  for  the  purpose  of 
forcing  the  Prime  Minister  to  keep  his 
word  and  grant  universal  suffrage.  Af- 
ter serious  rioting  and  bloodshed,  fol- 
lowed by  pandemonium  in  the  Cham- 
ber of  Deputies,  order  was  restored  on 
the  introduction  by  the  Prime  Minis- 
ter of  a  suffrage  bill  in  no  sense  uni- 
versal in  scope.  The  syndicalist  strike 
called  on  the  French  railways  some 
years  ago,  and  that  called  in  Milan  last 
year,  both  ended  in  miserable  failure, 
while  in  Portugal  the  success  of  the  gen- 
eral strike  has  been  due  far  more  to 
the  general  condition  of  anarchy  which 
exists  in  that  unhappy  country,  than 
to  the  efforts  of  those  who  have  organ- 
ized labor  agitation. 


SYNDICALISM  AND  THE  GENERAL  STRIKE  IN  ITALY     295 


To  appreciate  the  significance  of  the 
recent  general  strike  in  Italy,  it  is  ne- 
cessary to  have  at  least  some  under- 
standing of  present-day  Italian  political 
conditions.  As  in  all  Latin  countries, 
the  party  system,  as  English-speaking 
peoples  know  it,  does  not  exist  in  Italy; 
its  place  is  taken  by  the  so-called  group 
system.  No  one  group  ever  has  a  ma- 
jority in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  gov- 
ernment being  carried  on  by  a  combi- 
nation of  several  groups,  which  may 
fall  apart  at  any  moment. 

The  Italian  Chamber  is  divided  be- 
tween the  so-called  constitutionalist 
and  anti-constitutionalist  groups, — or 
parties,  as  their  members  like  to  call 
them.  The  constitutionalist  groups  are 
in  number  some  half  dozen,  of  varying 
degrees  of  conservatism  and  radicalism; 
they  support  the  present  constitution, 
advocate  constitutional  methods  of 
reform,  and  are  enthusiastically  mon- 
archical. The  anti-constitutionalist 
groups  include  the  socialists,  who  are 
divided  into  several  sub-groups,  and 
the  republicans;  they  are  opposed  to 
the  present  constitution  and  are  revo- 
lutionary. 

In  addition  to  the  political  groups 
represented  in  the  Chamber  of  Depu- 
ties, there  are  other  groups  outside, 
either  too  small  or  too  much  scattered 
to  elect  representatives,  or  with  theo- 
ries which  prevent  their  taking  part  in 
parliamentary  elections.  Chief  among 
the  latter  are  the  two  revolutionary 
groups  of  syndicalists  and  anarchists, 
who  decline  to  compromise  with  con- 
viction by  even  recognizing  the  just- 
ice of  existing  social  conditions  to  the 
extent  of  having  anything  to  do  with 
existing  party  politics. 

The  four  revolutionary  groups  — 
socialists,  republicans,  syndicalists,  and 
anarchists  —  shade  off  by  impercep- 
tible degrees  into  each  other.  So  that 


while  in  theory  their  principles  could 
not  be  further  apart,  in  practice  they 
are  so  inextricably  mixed  in  member- 
ship and  opinions  as  to  present  an  al- 
most hopeless  puzzle  to  the  non-Latin 
observer.  Thus  there  are  socialists 
with,  strong  anarchistic,  syndicalistic, 
or  republican  leanings,  republicans 
whom  we  should  call  anarchists,  and 
self-styled  anarchists  who  are  neither 
more  nor  less  than  pure  socialists.  In 
addition  to  this  crossing  and  recrossing 
of  members  and  ideas,  which  serves 
to  unite  the  revolutionary  groups,  all 
four  are  bound  together  in  their  oppo- 
sition to  the  present  constitution  and 
presumably  also  to  the  monarchy,  and 
in  their  desire  to  bring  about  the  social 
revolution  by  any  possible  means,  as 
the  condition  precedent  to  the  triumph 
of  their  various  propagandas.  They 
therefore  work  together  in  a  sort  of 
offensive  and  defensive  alliance  having 
for  its  purpose  the  destruction  of  exist- 
ing institutions.  The  socialists  and 
republicans  are  'possibilists,'  that  is, 
they  are  willing  to  use  constitutional 
and  legislative  means,  as  well  as  un- 
constitutional and  revolutionary,  for 
the  triumph  of  the  cause;  while  the 
anarchists  and  syndicalists  are  *im- 
possibilists,'  rejecting  all  means  except 
those  of  the  revolution,  although  they 
are  perfectly  willing  to  profit  by  the 
work  of  their  allies. 

The  leaders  explain  this  somewhat 
inconsistent  state  of  affairs  by  saying 
that  after  the  social  revolution  has  been 
accomplished  it  will  be  time  enough  to 
talk  of  dividing  the  spoils,  and  that 
meanwhile  it  is  puerile  to  lay  too  much 
stress  on  consistency  of  principles. 
They  say  that  the  destruction  of  so- 
ciety by  any  and  all  possible  means  is 
the  main  thing,  and  that  when  the  pro- 
letariat has  come  to  its  own,  political 
conditions  will  adjust  themselves  with- 
out great  difficulty. 

This  unholy  alliance  has  been  the 


296     SYNDICALISM  AND  THE  GENERAL  STRIKE  IN  ITALY 


subject  of  grave  concern  to  German 
and  English  socialists,  who  have  feared 
that  the  anarchistic  and  syndicalistic 
leanings  of  their  Italian  comrades 
would  discredit  their  cause  throughout 
the  world,  just  as  in  France  it  has  been 
greatly  injured  by  M.  Herve  and  his 
*  united  socialists.' 

The  membership  of  the  four  revolu- 
tionary groups  is  chiefly  proletarian, 
with  a  small  admixture  of  professional 
men  and  shopkeepers,  belonging  to  the 
little  bourgeoisie.  But  membership  in 
a  political  group  by  no  means  exhausts 
the  political  activity  of  the  Italian 
workingman,  who  in  addition  belongs 
to  his  trade-union  or  sindacato,  and  to 
the  Camera  del  Lavoro,  the  local  labor 
exchange,  similar  to  the  French  Bourse 
du  Travail. 

The  unions  and  camere  include  mem- 
bers of  all  parties,  even  avowed  mon- 
archists; but  they  are  dominated  every- 
where by  the  anti-constitutionalists.  In 
some  cities  the  republicans  have  their 
own  exchanges  or  headquarters,  which 
they  call  Casa  del  Popolo,  or  People's 
House. 

Organized  labor  speaks  through  the 
Confederazione  Generate  del  Lavoro, — 
the  national  body, — composed  of  dele- 
gates from  all  the  unions  and  all  the 
camere  del  lavoro.  In  other  words,  labor 
is  twice  represented  in  the  central  or- 
ganization :  first  by  trades  in  the  unions 
and  second  geographically  by  the  ca- 
mere. The  executive  committee  of  the 
confederazione  is  made  up  without 
much  regard  to  nice  political  distinc- 
tions, being  united  in  the  cause  of  the 
revolution,  which  for  its  members  is 
the  cause  of  labor.  When  important 
matters  are  under  discussion  the  cen- 
tral body,  which  sits  at  Rome,  usually 
confers  with  the  executive  committees 
of  the  revolutionary  parties  within  and 
outside  of  the  Chamber. 

Having  the  social  revolution  as  its 
purpose  it  can  easily  be  understood  why 


the  syndicalist  general  strike  should 
have  appealed  so  forcibly  to  the  Italian 
proletariat,  for  on  paper,  at  least,  it  is 
one  of  the  most  plausible,  if  one  of  the 
wickedest,  revolutionary  schemes  that 
has  ever  been  presented.  At  the  risk 
of  being  didactic  it  may  be  well  to  sum- 
marize very  briefly  the  purposes  of  the 
new  school  which  is  playing  so  rapidly 
increasing  a  part  in  the  politics  of  labor. 


ii 

Syndicalism  is  that  new  form  of  col- 
lectivism which  advocates  the  concen- 
tration, in  the  hands  of  each  industry, 
of  its  own  instruments  of  production. 
Each  industry,  and  not  each  trade,  is 
to  constitute  a  great  labor-union  which 
will  be  self-governing  and  self-regulat- 
ing. The  various  industrial  groups  or 
unions  are  to  be  united  by  a  central 
committee  for  the  purpose  of  exchang- 
ing products.  Every  citizen  will  belong 
to  an  industrial  union,  and  all  will  be 
equal,  for  there  will  be  no  more  bosses, 
no  more  capitalists,  no  more  oppressors. 

This  new  social  condition  is  to  be 
brought  about  by  the  general  strike. 
On  a  given  day  all  work  in  a  given 
country  is  to  stop.  The  troops  are  call- 
ed out,  but  the  army  having  been  care- 
fully prepared,  the  soldiers  decline  to 
fire  on  the  strikers  and  fraternize  with 
them.  In  course  of  time  the  capitalists, 
finding  that  no  one  will  work  for  them, 
abandon  their  factories  to  the  strikers, 
who  at  once  begin  to  operate  them 
under  syndicalistic  auspices  and  the 
revolution  is  complete. 

Fantastic  as  this  proposal  is,  syndi- 
calism has  made  great  progress  every- 
where. In  France  it  controls  the  Con- 
federation Generate  du  Travail,  which 
is  the  confederation  of  the  trade-unions 
and  labor  exchanges;  in  England  it  has 
many  followers;  and  in  the  United 
States  it  is  known  as  the  Industrial 
Workers  of  the  World. 


SYNDICALISM  AND  THE  GENERAL  STRIKE  IN    ITALY      297 


What  must  never  be  forgotten  in  dis- 
cussing the  chief  weapon  in  the  arse- 
nal of  the  syndicalists, — the  general 
strike,  -  -  is  that  it  differs  from  the  ordi- 
nary strike  with  which  we  are  familiar, 
in  that  it  is  not  called  for  the  redress  of 
grievances,  or  the  raising  of  wages,  or 
the  betterment  of  labor  conditions,  but 
that  its  purpose  is  purely  political.  The 
ultimate  object  of  the  general  strike  is 
of  course  the  social  revolution,  but  until 
times  are  ripe  for  that  great  cataclysm, 
it  is  urged  that  the  general  strike 
should  be  employed  whenever  possible 
for  the  purpose  of  injuring  capital  and 
therefore  weakening  existing  society, 
of  fighting  existing  governments,  and, 
by  demonstrating  its  power,  of  show- 
ing to  the  world  the  strength  of  the  la- 
bor cause.  Syndicalism  itself  has  made 
great  progress  in  Italy,  and  its  meth- 
ods, especially  the  general  strike,  have 
been  enthusiastically  adopted  by  all 
the  revolutionary  parties.  While  it  is 
as  difficult  to  determine  the  exact  num- 
ber of  syndicalists  in  any  movement  as 
it  is  to  separate  the  members  of  the 
other  revolutionary  groups,  it  is  cer- 
tain that  the  influence  of  syndicalism 
in  Italy  is  very  great,  and  that  it  has 
become  as  much  a  menace  to  law  and 
order  there,  as  it  has  in  France. 

Last  April,  at  what  we  should  call 
the  *  annual  convention'  of  the  Gene- 
ral Confederation  of  Labor,  the  ques- 
tion of  the  general  strike  as  a  protest 
against  the  killing  of  workmen  during 
labor  troubles  was  thoroughly  dis- 
cussed. After  the  matter  had  been  sub- 
mitted to  the  various  camere  del  lavoro 
it  was  determined  that  whenever  there- 
after a  workman  was  killed  by  the 
public  authorities  as  the  result  of  labor 
agitation,  the  general  strike  should  be 
called  for  not  less  than  twenty-four 
hours  and  not  more  than  forty-eight. 
It  was  emphasized  that  this  was  to  be 
a  general  strike  of  protest,  and  in  no 
sense  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  about 


the  revolution.  The  evident  intention 
of  the  executive  committee  was  to  take 
the  first  opportunity  of  showing  Italy 
the  strength  of  organized  labor,  and  the 
perfection  of  its  organization. 

The  events  which  led  up  to  the  gen- 
eral strike  last  June  were  sordid  in  the 
extreme.  Briefly  they  were  as  follows. 
Nearly  two  years  ago  a  private  sol- 
dier named  Maseti  shot  the  lieutenant 
colonel  of  his  regiment,  and  was  com- 
mitted to  the  asylum  as  a  dangerous 
lunatic.  Some  months  ago  another 
private  soldier,  named  Mororri,  was 
sentenced  to  one  of  the  disciplinary 
companies  for  various  offences  against 
the  regulations.  Both  soldiers  came 
from  Ancona  and  appear  to  have  been 
anarchists.  Early  in  June,  Enrico  Mal- 
atesta,  leader  of  the  Ancona  anarchists 
and  proprietor  of  the  local  anarchist 
newspaper,  thinking  the  time  oppor- 
tune, in  conjunction  with  the  local  syn- 
dicalists, socialists,  and  republicans, 
called  a  public  outdoor  meeting  for 
June  7,  the  day  of  the  Statute,  or  Con- 
stitution, —  equivalent  to  our  Fourth 
of  July,  —  for  the^  purpose  of  expressing 
sympathy  with  the  two  convicts  and 
protest  against  the  disciplinary  com- 
panies in  particular  and  the  army  in 
general. 

The  Prime  Minister,  Salandra,  for- 
bade the  meeting,  as  he  feared  that  it 
would  clash  with  the  patriotic  gath3r- 
ing  to  be  held  at  the  same  hour  in  a 
neighboring  square.  The  meeting  was 
nevertheless  held  in  the  headquarters 
of  the  republican  organization,  and 
after  it  had  adjourned,  the  audience, 
consisting  of  several  hundred  men  and 
boys,  marched  to  the  square  where  the 
Statuto  was  being  celebrated,  for  the 
purpose  of  making  trouble.  The  police 
drove  them  back  to  the  republican  club, 
in  which  many  of  them  took  refuge, 
and  began  throwing  on  the  heads  of 
the  police,  and  of  the  soldiers  who  had 
been  hastily  summoned,  bricks,  paving 


298      SYNDICALISM  AND  THE  GENERAL  STRIKE  IN  ITALY 


stones,  and  furniture.  Presently  shots 
were  fired  from  behind  the  blinds  of  an 
upper  window  of  the  club  and  thirteen 
of  the  police  replied,  firing  twenty-' 
eight  shots  in  all.  Whereupon  the  lieu- 
tenant in  command  immediately  with- 
drew his  men.  Of  the  rioters,  three 
were  killed  and  five  wounded,  and  of 
the  police  seventeen  were  wounded. 
By  order  of  the  Prime  Minister  the 
thirteen  policemen  who  had  fired  were 
arrested  and  locked  up  pending  judi- 
cial investigation  into  their  conduct. 

The  next  day  the  executive  commit- 
tee of  the  Confederazione  Generate  del 
Lav&ro  met  at  Rome,  and  after  consul- 
tation with  the  socialist  and  republi- 
can deputies,  decreed  a  general  strike 
throughout  Italy,  to  begin  the  next  day 
and  to  last  until  further  orders,  as 
a  protest  against  'the  murder  of  the 
martyrs  of  Ancona.' 

The  only  city  that  refused  to  obey 
the  decree  was  Padua,  while  the  gov- 
ernment employees,  including  fully  half 
of  the  railroad  hands  and  nearly  all  the 
postal  telegraph  and  telephone  people, 
remained  at  work.    The  army,  navy, 
and  police  were  absolutely  loyal .  Whil e 
the  markets,  in  most  cities,  were  al- 
lowed to  open  for  an  hour  each  morn- 
ing of  the  strike,  nothing  whatever  was 
permitted  to  enter  the  gates.    A  few 
trains  were  sent  through  to  their  desti- 
nations under  police  escort,  and  the 
central  post  and  telegraph  offices  were 
kept  open  although  no  letters  or  tele- 
grams were  delivered.   The  trains  and 
all  public  and  private  vehicles  were 
stopped,  all  factories  and  shops  were 
closed,  no  bread  was  baked,  and  even 
the  restaurants  and  cafes  were  forced 
to  put  up  their  shutters.  An  exception 
was,  however,  made  in  favor  of  the 
wine  and  eating-shops  frequented  by 
the  workers.    In  only  a  few  instances 
were  the  electric  lights  put  out,  for  ev- 
erywhere the  lighting  plants  were  heav- 
ily guarded,  engineer  troops  operating 


them  wherever  necessary.  No  news- 
papers were  published,  and  for  two  days 
no  news  was  obtainable  except  the 
most  exaggerated  rumors  passed  from 
mouth  to  mouth. 

Except  in  these  comparatively  minor 
particulars,  for  forty-eight  hours  the  in- 
dustrial life  of  Italy  was  entirely  sus- 
pended. The  morning  of  the  first  day 
passed  quietly,  but  by  afternoon  dis- 
order became  frequent,  and  by  evening 
almost  everywhere  there  was  more  or 
less  serious  rioting.  Before  the  night 
was  over  lamps  and  windows  had  been 
broken,  barricades  had  been  thrown 
up  and  torn  down,  and  almost  every 
city  had  its  list  of  dead  and  wounded 
rioters  and  policemen  to  add  to  that 
of  Ancona. 

The  most  serious  disturbances  were 
in  Romagna  and  the  Marches,  and  for 
several  days  Ancona,  Ravenna,  and  the 
neighboring  towns  were  completely  cut 
off  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  In  An- 
cona the  anarchist  Malatesta  presided 
over  a  sort  of  revolutionary  tribunal 
which  issued  passes  to  citizens  and 
questioned  arrivals  in  the  town.  Shops 
were  broken  into  and  pillaged,  and  a 
condition  of  near  anarchy  prevailed. 
At  Ravenna  a  commissary  of  police 
was  .murdered,  and  General  Aliardi  and 
seven  officers  who  were  with  him  were 
held  prisoners  for  five  hours  and  made 
to  give  up  their  swords;  while  at  Fa- 
briano  the  republic  was  declared  and 
the  red  flag  hoisted  from  the  municipio. 
It  seems  certain  that  for  a  time  the 
majority  of  people  at  Ravenna  believed 
that  the  republic  had  been  proclaimed 
at  Rome,  and  that  the  King  had  fled 
the  country. 

On  the  evening  of  the  second  day, 
June  10,  the  strike  authorities  recon- 
vened, and  while  the  anarchists  and 
syndicalists  urged  the  indefinite  con- 
tinuance of  the  strike  with  an  avowed 
revolutionary  purpose,  they  were  out- 
voted by  the  socialists  and  republicans, 


SYNDICALISM  AND  THE  GENERAL  STRIKE  IN  ITALY      299 


and  the  order  was  issued  to  return  to 
work. 

This  order  was  generally  obeyed  and 
by  the  next  day  the  greater  part  of 
Italy  had  resumed  its  normal  life  ex- 
actly as  though  it  had  never  been  inter- 
rupted. To  this  statement,  however, 
there  were  important  exceptions.  Dis- 
order continued  in  Romagna  and  the 
Marches  for  nearly  a  week  more,  and 
order  was  not  completely  restored  in 
Milan  and  Naples  for  another  forty- 
eight  hours. 

While  no  official  statistics  have  been 
published,  it  is  probable  that  the  list  of 
casualties  included  about  ten  police- 
men and  soldiers  killed,  and  one  hun- 
dred wounded  more  or  less  severely, 
with  twice  that  number  of  killed  and 
wounded  among  the  strikers.  A  great 
amount  of  property  was  destroyed,  in- 
cluding two  railway  stations  and  a 
church  in  Romagna,  and  a  number  of 
houses  that  were  burned  in  the  coun- 
try; in  addition,  shops  were  looted  and 
citizens  robbed  in  a  majority  of  the 
cities  in  the  kingdom. 

Take  it  all  in  all,  from  the  point  of 
view  of  those  who  called  the  strike,  it 
was  a  complete  and  triumphant  suc- 
cess. Its  machinery  worked  without  a 
hitch,  smoothly  and  perfectly.  While 
it  is  probable,  almost  certain,  as  the 
recent  local  elections  have  shown,  that 
the  majority  of  the  Italian  people,  in- 
cluding many  of  the  peasants,  almost 
all  the  shopkeepers  and  a  consider- 
able minority  of  the  artisans,  were  op- 
posed and  are  opposed  to  the  principle 
of  the  general  strike,  yet  so  well  was  it 
organized,  so  terrified  was  the  supine 
majority  by  the  militant  minority,  that 
not  a  tradesman,  not  a  laborer,  not  an 
artisan,  dared  to  follow  his  usual  avo- 
cation. 

The  government  acted  with  what 
seemed  to  be  great,  although  perhaps 
justifiable,  weakness.  It  must  not  be 
forgotten  that  the  Salandra  ministry  is 


a  stop-gap,  governing  during  one  of  the 
intervals  in  which  Signor  Giolitti  has 
seen  fit  to  lay  down  the  cares  of  office. 
Signor  Salandra  has  no  great  party  be- 
hind him,  but  remains  in  office  by  the 
grace  of  a  combination  of  various  con- 
stitutionalist groups.  As  parliament 
was  in  session  during  the  strike,  Salan- 
dra considered  it  absolutely  necessary 
that  he  should  receive  a  vote  of  confid- 
ence by  a  large  majority;  he  believed 
that  anything  else  would  have  meant 
the  revolution.  To  obtain  the  required 
vote  he  thought  himself  forced  to  han- 
dle the  situation  with  extreme  caution 
so  as  to  offend  the  susceptibilities  of 
as  few  deputies  as  possible.  Had  he 
acted  with  greater  vigor,  the  Chamber 
might  have  turned  against  him.  This 
policy  of  extreme  caution  he  communi- 
cated to  the  prefects,  who  are  remov- 
able arbitrarily  by  him,  so  that  in  each 
province  the  authorities  showed  great 
unwillingness  to  meet  the  situation 
frankly. 

The  Italian,  like  all  continental  po- 
lice, are  armed  as  soldiers,  with  revol- 
ver, rifle,  and  sword-bayonet.  They 
must  either  use  their  weapons  to  kill, 
or  not  at  all,  for  there  is  no  half-way 
course.  As  the  military  were  ordered 
by  the  prefects  only  to  use  their  weap- 
ons when  their  lives  were  in  danger,  it 
followed  that  the  mob  did  very  much 
what  it  pleased.  The  police  and  sol- 
diers were  unable  to  give  protection  to 
shopkeepers  who  wanted  to  open  their 
shops,  or  to  workpeople  who  wanted  to 
work;  in  fact  they  seem  to  have  ad- 
vised a  general  compliance  with  the 
wishes  of  the  strikers.  Comparatively 
few  arrests  were  made,  and  after  the 
strike  was  over,  all  the  important  lead- 
ers in  disorder,  including  Malatesta, 
were  allowed  to  leave  the  country.  A 
few  hundred  New  York  policemen,  arm- 
ed with  night- sticks,  and  command- 
ed by  a  New  York  police  inspector, 
would  probably  have  restored  a  city 


300      SYNDICALISM  AND   THE   GENERAL  STRIKE  IN  ITALY 


in  Italy  to  normal  conditions  in  a  few 
hours. 

Had  the  second  day  of  the  strike  not 
been  so  rainy  as  to  damp  the  enthusi- 
asm of  the  mob,  it  is  altogether  prob- 
able that  it  would  have  got  out  of  hand, 
with  nobody  knows  what  ultimate 
consequences. 

As  it  was,  the  strike  was  a  grim  warn- 
ing to  the  government  and  to  the  nation 
that  under  favorable  conditions  it  is 
quite  possible  that  a  minority  of  the 
people  may  destroy  the  whole  social 
and  political  fabric  of  modern  Italy.  A 
lawless  but  well- organized  minority 
frightened  the  authorities,  terrified  the 
public,  and  paralyzed  the  activities  of 
nearly  thirty  million  people  for  over 
forty-eight  hours.  Had  the  strike  been 
called  originally  as  a  revolutionary  act, 
and  not  as  a  mere  protest,  it  might  even 
then  have  succeeded. 

It  is  difficult  to  explain  the  success 
of  the  movement,  for  to  any  one  who 
knows  the  Italian  character  it  is  al- 
most past  belief  that  a  majority  of  law- 
abiding,  patriotic  Italians  should  have 
quietly  submitted  to  the  dictates  of  the 
mob.  It  is  a  far  cry  from  the  patriotic 
enthusiasm  of  two  years  ago  to  the 
apathy  which  permitted  bands  of  riot- 
ers to  tear  down  Italian  flags  and  to  in- 
sult Italian  officers.  The  Italian  spirit 
has  not  changed,  for  the  Italians  of  to- 
day are  the  sons  of  those  who  brought 
United  Italy  into  being  and  are  the 
self-same  men  who  fought  the  war  in 
Tripoli. 

Yet  as  the  days  go  by  the  revolution- 
ary groups,  with  their  ally,  the  General 
Confederation  of  Labor,  are  spread- 
ing the  seeds  of  internationalism  and 
anti-patriotism,  and  like  all  similar 
bodies  the  world  over  are  preaching 
what  they  call  the  doctrine  of  human 
brotherhood,  which,  however,  as  they 
practice  it,  means  nothing  but  extreme 
selfishness. 

Patriotism  has  not  died  out  in  Italy 


any  more  than  it  has  in  any  other  coun- 
try; but  it  is  a  curious  phenomenon, 
significant  of  the  new  spirit  which  is 
abroad,  that  for  the  moment  Italy  for- 
got that  she  was  Italian.  It  cannot  be 
that  all  the  sacrifices  of  half  a  century 
have  been  in  vain,  that  the  new  Italy, 
which  her  children  have  brought  into 
being  with  such  devotion  and  such  love, 
will  pass,  and  that  the  work  of  Cavour 
and  Garibaldi  and  Victor  Emmanuel 
will  come  to  nothing  in  the  excesses  of 
Malatesta  and  his  gang. 


in 

Whether  the  present  government  is 
willing  or  able  to  learn  the  very  obvi- 
ous lesson  that  the  strike  teaches,  re- 
mains to  be  seen.  If  Italy  is  to  attain 
that  economic  and  industrial  prosper- 
ity and  social  happiness  which  all  her 
friends  desire  for  her,  during  the  years 
of  her  upbuilding  she  must  not  only 
have  peace  abroad,  but  good  order  at 
home.  Living  on  the  crater  of  a  vol- 
cano of  social  revolution,  that  may  ex- 
plode at  any  moment,  is  not  conducive 
to  industrial  development  or  social 
progress. 

There  are  many  Italians  who  serious- 
ly advocate  a  war  with  Austria  as  the 
only  means  of  quelling  the  revolution- 
ary spirit.  As  the  Turkish  war,  which  is 
scarcely  over,  had  not  the  slightest  in- 
fluence in  preventing  the  growth  of  the 
revolutionary  propaganda,  a  war  with 
any  other  power  would  be  no  more 
effective.  The  causes  of  discontent  are 
too  deep  and  too  far-reaching  to  be  re- 
moved by  the  waving  of  flags  or  the 
singing  of  patriotic  songs. 

The  Italian  workman  is  suffering 
from  too  much  and  too  little  education. 
He  knows  just  enough  to  understand 
that  all  is  not  as  it  should  be  with  him, 
and  not  enough  to  seek  a  reasonable 
cure  for  his  ills.  He  is  intelligent 
enough  to  desire  to  better  his  condition 


SYNDICALISM  AND  THE  GENERAL  STRIKE   IN   ITALY       301 


and  ignorant  enough  to  blame  every 
one  but  himself  because  his  condition 
does  not  improve.  Modern  Italy  has 
made  great  progress,  at  least  upon  the 
surface,  but  beneath  there  still  remains 
much  to  be  accomplished  if  United 
Italy  is  to  become  a  really  great  power 
in  industry  and  commerce.  Italians 
boast  that  the  number  of  illiterates  has 
been  reduced  to  twenty  per  cent  of  the 
total  population.  Assuming  that  this 
figure  is  correct,  it  still  means  a  fearful 
prevalence  of  ignorance  which  must  be 
largely  done  away  with  if  Italian  work- 
ingmen  are  even  to  approximate  the 
intelligence  of  our  own. 

The  great  problem  which  confronts 
government  in  Italy  is  how  to  spread 
education  and  improve  sanitary  and 
social  conditions,  -  -all  of  which  require 
great  expenditure, —  while  at  the  same 
time  paying  the  enormous  cost  of  a 
modern  navy,  and  an  army  which  num- 
bers a  quarter  of  a  million  men  on  a 
peace  footing. 

Italy  assumed  the  obligations  and 
claimed  the  rights  of  a  first-class  power 
long  before  she  was  economically  able 
to  do  so.  Her  membership  in  the  Tri- 
ple Alliance  has  been  maintained  only 
at  the  cost  of  tremendous  sacrifice  at 
home.  Money  which  should  have  gone 
to  the  development  of  Italy,  has  been 
used  to  keep  up  the  pomp  of  her  state 
and  circumstance  abroad,  while  the 


prosperity  of  her  people  has  been  large- 
ly forgotten  in  the  glory  of  German 
friendship. 

Of  course  it  is  now  too  late  to  repair 
the  mistakes  of  the  past,  for  Italian 
pride  will  never  consent  to  an  acknow- 
ledgment that  Italy  is  not  a  great  pow- 
er in  every  sense.  Until,  therefore,  she 
really  becomes  one,  the  sacrifices  of 
her  people  must  continue.  If  the  day 
is  to  dawn  when  Italy  shall  actually 
take  her  place  as  the  industrial  and  eco- 
nomic equal  of  her  great  ally,  Germany, 
it  must  be  preceded  by  years  of  strict 
economy  in  public  expenditure,  wise 
economic  and  social  legislation,  and, 
above  all,  impartial  justice  and  great 
firmness  at  the  head  of  affairs. 

Italy  undoubtedly  has  a  great  future 
before  her,  if  her  people  are  willing  to 
do  their  best.  It  is  entirely  in  their 
hands,  whether  she  will  gradually  de- 
velop into  a  mighty  power,  strong  poli-* 
tically  and  industrially,  or  whether  she 
will  drift  on  the  seas  of  opportunism, 
blown  hither  and  thither  by  every  po- 
litical fancy  of  the  moment,  wasting 
her  strength,  her  wealth,  and  her  life 
in  useless  experiments  and  in  extrava- 
gant expenditures.  But  it  is  as  true  in 
her  case,  as  it  is  in  that  of  any  other 
nation,  that  industrial,  political,  and 
social  progress  can  be  achieved  only 
through  law  and  order,  never  through 
lawlessness  and  anarchy. 


THE  DECADENCE  OF  HUMAN  HEREDITY 


BY   S.    J.    HOLMES 


IN  any  discussion  of  the  possible 
decadence  of  the  human  stock  it  is  ne- 
cessary to  distinguish  clearly  between 
progress  in  knowledge  and  institutions 
and  progress  in  the  congenital  endow- 
ment of  the  race.  It  is  quite  obvious 
that  within  historic  times  improvement 
in  the  former  has  been  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  the  development  of  the  lat- 
ter. Mankind,  especially  in  the  do- 
mains of  western  civilization,  has  come 
to  regard  progress  as  the  natural  if  not 
necessary  course  of  things.  It  is  only 
recently  that  we  have  begun  to  realize 
that  the  rapid  and  impressive  advances 
in  civilization  that  have  been  made,  by 
no  means  indicate  an  improvement  in 
the  innate  qualities  of  human  beings, 
and  that  these  advances  may  even  go 
along  with  race-deterioration. 

Whether  or  not  the  hereditary  en- 
dowment of  the  civilized  races  of  man 
is  undergoing  a  process  of  deteriora- 
tion is  a  problem  of  the  greatest  pos- 
sible moment.  It  is  not  a  simple  prob- 
lem. It  is  not  to  be  solved  a  priori  on 
the  basis  of  assumptions  regarding  the 
withdrawal  of  natural  selection.  It  is 
a  problem  to  be  solved  only  by  the 
accumulation  of  many  data  and  by  a 
knowledge  of  the  factors  at  work  in  the 
modification  of  the  hereditary  forces 
among  human  peoples. 

To  obtain  an  insight  into  the  factors 
of  human  evolution  it  is  essential  to 
have  an  accurate  knowledge  of  the 
factors  which  are  responsible  for  the 
evolution  of  the  lower  animals.  On  this 

302 


subject  biologists  are  unfortunately  by 
no  means  agreed.  The  factor  of  use- 
inheritance,  upon  which  many  biolo- 
gists formerly  laid  so  much  stress,  has 
rapidly  lost  adherents,  and  I  think  it 
must  be  conceded  that  if  it  is  operative 
at  all  it  is  a  factor  of  minor  importance. 
Despite  the  modern  criticisms  of  nat- 
ural selection,  with  which  I  confess  I 
have  small  sympathy,  the  doctrine  of 
selection  in  one  or  another  of  its  modi- 
fications stands  to-day  as  the  only 
naturalistic  hypothesis  which  contains 
any  principle  of  explanation  of  progres- 
sive adaptive  evolution. 

We  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that 
man,  so  far  as  the  early  stages  of  his 
biological  evolution  are  concerned,  is  a 
result  of  the  operation  of  any  factors 
essentially  different  from  those  which 
have  brought  the  lower  animals  up 
from  the  most  primitive  forms  of  life. 
At  the  present  time  we  have  no  reason- 
able recourse  from  the  conclusion  that 
man  owes  his  origin  to  selection,  and 
that  only  by  selection  in  some  form 
can  his  congenital  endowments  be 
improved. 

II 

The  evolution  of  human  society  and 
civilization  has  gradually  brought  man- 
kind under  conditions  of  existence 
which  are  so  far  different  from  those 
prevailing  during  the  infancy  of  the 
race  that  the  character  of  the  stock  can 
scarcely  fail  to  be  seriously  modified. 
To  judge  from  the  remarkable  superi- 
ority of  the  brain-power  of  man  over 
that  of  the  primates,  the  early"  periods 


THE  DECADENCE  OF  HUMAN  HEREDITY 


303 


of  human  or  the  later  stages  of  pre- 
human evolution  must  have  been  ex- 
ceptionally favorable  to  the  selection  of 
individuals  of  superior  mental  endow- 
ment. So  far  as  our  vision  can  pene- 
trate into  the  darkness  of  these  times, 
mankind  occupied  itself  quite  largely  in 
the  destructive,  but  eugenically  whole- 
some, occupation  of  fighting,  —  fighting 
not  only  with  large  beasts  of  the  field, 
but  also  —  and  this  is  probably  much 
more  important  from  the  standpoint 
of  evolution  —  with  other  clans  and 
tribes  of  the  human  species. 

The  advent  of  man  is  the  expression 
of  the  superiority  of  brains  over  brute 
force  in  the  struggle  for  life.  While  we 
may  never  recover  the  history  of  the 
period  between  the  primates  and  prim- 
itive man,  what  we  know  of  the  gen- 
eral factors  of  evolution  justifies  us  in 
the  conjecture  that  it  was  a  period  of 
intense  struggle,  with  a  lively  elimina- 
tion of  the  unfit. 

The  course  of  human  history  as  far 
back  as  we  can  follow  it  is  one  of 
warfare  of  tribe  with  tribe,  and  na- 
tion with  nation,  the  conquerors  of  one 
age  being  overcome  by  new  invaders 
of  another  lineage  in  the  next.  Along 
with  this  perpetual  conflict,  and  to 
a  considerable  degree  because  of  it, 
man  has  not  only  increased  greatly  in 
intelligence,  but  has  developed  those 
attributes  of  courage,  reliability,  loy- 
alty, and  mutual  helpfulness  which 
make  for  social  solidarity  and  corpo- 
rate efficiency.  Gruesome  as  the  strug- 
gle for  existence  may  be  to  contem- 
plate, and  fraught  as  it  has  been  with 
pain  and  sorrow,  it  is  a  process  to 
which  the  race  is  largely  indebted  for 
its  congenital  improvement.  It  may 
be  that  it  is  an  unfortunate  method 
of  bringing  highly  endowed  creatures 
into  the  world,  but  it  is  Nature's  way. 
And  Nature  is  quite  indifferent  as  to 
whether  we  approve  it  or  not.  What 
Nature  is  interested  in,  to  speak  figu- 


ratively, is  success  in  the  struggle  for 
existence.  There  is  no  evidence  that 
she  cares  a  fig  for  progress;  only  so  far 
as  progress  increases  the  chances  of 
survival,  is  it  any  of  Nature's  concern. 
And  at  any  time  she  is  perfectly  ready 
to  undo  all  her  work,  and  to  reduce  a 
highly  complex  organism  to  the  most 
degenerate  of  creatures,  whenever  the 
conditions  favor  simplicity  of  organ- 
ization. Degeneration  from  a  highly 
evolved  state  has  occurred  time  after 
time  in  the  course  of  evolution,  and  the 
possession  of  a  complex  organization 
is  not  the  slightest  guaranty  of  further 
improvement,  or  even  of  a  secure  hold 
on  the  position  that  has  been  attained. 
There  are  many  forces  in  human 
society  which  make  for  degeneration, 
and  our  safety  lies  in,  clearly  recogniz- 
ing them.  Only  recently  is  the  civilized 
world  becoming  awakened  to  the  dele- 
terious influence  of  modern  warfare. 
Dr.  D.  S.  Jordan,  in  his  addresses  on 
the  *  Blood  of  the  Nation,'  and  the 
'Human  Harvest,'  has  set  forth  in  a 
clear  and  forcible  manner  the  sad  havoc 
which  war  has  played  in  eliminating 
the  best  of  the  human  breed.  In  times 
of  conflict,  the  men  of  manly  vigor, 
brains,  and  courage  go  to  the  front 
to  die  by  thousands  in  the  cause  of 
national  defense.  The  weak,  the  cow- 
ardly, the  mercenary,  the  degenerate, 
remain  behind,  to  multiply.  The  loss 
to  any  nation  resulting  from  the  con- 
tinual draining  away  of  its  best  blood 
can  scarcely  fail  to  weaken  it,  until  it 
may  eventually  fall  a  prey  to  the  en- 
croachments of  its  neighbors.  Jordan, 
following  several  historians  of  note, 
attributes  the  downfall  of  Greece  and 
Rome,  the  gradual  decay  of  Spain  and 
other  nations,  largely  to  this  reversal 
of  selection.  Whether  or  not  this  is  the 
principal  cause  of  decadence  in  the 
instances  cited,  it  is  very  probable  that 
the  continual  sapping  of  strength  con- 
sequent upon  the  sacrifice  of  hundreds 


304 


THE  DECADENCE  OF  HUMAN  HEREDITY 


of  thousands  of  their  best  men  has  been 
a  powerful  influence  in  undermining 
the  physical  and  mental  heredity  of 
these  nations. 

While  modern  civilized  warfare  is 
one  of  the  most  potent  agencies  for  the 
elimination  of  the  best  blood  and  the 
propagation  of  weaklings,  there  can  be 
little  doubt  that  this  influence  of  war 
is  limited  to  comparatively  recent 
times.  It  is  because  warfare  has  be- 
come civilized  that,  eugenically  consid- 
ered, it  is  such  a  powerful  influence 
for  race-deterioration.  Early  struggles 
were  wars  of  extermination  in  which 
the  unfit  had  little  chance.  The  Poly- 
nesians commonly  massacred  all  of  the 
conquered  tribe,  including  men,  wo- 
men, and  children.  The  same  practice 
was  common  among  the  primitive 
Australians,  the  natives  of  New  Guinea 
and  New  Zealand.  The  Kaffirs  and 
many  other  African  tribes  extermin- 
ated completely  the  peoples  whom  they 
conquered;  and  among  many  tribes  of 
North  American  Indians  such  wars 
of  extermination  were  frequent.  Wars 
of  extermination  among  the  more  civil- 
ized Egyptians,  Persians,  and  Hebrews 
were  by  no  means  rare.  Of  the  Amo- 
rites,  whom  Jehovah  delivered  into  the 
hands  of  his  chosen  people,  it  is  said  in 
Deuteronomy,  'And  we  took  all  his 
cities  at  that  time  .  .  .  utterly  destroy- 
ing the  men,  women,  and  children  of 
every  city.  But  all  the  cattle  and  the 
spoil  of  the  cities,  we  took  for  a  prey  to 
ourselves.'  And  in  the  campaigns  of 
Joshua  it  was  the  rule  that  the  men, 
women,  and  children  of  the  conquered 
cities  should  all  be  put  to  the  sword. 

When  complete  extermination  was 
not  practiced,  the  vanquished  were 
commonly  enslaved,  or  subjected  to 
such  conditions  that  they  languished  or 
eventually  died  out,  the  Hebrew  peo- 
ple forming  a  luminous  exception  to 
the  rule  in  their  persistence  through 
the  vicissitudes  of  conquest,  practical 


enslavement,  and  all  kinds  of  subse- 
quent persecution.  In  the  conflict 
among  primitive  societies  not  only  was 
the  best-endowed  individual  most  apt 
to  survive  in  the  hand-to-hand  encoun- 
ters which  were  tjien  in  vogue,  but  the 
groups  in  which  strength,  intelligence, 
organization,  and  mutual  service  were 
most  highly  developed,  would  easily 
triumph  over  groups  with  less  individ- 
ual efficiency  or  social  coherence.  The 
population  was  replenished  by  the  most 
efficient  members  of  society  instead  of 
the  weaklings,  so  that  the  influence  of 
primitive  conflict  stands  diametrically 
opposed  to  the  effect  of  modern  civil- 
ized warfare  upon  the  hereditary  en' 
dowment  of  the  race. 


in 

But  apart  from  conflict,  the  weak  in 
barbaric  times  had  little  chance  to  per- 
petuate their  defects.  Where  exogamy 
prevailed,  a  man  had  to  be  able  to  cap- 
ture a  wife  or  go  without  one,  and  in 
many  tribes  wives  were  only  to  be  won 
after  a  trial  of  strength  or  skill.  Among 
the  Chippewa  Indians,  says  Richard- 
son, *  any  one  may  challenge  another  to 
wrestle,  and  if  he  overcomes,  may  carry 
off  his  wife  as  a  prize.  The  bereaved 
husband  meets  his  loss  with  resignation, 
which  custom  prescribes  in  such  a  case, 
and  seeks  his  revenge  by  taking  the 
wife  of  another  man  weaker  than  him- 
self.' 

Among  many  primitive  peoples  it 
was  customary  to  eliminate  epileptics, 
idiots,  lunatics,  and  persons  afflicted 
with  incurable  ills;  and  the  practice  of 
putting  to  death  weak,  deformed,  and 
sickly  children  was  extremely  preva- 
lent. The  custom  among  the  Spartans 
of  raising  only  their  stronger  children 
will  occur  to  every  one;  even  Aristotle 
advocates  the  rule  that  nothing  imper- 
fect or  maimed  shall  be  brought  up. 
And  Plato,  who  elaborated  the  most 


THE  DECADENCE  OF  HUMAN  HEREDITY 


305 


rigid  eugenic  programme  ever  devised, 
recommends  that  the  children  of  the 
more  depraved,  and  such  others  as  are 
in  any  way  imperfect,  be  hidden  away 
in  some  secret  and  obscure  place. 

Eugenics  is  by  no  means  a  modern 
science.  Primitive  peoples  took  it 
much  more  seriously  and  practiced  it 
more  consistently  than  we  do  to-day. 
There  can  be  no  manner  of  doubt  that 
the  weak,  the  deformed,  the  foolish, 
the  insane  and  degenerate  of  all  kinds, 
have  a  much  greater  opportunity  to 
survive  and  propagate  their  defects 
than  they  commonly  had  among  prim- 
itive peoples. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  dwell  upon 
the  greatly  reduced  influence  of  nat- 
ural selection  that  has  been  brought 
about  by  the  advance  of  medicine  and 
surgery  and  the  knowledge  of  how  to 
check  and  control  many  epidemics  that 
formerly  decimated  the  human  race. 
Defects  of  eyesight,  hearing,  and  many 
other  qualities,  no  longer  entail  the  ex- 
tinction of  their  possessors.  Natural 
selection  still  operates  on  the  human 
species,  and  will  always  continue  to 
do  so,  but  our  medical  skill  and  our 
fostering  of  the  weak  greatly  reduce  its 
potency. 

When  we  compare  the  various  pre- 
sent influences  tending  to  improve  the 
human  breed  with  those  operative  in 
past  times,  the  prospect  seems  rather 
gloomy  for  the  future  of  the  human 
family.  We  no  longer  have  the  elimina- 
tion of  the  weak  through  tribal  strife, 
but  in  its  place  the  highly  deleteri- 
ous influence  of  modern  war,  which  has 
not  only  worked  incalculable  injury 
in  recent  centuries,  but  probably  has 
more  evil  in  store  for  us.  We  no  longer 
leave  the  weak  and  imperfect  infants 
to  perish,  but  do  everything  in  our 
power  to  rear  them,  and  then  give  them 
full  liberty  to  perpetuate  their  defects. 
Except  during  their  period  of  actual 
confinement  in  asylums,  no  restriction 

VOL.  114 -NO.  3 


is  generally  placed  on  the  multiplica- 
tion of  the  insane.  With  sixteen  excep- 
tions, there  are  no  states  in  the  union 
which  forbid  the  marriage  of  the  fee- 
ble-minded, and  while  other  states  re- 
gard such  marriages  as  void,  there  is 
no  penalty  incurred  either  by  the  con- 
tracting parties  or  by  the  person  who 
solemnizes  the  union,  and  consequently 
matings  among  the  feeble-minded  are 
of  common  occurrence.  In  only  fifteen 
states  is  there  any  prohibition  upon 
the  marriage  of  the  insane.  Only  in 
Indiana  and  in  Washington  is  there 
any  restriction  placed  upon  the  mar- 
riage of  confirmed  criminals.  There  are 
few  creatures  so  degenerate  but  that 
most  of  the  states  of  our  enlightened 
country  give  them  full  sanction  to 
perpetuate  their  impure  stock,  and  the 
conditions  in  most  European  countries 
in  this  respect  are  considerably  worse 
than  in  the  United  States.  Through 
ignorance,  indifference,  false  ideas  con- 
cerning *  personal  liberty,'  and  the  ab- 
sorption of  legislators  in  matters  of 
more  immediate  political  expediency, 
we  are  permitting  the  accumulation  of 
a  vicious  and  defective  heredity  which 
would  not  be  tolerated  among  most 
primitive  peoples. 


IV 

This  disappearance  of  most  of  the 
eugenic  influences  operative  in  the 
early  history  of  mankind  is  not  the 
worst  danger,  bad  as  it  is,  that  besets 
us.  Society,  as  at  present  organized, 
tends  to  withdraw  its  best  blood  from 
contributing  its  share  to  the  heritage 
of  the  next  generation.  While  it  is 
unjustifiable  to  estimate  the  eugenic 
worth  of  a  family  in  terms  of  wealth 
or  social  position,  and  while  what  are 
called  the  lower  ranks  of  society  often 
contain  its  best  blood,  the  classes  that 
have  become  distinguished  through 
their  culture  or  their  achievements 


306 


THE  DECADENCE  OF  HUMAN  HEREDITY 


M 

certainly  have  a  hereditary  endow- 
ment considerably  above  the  average. 
Pearson  has  shown  that  mental  ability 
is  inherited  to  about  the  same  degree  as 
various  physical  characteristics.  This 
fact  combined  with  the  important 
conclusion,  also  established  by  Pearson, 
that  less  than  twenty-five  per  cent  of 
the  married  couples,  or  from  one  sixth 
to  one  eighth  of  the  total  population, 
produce  over  fifty  per  cent  of  the  next 
generation,  shows  how  very  important 
it  is  that  this  one  sixth  or  one  eighth 
should  be  drawn  from  the  better  ele- 
ment of  society.  If  the  population  is  re- 
cruited even  a  little  more  from  the  less 
desirable  individuals  in  each  genera- 
tion, it  will  not  take  many  generations 
for  the  bad  stock  to  replace  the  good. 

It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  the  edu- 
cated classes,  represented  by  such  pro- 
fessions as  lawyers,  clergymen,  doctors, 
and  professors,  as  a  rule  marry  late 
and  produce  few  children,  whereas  the 
feeble-minded,  the  shiftless,  and  the 
imprudent  usually  have  a  birth-rate 
far  above  the  average.  Graduates  from 
our  colleges  and  universities  have  as 
a  general  rule  scarcely  enough  child- 
ren to  perpetuate  their  families.  The 
average  number  of  children  of  the 
graduates  of  Harvard  is  less  than  two, 
and  the  record  of  Yale  is  no  better 
than  this.  The  showing  of  various 
other  colleges  and  universities  is  but 
little  better. 

Judging  from  the  statistics  avail- 
able on  the  subject,  education  is  prov- 
ing a  formidable  obstacle  to  eugenic 
progress.  The  one  redeeming  feature 
about  it  is  that  as  students  are  sent 
to  colleges  and  universities  in  ever-in- 
creasing proportions  to  the  population, 
those  who  are  selected  for  higher  edu- 
cation are  coming  to  be  less  representa- 
tive of  the  best  brains  of  the  country. 
It  is  a  common  opinion  that  the  general 
quality  of  our  undergraduates  is  dete- 
riorating, but  if  this  be  true  the  rea- 


sons may  be  found  in  various  influences 
other  than  eugenic  factors. 

Still,  the  fact  that  the  college  com- 
munities include  so  many  of  the  off- 
spring of  people  of  exceptional  talent 
and  achievement  is  a  circumstance  that 
is  continually  depriving  the  race  of  its 
best  blood.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  under  our  present  regime  the  more 
intellectual  families  are  rapidly  disap- 
pearing. It  is  from  mediocrity  and 
from  the  levels  below  mediocrity  that 
the  population  is  replenished.  The  dan- 
ger of  degeneration  from  this  fact  is  all 
the  greater  because  the  evil  is  insidious 
and  unobtrusive.  If  society  could  be 
brought  to  realize  how  enormous  may 
be  the  loss  entailed  by  the  gradual  ex- 
tinction of  those  families  which  furnish 
the  intellectual  leaders  of  the  race,  it 
would  bestir  itself  with  a  great  deal 
more  vigor  to  provide  a  remedy  for  the 
situation. 

Society  may  accomplish  much  by 
checking  the  multiplication  of  the 
feeble-minded,  the  criminals,  and  the 
insane;  but  how  to  keep  from  being 
swallowed  up  in  the  fecundity  of  med- 
iocrity is  a  much  more  difficult  prob- 
lem. We  can  get  along  with  a  small 
percentage  of  the  mentally  and  mor- 
ally defective  much  better  than  we  can 
afford  to  lose  the  priceless  blood  that 
gives  us  our  great  men. 


I  have  indicated  some  of  the  causes 
which,  so  far  as  can  be  judged,  have 
been  and  are  making  for  the  deteriora- 
tion of  the  race.  It  may  be  asked,  how- 
ever: Is  it  known  as  a  matter  of  fact 
that  the  race  is  deteriorating?  Can  it 
be  proved  by  statistics  that  the  race  is 
really  on  the  down  grade? 

At  the  present  time  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  the  actual  statistical  proof 
of  race-deterioration  is  very  incom- 
plete. We  simply  do  not  have  the  sta- 


THE  DECADENCE  OF  HUMAN  HEREDITY 


307 


tistics  to  show  whether  our  inheritance 
has  improved  or  deteriorated.  But 
from  our  knowledge  of  the  evolution- 
ary factors  at  work  in  human  society 
it  is  scarcely  possible  to  avoid  the  con- 
clusion that  a  certain  amount  of  deca- 
dence is  inevitable.  We  know  that 
mental  and  moral  defects  are  inherited; 
we  know  that  the  stocks  with  a  record 
of  intellectual  achievement  are  multi- 
plying with  relative  and  increasing 
slowness;  we  know  that  the  physically 
and  mentally  unfit  reproduce  more 
rapidly  than  under  the  conditions  of 
more  primitive  civilization,  and  that 
their  progeny  are  fostered  and  allowed 
to  continue  their  defects.  Amid  all  the 
influences  tending  to  lessen  the  fertility 
of  the  more  desirable  classes  of  human 
beings  there  is  scarcely  any  factor, 
beyond  a  relatively  feeble  remnant  of 
natural  selection,  which  is  working  for 
the  perpetuation  of  the  best  blood. 

With  our  present  statistics  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  disentangle  the  effects  of  envi- 
ronment from  the  effects  of  a  vitiated 
inheritance.  In  the  United  States  there 
has  been  during  several  decades  a  gen- 
eral increase  in  crime.  How  much  this 
is  to  be  attributed  to  immigration  and 
changed  environmental  conditions  it 
is  impossible  to  say.  Crime  in  Europe 
is  also  on  the  increase,  but  here  again 
we  cannot  estimate  the  relative  roles  of 
hereditary  and  environmental  factors. 
It  is  the  same  with  insanity.  Dur- 
ing the  thirteen  years  before  1903  the 
insane  in  institutions  in  the  United 
States  increased  100  per  cent,  while  the 
population  as  a  whole  increased  30  per 
cent.  Since  1859  the  insane  in  Eng- 
land and  Wales  have  increased  over 
230  per  cent  while  the  general  popula- 
tion has  increased  77  per  cent.  Of 
these  insane,  47,000,  over  one  third, 
were  married. 

This  increase,  which  may  be  paral- 
leled by  statistics  from  other  countries, 
may  be  due  in  part  to  the  fact  that  a 


relatively  larger  part  of  the  insane  are 
put  into  asylums;  it  may  be  due  in  part 
to  changed  conditions  of  social  and 
economic  life;  but  our  rapidly  accumu- 
lating knowledge  of  the  heredity  of 
insanity  makes  it  probable  —  and  we 
can  only  say  probable  —  that  much  of 
it  is  due  to  an  increase  of  hereditary 
defects.  That  our  knowledge  of  the 
subject  is  just  emerging  from  a  chaotic 
state  is  evinced  by  the  statement  of 
Kraepelin,  one  of  the  very  highest  au- 
thorities, in  the  seventh  edition  of  his 
Psychiatric,  that  'we  must  regard  the 
statistics  of  heredity  in  insanity  mere- 
ly as  facts  of  experience  without  find- 
ing in  them  the  expression  of  a  law 
which  should  hold  in  every  case.'  In 
the  past  few  years  certain  forms  of 
insanity  have  been  found  to  follow  a 
very  definite  law  in  their  hereditary 
transmission.  Through  the  careful  in- 
vestigation of  a  number  of  family  re- 
cords in  England  and  in  America  it  has 
been  established  that  insanity  is  fre- 
quently inherited  in  Mendelian  fash- 
ion, and  that  where  there  are  no  in- 
sane among  the  near  relatives  of  the 
afflicted  person,  there  are  usually  neu- 
ropathic tendencies  which  manifest 
themselves  in  nervous  disorders.  When 
neuropathic  mates  with  neuropathic 
the  result  is  a  fearful  harvest  of  neu- 
ropathic offspring. 

The  studies  of  Goddard  on  the  he- 
redity of  feeble-mindedness,  —  and 
feeblemindedness  is  on  the  increase  in 
England  and  America,  —  and  those  of 
Davenport  and  Weeks  on  the  inheri- 
tance of  epilepsy,  have  shown  that  the 
same  kind  of  transmission  prevails  in 
these  cases.  Dr.  Wilmarth,  on  the  basis 
of  his  observations  of  families  of  the 
feeble-minded,  estimates  '  that  at  least 
two  thirds  of  the  feeble-minded  have 
defective  relations.' 

It  is  possible  to  object  that  the  in- 
crease in  insanity  and  feeble-minded- 
ness  during  recent  decades  may  not 


308 


THE  DECADENCE  OP  HUMAN  HEREDITY 


mean  increasing  pollution  of  human 
blood;  but  since  the  traits  mentioned 
are  so  strongly  inherited,  and  those 
possessing  them  are  allowed  to  multi- 
ply with  so  little  restriction,  it  seems 
very  probable  that  we  are  having  a 
gradual  accumulation  of  a  vitiated  he- 
redity. Whether  the  hereditary  defect- 
ives are  increasing  or  not,  we  do  not 
want  them;  and  the  duty  of  society  to 

PRIMITIVE  MAN 

Natural  Selection,  actively  operating. 

Sexual  Selection,  frequently  working  for  race- 
improvement. 

Elimination  of  defectives. 

War  tending  to  the  multiplication  of  the  best 
stock. 

Relative  fecundity  of  best  endowed. 

All  along  the  line  the  eugenic  factors 
were  more  potent  in  primitive  than  in 
civilized  man.  Not  only  are  the  forces 
working  for  race-improvement  becom- 
ing weaker  as  civilization  advances, 
but  as  a  result  of  civilization  there  have 
arisen  tendencies  which  operate  strong- 
ly against  the  weakened  forces  of  eugen- 
ic progress.  About  all  we  have  left  to 
counteract  these  untoward  agencies  is 
a  very  uncertain  measure  of  sexual  se- 
lection and  the  remnant  of  natural  se- 
lection which  medical  science  has  not 
succeeded  in  disposing  of. 

What  it  is  feasible  to  do  to  remedy 
this  unfortunate  situation  is  one  of  the 
most  important  of  the  problems  that 
confront  the  human  race.  My  aim  in 
the  present  article,  however,  is  diag- 


check  their  multiplication  by  all  safe 
and  humane  means  is  perfectly  plain. 
In  order  to  estimate  the  probable 
trend  of  human  evolution  it  may  be 
instructive  to  represent  in  tabular  form 
the  various  influences  tending  to  mod- 
ify our  racial  inheritance  at  the  pre- 
sent time  as  compared  with  those  af- 
fecting mankind  in  the  earlier  stages 
of  its  evolution. 

CIVILIZED  MAN 

Natural  Selection,  reduced  in  intensity. 
Sexual  Selection,  of  doubtful  eugenic  value. 
Preservation  of  defectives. 
War  tending  to  elimination  of  the  best  stock. 
Relative  sterility  of  best  endowed. 


nosis  rather  than  the  prescription  of 
remedies.  Nevertheless,  I  cannot  re- 
frain from  pointing  out  that  there  is 
one  measure,  the  prevention  of  the 
multiplication  of  the  defective  classes, 
which  is  so  obvious  a  duty  and  so  fea- 
sible a  project  that  the  continuation 
of  our  present  laissez-faire  policy  is 
nothing  short  of  a  crime  to  society. 
The  removal  of  the  pollution  of  human 
inheritance  that  comes  from  the  worst 
one  or  two  per  cent  of  its  stock  would, 
in  a  few  generations,  go  a  very  long 
way  toward  reducing  the  numbers  in 
our  insane  asylums,  poorhouses,  and 
jails.  This  much  in  the  way  of  eugenic 
reform  can  easily  be  accomplished. 
The  other  aspects  of  the  problem  are 
matters  for  further  reflection. 


OKHOY  BABU'S  ADVENTURE 


BY   CHARLES   JOHNSTON 


'YouR  HONOR!'  Okhoy  Babu  inter- 
rupted, with  that  oily  smile  of  his,  'I 
request  an  adjournment  of  the  court,  if 
your  Honor  pleases!  I  have  just  heard 
of  important  new  evidence  in  this 
case ! ' 

Indranath  Babu,  my  chief  clerk,  be- 
gan to  frown  and  cluck  with  his  tongue. 
He  was  long-nosed  and  very  dark,  with 
a  face  like  a  wise  bird;  a  fine  fellow 
for  all  his  ugliness,  and  to  be  trusted. 
He  had  that  trick  of  clucking,  like  an 
offended  wren,  when  things  were  go- 
ing awry,  and  I  had  learned  to  watch 
for  it. 

So  Indranath  Babu  clucked  and 
frowned,  and  Okhoy  Babu  stood  expec- 
tant, with  his  fat  smile  that  was  at 
once  servile  and  cynical.  I  did  not  like 
Okhoy  Babu,  but  that  was  hardly  a 
ground  for  refusing  an  adjournment. 

It  was  one  of  those  bloodthirsty 
boundary  disputes  that  every  now  and 
then  come  in  from  the  outlying  villa- 
ges. Hari  Dass  and  Kishto  Dass  had 
fallen  out  about  a  field  and  had  clubbed 
each  other  so  vigorously  with  bamboos 
that  I  had  been  called  out  at  two  in  the 
morning  to  take  their  dying  deposi- 
tions ;Osho  tosh  Babu,  the  subdivision- 
al  surgeon,  meanwhile  stirring  them  up 
with  strong  spirits  of  ammonia.  They 
Were  not  yet  dead,  however,  and  might 
pull  through,  so  the  police  and  I  had 
gathered  in  an  armful  of  their  club-men, 
and  I  was  trying  to  get  at  the  rights  of 
the  story  in  my  dingy  little  court. 

I  was  tired,  after  a  long  and  irritat- 


ing morning  which  had  included  a  veri- 
fication of  the  subdivisional  stock  of 
stamps  —  soaked  together  into  slabs 
during  the  rains  —  and  the  dispensing 
of  enough  opium  and  hashish  to  demor- 
alize a  city.  Further,  it  was  tiffin  time. 
So  I  ignored  the  clucking  of  Indranath 
Babu,  in  spite  of  ripe  experience. 

'How  long  do  you  want,  Babu?' 

'  I  shall  be  ready  to  go  on  later  in  the 
afternoon,  your  Honor!  An  hour  or 
two,  not  more!' 

'Three  o'clock?' 

'Very  good,  your  Honor!' 

So  the  court  adjourned  and  went  to 
tiffin,  while  Indranath  Babu  frowned 
and  gathered  up  the  papers  of  the  case. 

I  inhabited  a  funny  little  Board-of- 
Works  bungalow  close  to  the  court- 
house, and  lunched  in  the  half-dark- 
ness of  the  central  room  to  escape  the 
midday  glare.  Poonaswamy  of  the 
crimson  turban  fed  me  indifferent  well 
on  local  moorghee,  —  which  is  to  say, 
chicken, — with  curried  rice  and  vege- 
tables from  the  bazaar.  That  was 
according  to  precedent.  But  Okhoy 
Babu  added  a  diversion.  4 

With  a  dashing  carelessness  I  would 
not  have  believed  him  capable  of,  he 
came  across  the  grass  with  a  troop  of 
witnesses  and  squatted  down  under  a 
tree  not  twenty  yards  off  in  a  ring  of 
purple  shade,  and  began  one  of  those 
little  rehearsals  which  do  so  much  for 
an  effective  case  in  court. 

It  was  rather  like  an  open-air  Sun- 
day-school, Okhoy  Babu  reciting,  and 
his  witnesses  repeating  in  chorus— that 
came  to  me  as  a  murmur  across  the 

309 


310 


OKHOY  BABU'S  ADVENTURE 


grass.  I  realized  now  why  that  offend- 
ed wren,  Indranath  Babu,  had  clucked 
and  frowned. 

After  a  while  the  Babu  and  his  schol- 
ars trooped  away  again,  letter-perfect 
by  this  time.  I  rolled  a  cigarette  and 
smoked  in  the  coolest  of  the  verandas, 
and  schemed  the  undoing  of  Okhoy 
Babu. 

Three  o'clock  came.  I  took  my  seat 
in  court.  Indranath  Babu  had  the  case 
called .  An  old  gray-beard  testified  first ; 
Okhoy  Babu  was  careful  of  precedence. 
Among  other  things,  the  gray-beard 
said,  — 

'I  know  that  the  field  belonged  to 
Hari  Dass,  because  I  was  present  when 
his  father  planted  a  tree  in  it.' 

Then  Okhoy  Babu  called  a  middle- 
aged  man,  who,  among  other  testimony, 
declared,  — 

'  I  know  the  tree  which  the  father  of 
Hari  Dass  planted.  The  field  is  his/ 

Then  a  young  fellow  came,  swagger- 
ing, and  grinned  familiarly  at  the 
court.  He  said,  — 

'When  I  was  a  boy,  I  often  climbed 
in  the  tree  which  was  planted  by  the 
father  of  Hari  Dass.  Hari  Dass  caught 
me  and  beat  me.  So  I  know  the  field  is 
his.'  I 

Something  flashed  through  my  mind : 
the  Elders  and  Susanna.  —  'A  Daniel 
come  to  judgment!'  —  Okhoy  Babu, 
you  once  attended  missionary  school, 
but  I  don't  believe  you  read  the  apoc- 
ryphal books !  At  any  rate  it  was  worth 
trying. 

So  I  stopped  Okhoy  Babu  in  mid- 
career,  and  had  my  court  policeman 
gather  all  those  witnesses  into  my  pri- 
vate room,  with  strict  orders  to  let  no 
one  else  in.  Okhoy  Babu  was  puzzled 
but  smiled  energetically.  Indranath 
Babu,  scenting  fun,  suspended  his  om- 
inous clucking,  but  his  brow  was  still 
furrowed. 

I  had  the  elderly  party  brought  back 
first. 


'You  were  present  when  the  father 
of  Hari  Dass  planted  a  tree  in  his 
field?' 

'I  was  present,  your  Honor!'  an- 
swered the  elderly  party,  glancing  round 
toward  his  counsel. 

'Do  not  look  at  the  Babu!  Look  at 
me! '  I  held  his  eye.  'What  kind  of  a 
tree  was  it?' 

The  elderly  party  blinked,  cleared 
his  throat,  and  finally  said, — 

'  It  was  a  —  cocoanut  tree,  your 
Honor!' 

Okhoy  Babu  began  to  wriggle  round 
toward  the  door  of  my  room. 

'Please  remain  where  you  are,  Babu! 
The  witnesses  are  quite  safe!' 

'  Yes,  your  Honor ! '  and  Okhoy  Ba- 
bu smiled  a  large  but  rueful  smile. 

Then  I  told  my  policeman  to  admit 
the  middle-aged  man. 

'You  remember  the  tree  which  the 
father  of  Hari  Dass  planted  ? ' 

'  I  remember  it  very  well,  your  Hon- 
or!'  and,  curiously  enough,  he  too  look- 
ed round  to  Okhoy  Babu. 

'Never  mind  the  Babu.  Turn  to- 
ward me.  What  sort  of  tree  was  it?' 

He  too  winced  and  pursed  his  lips. 

'It  was  a — date-palm,  your  Hon- 
or!' 

Okhoy  Babu's  face  was  worth  watch- 
ing. Indranath  Babu's  brow  was 
smooth  and  in  his  eyes  was  a  look  of 
deep  content. 

I  had  the  young  fellow  in. 

'You  climbed  the  tree  in  the  field  of 
Hari  Dass,  and  Hari  Dass  caught  you 
and  beat  you?' 

'Yes,  your  Worship!' 

'What  kind  of  tree  was  it?' 

He  brazened  it  out;  did  not  look 
round  at  Okhoy  Babu  but  said  boldly, — 

'  A  jack  tree,  your  Worship ! ' — which 
is  a  kind  of  bread-fruit,  with  green, 
hedge-hog  fruits  as  big  as  your  head. 

By  this  time  Okhoy  Babu  was  on 
thorns. 

From  the  remaining  witnesses,  I  col- 


OKHOY  BABU'S  ADVENTURE 


311 


lected  a  few  more  kinds  of  tree.  Then 
I  called  my  policeman :  - 

*  Constable!  Take  these  witnesses 
back  into  my  room  and  keep  them!' 
Then  to  Indranath  Babu:  — 

'Babu,  please  make  out  warrants  for 
perjury  against  all  these  witnesses; 
and  as  for  you,  Okhoy  Babu  — ' 

But  Okhoy  Babu  was  gone.  A  cloud 
of  dust  whirling  down  the  road  to  the 
bazaar  indicated  his  line  of  motion. 

I  watched  him  through  the  unglazed 
window,  considered  a  while,  and  decid- 
ed not  to  decide.  I  was  well  content  to 
lose  Okhoy  Babu,  for  all  the  clucking 
of  my  chief  clerk. 

n 

That  was  late  in  October.  A  month 
later  I  was  in  camp,  on  the  western  bor- 
der of  the  subdivision.  I  had  been  go- 
ing over  the  wage-books  of  the  village 
watchmen,  examining  the  nice,  oily  lit- 
tle chaps  in  the  school,  hearing  them 
do  Euclid  in  Bengali,  and  trying  to 
hold  a  Local  Board  election,  where  the 
free  and  independent  voters  had  evi- 
dently got  their  instructions  from  their 
landlord,  the  local  zemindar,  and  voted 
for  him  with  meek  unanimity.  Great 
are  democratic  institutions  in  a  land 
like  India! 

Evening  had  come,  and  I  had  made 
arrangments  to  return  to  Berhampore 
by  palki,  to  arrive  the  next  forenoon. 
Poonaswamy  of  the  red  turban  had  fed 
me  on  wooden-flavored  moorghee  and 
tiny  potatoes,  with  really  good  coffee 
and  a  cigarette,  and  I  was  ready  to 

go. 

The  palki-bearers  were  standing 
about,  whispering  and  laughing;  big, 
stalwart  chaps,  grayish-yellow  in  color, 
with  large  cheek-bones  and  huge 
hands  and  feet.  There  was  evidently  a 
lot  of  Santal  blood  in  that  part  of  the 
subdivision. 

An  awkward  thing  to  get  into,  a  pal- 


ki.  You  have  to  sit  down  on  the  ground 
and  crawl  in,  and  when  in,  you  must 
lie  down;  there  isn't  room  to  sit  up 
without  bumping  your  head.  Just  a 
long  box  with  a  sliding  side-door,  and 
swung  on  two  long  bamboos;  comfort- 
able enough,  though,  to  sleep  in. 

So,  feeling  decidedly  self-conscious, 
I  sat  me  on  mother  earth,  and  crawled 
sideways  into  my  box. 

'All  ready!  To  Berhampore!' 

It  was  one  of  those  lovely  evenings 
that  the  beginning  of  the  cold  season 
brings,  not  too  warm,  and  scented  like 
a  garden.  My  bearers  swung  the  palki 
up  on  their  shoulders  and  pattered  off 
barefoot  in  the  dust,  chanting  a  jig-jog 
song  that  Kipling  renders, '  Let  us  take 
and  heave  him  over!  Let  us  take  and 
heave  him  over.' 

We  took  a  short  cut  across  the  wide 
rice-fields  and  by  the  edge  of  a  bit  of 
forest.  There  were  huge  trees,  their 
boughs  twisted  together,  and  hung  with 
masses  of  a  kind  of  wild  cucumber 
whose  tendrils  were  like  enormous 
skeins  of  yellow  floss  silk,  with  here  and 
there  a  scarlet  fruit  hanging  down,  like 
a  huge  Easter-egg.  A  fine  wildness 
about  it  all. 

'Let  us  take  and  heave  him  over! 
Let  us  take  and  heave  him  over ! ' 

They  could,  too,  with  the  greatest 
ease .  Here  am  I,  twenty  or  thirty  miles 
from  the  nearest  man  of  white  race, 
absolutely  defenseless,  unarmed,  amid 
three  hundred  thousand  natives,  ac- 
cording to  the  last  census,  who  might 
easily  enough  have  a  grudge  to  wreak; 
but  I  am  trusting  myself  to  their  ten- 
der mercies  in  complete  confidence.  I 
suppose  a  Deputy  Magistrate  could 
not  disappear  without  some  stir!  The 
paternal  government  would  look  him 
up.  ...  Might  not  do  him  much  good, 
though.  .  .  .  However  .  .  . 

At  this  point  I  went  to  sleep.  .  .  . 
Something  very  soothing  about  the 
jog-jog  of  a  palki  and  that  'heave- 


312 


OKHOY  BABU'S  ADVENTURE 


him-over '  song  and  the  patter  of  bare 
feet  on  the  earth.  .  .  . 

Once,  during  the  night,  I  was  wak- 
ened by  the  wild,  diabolic  yelling  of 
jackals,  an  inferno  broken  loose  in  the 
midnight  jungle.  Something  startling 
and  hair-raising  about  jackals;  they  be- 
gin so  unexpectedly.  ...  But  I  rolled 
over  and  went  to  sleep  again,  with  the 
patter-patter  in  my  ears. 

Then  we  came  to  a  stop,  and  there 
was  some  kind  of  a  row  among  the  pal- 
ki-bearers.  That  wakened  me  again.  I 
pulled  open  the  sliding-door,  and,  in  the 
curt  phrase  of  Anglo-India,  said,  — 

'Shut  up,  dogs,  and  let  me  sleep!' 

They  did,  and  I  slept  —  till  morning 
this  time,  waking  when  it  was  full  sun- 
light, with  the  expectation  of  recog- 
nizing the  Berhampore  landmarks  by 
the  roadside. 

One  thing  intrigued  me:  we  seemed 
to  be  jolting  uphill.  But  theVe  is  n't  a 
hill  within  thirty  miles  of  Berhampore, 
or  anywhere  in  the  delta;  not  even  a 
mound  as  big  as  an  ant-hill.  So  I  slid 
the  door  open  to  see. 

*  Where  the  mischief — ?' 

We  were  in  thick  jungle,  a  hillside 
apparently,  with  a  kind  of  cattle-track 
running  up  it,  under  huge,  matted  trees 
laced  together  with  creepers  like  tan- 
gled skeins  of  yarn  thrown  over  the 
branches.  A  kind  of  green  gloom,  and 
a  fresh  coolness  in  the  air. 

I  shouted  to  the  bearers  to  stop. 
They  stopped,  and  I  crawled  out,  in  the 
wormlike,  undignified  fashion  insepar- 
able from  palkis,  and  repeated  my 
question :  — 

*  Where  the  mischief  are  we  ? ' 

I  repeated  my  question  in  English, 
chiefly  for  my  own  benefit,  in  Bengali, 
in  Hindustani.  The  bearers  only 
grinned  sheepishly  and  shook  their 
heads. 

.  I  was  very  angry  and  made  vigorous 
use  of  the  vocative  case  and  the  imper- 
ative mood.  I  might  as  well  have  spok- 


en in  pluperfect  subjunctives,  for  they 
evidently  did  not  understand  a  word. 

Like  the  harmattan  wind,  I  raged  my- 
self  out,  and  saw  that  it  was  perfectly 
useless  to  talk  to  these  gray-yellow 
dunderheads,  who  grinned  foolishly  at 
my  best  objurgations. 

I  began  to  realize  that  I  was  getting 
hungry.  Also,  I  wanted  a  smoke. 

Fortunately  this  last  want  was  easi- 
ly supplied.  I  had  the  makings  and 
matches.  So  I  sat  down  on  a  rock  - 
there  isn't  a  rock  in  Berhampore,  or  in 
all  the  delta,  for  that  matter  -  -  and  roll- 
ed and  lit  a  cigarette.  That  appealed 
to  those  yellow-gray  kidnappers.  They 
produced  tobacco  leaf  from  their  dingy 
shoulder-cloths,  a  knot  in  the  corner  of 
which  forms  a  Bengali  pocket,  and  be- 
gan to  roll  al  fresco  cigars.  They  even 
had  the  cheek  to  borrow  my  matches 

—  with  such   child-like   innocence  in 
their  eyes  that  I  gave  them.  So  we  all 
smoked,  out  there  in  the  jungle.  They 
were  very  respectful,  nay,  deferential, 
for  all  their  kidnapping,  and  if  I  had 
had  some  breakfast,  say  some  good 
coffee  and  rolls,  it  would  not  have  been 
half  bad .  But  I  was  beastly  hungry  and 
getting  hungrier.  What  had  become  of 
Poonaswamy  of  the  scarlet  turban,  I 
could  not  even  speculate  on. 

Finally  I  appealed  to  an  old  chap 
among  the  bearers  —  there  were  right 
of  them,  two  relays  —  who  had  crisp 
white  hair  on  his  head  and  jowl,  and  a 
mat  of  white  hair  on  his  chest.  I  said 
to  him  in  English,  — 

'Old  gentleman,  please  get  me  some 
breakfast ! ' 

He  shook  his  head  and  replied,  at 
great  length,  in  a  tongue  of  which  I  did 
not  know  a  word,  but  which  I  guessed 
to  be  the  San  tali  of  the  hills.  We  can 
see  them,  pale  blue  on  the  horizon, 
from  the  western  edge  of  the  subdivi- 
sion. As  we  were  palpably  among  hills, 

—  or  at  least  upon  one  hill;  you  could- 
n't see  much  of  anything,  because  of 


OKHOY  BABU'S  ADVENTURE 


313 


the  dense  jungle,-  -and  as  there  were 
n't  any  other  hills,  I  supposed  they 
must  be  the  ones.  So  the  old  gentle- 
man talked,  very  eloquently,  and  with 
gestures;  but  from  all  his  eloquence  no 
breakfast  supervened.  I  was  n't  even 
certain  that  he  was  talking  about 
breakfast,  but  I  was  quite  certain  that 
I  wanted  mine. 

So  I  fell  back  on  a  language  more 
practical  than  Esperanto  or  Volapuk 
—  I  opened  my  mouth  and  pointed 
down  my  throat.  That  evidently  went 
home.  The  old  gentleman's  face  lighted 
up,  he  smiled  luminqusly  and  pointed 
up  the  trail  through  the  forest.  Then 
he  pointed  to  the  sliding  door  of  the 
pal ki.  That  was  good  sense.  If  break- 
fast would  not  come  to  me,  I  must  go 
to  breakfast,  and  the  palki  was  the  on- 
ly way.  I  did  not  even  consider  walk- 
ing back  along  the  track  we  had  come, 
because  I  knew  that,  in  that  direction, 
breakfast  was  at  least  forty  miles  off, 
and  the  jungle  fairly  well  stocked  with 
big  game,  —  leopards,  tigers,  to  say 
nothing  of  snakes,  —  and  my  only 
weapons  were  a  box  of  matches  and  a 
pencil. 

So  I  sat  down  on  the  ground,  and 
slid  back  into  the  palki,  to  the  evident 
relief  of  my  bearers,  who  shouldered 
me  and  went  forward,  seemingly  much 
rejoiced  in  their  minds. 

About  noon  —  I  had  beguiled  the 
hours,  and  tried  to  beguile  my  appe- 
tite with  cigarettes  —  we  came  to  a 
clearing,  and  they  set  the  palki  down. 

A  horribly  undignified  way  to  make 
one's  entrance,  crawling  out  of  a  beast- 
ly box,  but  it  had  to  be  done.  A  crowd 
was  there  to  receive  us,  the  same  gray- 
yellow  folk  with  big  cheek-bones,  chief- 
ly adorned  with  peacock  feathers  stuck 
jauntily  in  their  hair;  and,  among  the 
leaf-mat  huts,  a  mob  of  women  and 
children. 

I  got  on  my  feet  and  looked  about. 
The  crowd  gathered  about  deferen- 


tially, saluting  by  bringing  their  fin- 
ger-tips up  to  their  foreheads  and  then 
stretching  out  their  arms,  as  if  they 
were  going  to  dive;  apparently  San  tali 
for  'Good  morning!' 

The  old  gentleman  from  among  my 
bearers  then  saluted  a  revered  old  per- 
son in  the  crowd,  and  made  a  little 
speech.  The  old  person  seemed  pleased. 
He  said  something  monosyllabic  and 
unintelligible  to  my  bearer  and  then 
stepped  forward,  and  said  to  me,  in 
fairly  good  Bengali,  — 

'  Incarnation  of  Virtue !  We  offer  you 
respectful  salutations ! ' 

I  replied  that  I  was  glad  of  it,  and 
asked, — 

*  Where  are  we?  Who  are  you?  And 
why,  in  the  name  of  Mahadeb,  have 
you  brought  me  here?' 

Here  is  his  astounding  reply,  just  as 
he  made  it :  — 

*  Umbrella  of  the  Poor!  This  is  a  vil- 
lage of  Men,  whom  the  Bengalis  call 
Santals.    We  have  a  Babu.    We  are 
going  to  kill  him,  and  we  wished  your 
Honor  to  be  present,  to  see!' 

'We  have  a  Babu,  and  we  are  going 
to  kill  him'  —  just  that.  It  took  my 
breath  away. 

Astonishment,  the  desire  to  gain 
time,  and  primitive  instinct,  worked 
together  in  my  reply:  — 

'That  is  all  very  well.  But  you  must 
not  kill  him  until  I  have  had  some 
breakfast.' 

So  they  fed  me,  under  the  village  fig 
tree:  india-rubber-like  moorghee,  with 
curried  vegetables,  and  the  finest  rice 
I  ever  tasted.  But  no  coffee,  and  I  par- 
ticularly wanted  coffee. 

As  I  ate,  the  dignified  elderly  person 
sat  beside  me,  very  affable  and  friendly. 
I  approached  the  question  obliquely :  — 

'How  does  it  come  that  you  speak 
such  good  Bengali?' 

My  speech  was  really  more  polite 
than  that.  These  Oriental  tongues 
have  shades. 


314 


OKHOY  -BABU'S  ADVENTURE 


'I  spent  ten  years  in  Berhampore,' 
he  replied  very  courteously,  'in  the 
Sudder  jail.  I  was  on  road-gang  work 
at  Kandi,  and  the  foreman  —  a  Ben- 
gali pig  —  hit  me,  so  I  killed  him.  The 
judge  asked  who  did  it,  and  I  of  course 
told  him,  so  I  was  sent  t.o  jail.  There 
I  learned  Bengali,  and,  because  of  my 
knowledge  of  English  law,  my  people 
have  elected  me  Headman.'  And  he 
smiled,  very  much  pleased  with  him- 
self. 

Yes;  English  law;  but  how  about  kill- 
ing babus?  I  put  it  a  little  less  direct- 
ly, but  it  amounted  to  that. 

He  said  that,  of  course,  this  was  dif- 
ferent. He  would  make  it  all  plain  after 
breakfast,  and  then  they  would  kill  the 
Babu.  Everything  should  be  done  in 
an  orderly  way. 

All  the  men  had  spears,  as  well  as 
their  jaunty  peacock-feathers.  I,  as  I 
have  said,  was  armed  with  a  lead  pencil ; 
not  even  a  fountain-pen.  If  it  came  to 
physical  force,  it  was  a  blue  look-out 
for  the  Babu.  Fine,  vigorous  men,  too; 
manly,  open  faces.  One  could  not 
browbeat  them,  as  if  they  were  Ben- 
galis. I  began  to  be  anxious  about  that 
Babu. 

After  breakfast,  a  cigarette.  I  drew 
it  out  as  long  as  possible  and  consider- 
ed. Oh,  Indranath  Babu,  why  are  you 
not  here,  to  warn  me  off  shoals  by  your 
clucking?  I  wish  you  were,  but,  since 
you  are  not,  I  must  go  it  alone. 

So,  my  cigarette  ended,  —  and  I  felt 
rather  like  a  condemned  man  with  his 
last  cigar,  at  the  end  of  which  the  pro- 
ceedings are  to  culminate,  we  all  went 
to  the  village  grove,  where  the  prisoner 
was  brought,  tightly  bound,  haggard, 
disheveled,  wild-eyed.  A  Bengali,  un- 
doubtedly, but  a  very  ill-used  Bengali, 
physically  speaking. 

Suddenly  I  caught  his  eye.  He  was 
making  signs.  I  went  over  to  him,  in 
the  midst  of  his  guard  of  sturdy  spear- 
men. 


He  half- whispered,  in  English,  - 

'  Sir !  Do  you  not  know  me  ? '  I  looked 
closer.  *I  am  Okhoy  Kumar  Ganguli, 
pleader  of  your  Honor's  court.' 

'Ah!  Okhoy  Babu!'  He  flashed  back 
into  my  memory,  as  he  had  disap- 
peared in  a  cloud  of  dust  down  the  vil- 
lage road,  on  the  day  of  the  perjury 
case.  With  equal  rapidity  it  flashed  in- 
to my  mind  that  if  I  wanted  to  get  the 
Babu  clear,  I  must  show  no  sign  of  ever 
having  seen  him  before.  So  I  shook  my 
head  and  turned  away  to  the  fine  old 
graduate  of  Berhampore  jail. 

We  took  our  seats  in  a  circle  in  the 
grove,  on  stools  of  wicker-work  shaped 
like  dice-boxes.  I  recognized  the  pat- 
tern. We  have  them  made  on  contract 
in  the  jail.  Evidently  the  old  headman 
had  brought  the  arts  back  with  him.  I 
sat  in  the  centre  of  a  half-circle,  made 
venerable,  I  hoped,  by  a  big  pith  hel- 
met. The  old  headman,  whose  name, 
I  believe,  was  Soondra  Manjee,  sat  at 
my  right  hand;  the  stalwart  men  with 
spears,  gaudy  in  their  peacock-feather 
crests,  completed  the  half-circle.  At 
its  focus  Okhoy  Babu  squatted  on  the 
earth,  with  a  knot  of  spear-men  about 
him.  He  was  tightly  bound  and  evi- 
dently galled  by  his  thongs.  I  pitied 
Okhoy  Babu.  It  remained  to  be  seen 
whether  I  should  not  very  soon  have 
even  better  cause. 

The  women  gathered  closer,  fine- 
looking,  some  of  them,  and  not  so  cowed 
and  abashed  as  Bengali  women.  Most 
of  them  had  flowers  in  their  hair.  They 
had  brass  bracelets  and  rings,  too,  and 
bright-colored  muslin  saris  —  a  long 
strip  of  cloth,  draped  into  a  skirt  and 
bodice,  that  showed  their  fine,  grace- 
ful, upstanding  figures  admirably. 

But  Okhoy  Babu  was  not  thinking 
of  feminine  beauty  or  adornments  of 
Ashoka  flowers, —  at  least,  his  face  did 
not  suggest  it.  It  was  grim  earnest 
with  him.  I  would  do  my  best  for 
Okhoy  Babu,  but  I  had  my  doubts. 


OKHOY  BABU'S  ADVENTURE 


315 


We  opened  the  proceedings.  The  old 
gentleman  stood  up  and  made  a  little 
speech  in  Santali.  I  guessed  the  sub- 
ject :  their  exceeding  good-luck  in  hav- 
ing caught  a  magistrate,  albeit  a  very 
young  one,  whose  presence  would  reg- 
ularize their  proceedings.  I  knew  he 
was  talking  about  me,  as  every  one 
looked  in  my  direction  and  the  women 
smiled.  The  men  were  too  dignified 
for  that,  but  their  big,  childlike  eyes 
spoke. 

Then  old  Soondra  Manjee  turned  to 
me  and  said, — 

'Your  Honor,  we  are  ready/  in  his 
best  Bengali. 

Okhoy  Babu  winced  and  shrank  to- 
gether. Evidently  he  was  not  ready  at 
all. 

So,  as  severely  as  I  could,  I  asked,  — 

'Of  what  is  the  prisoner  guilty?' 

'Your  Honor!'  Okhoy  Babu  began, 
in  English.  That  would  be  fatal.  So  I 
said  to  him,  in  a  tone  that  evidently 
went  home,  - 

'Don't  talk  to  me,  you  thundering 
idiot,  if  you  wish  to  save  your  neck!' 

Okhoy  Babu  sighed  deeply,  but  had 
the  wisdom  to  shut  up. 

So  I  asked  again,  — 

'Of  what  is  the  prisoner  guilty?' 

'Your  Honor,'  said  the  fine  old  San- 
tali,  with  genuine  moral  indignation, 
'the  Babu  told  a  lie!  He  came  to  us, 
one  month  ago,  hungry  and  sick.  We 
sheltered  him  and  fed  him.  After  two 
days,  he  began  to  make  mischief!  There 
are  the  boundary  stones;  they  mark  the 
limit  of  our  territory  and  the  territory 
of  the  Bengalis.  This  Babu  told  us  he 
would  show  us  how  to  move  the  boun- 
dary stones  —  secretly,  in  the  night  — 
so  as  to  enlarge  our  lands  and  double 
the  size  of  our  rice-fields.  The  Babu  is 
a  cheat  and  a  liar,  so  we  are,  of  course, 
going  to  kill  him/ 

Oh,  tribe  of  honest  men !  I  like  those 
Santalis.  And  the  fine  Italian  hand  of 
my  Okhoy  Babu!  He  ran  like  a  hare  to 


escape  trial  for  perjury,  in  the  matter 
of  that  cocoanut,  date,  jack,  and  so-on 
tree  in  the  field  of  Hari  Dass,  and 
straightway  set  himself  to  seduce  the 
blameless  Santalis  and  lead  them  into 
guile. 

Babu,  for  two  or  three  minutes,  I  se- 
riously considered  saying, '  Let  the  law 
take  its  course!'  Perhaps  what  check- 
ed me  was  the  consideration  of  how 
you  would  squeal  while  you  were  being 
speared.  At  any  rate  British  legalism 
won  the  day,  and  I  determined  to  save 
you  for  a  more  regular  tribunal. 

How  to  do  it,  though?  I  thought  first 
of  trying  to  explain  the  English  law, 
making  clear  to  them  that  they  would 
be  guilty  of  murder  and  riot  and  da- 
coity  and  ever  so  many  things.  Then 
I  thought  of  asserting  the  right  of 
eminent  domain  over  the  Babu  —  of 
claiming  him  as  my  own  peculiar  prey. 
But  I  was  pretty  sure  they  would  ask, 
'Will  your  Honor  promise  to  kill  him?' 
And  various  considerations  would  pre- 
vent my  doing  that.  To  get  him  away 
by  strategy  just  entered  my  mind,  to 
leave  it  again  instantly.  I  could  not  risk 
having  these  honest  men  hand  down 
among  their  village  traditions,  that  they 
had  trusted  a  white  man  and  that  he 
had  cheated  them. 

Then  I  noticed  something  curious 
enough,  —  but  the  nature  of  woman  is 
inscrutable. 

A  singularly  pretty  girl,  light-color- 
ed, with  pretty  eyes  and  quantities  of 
glossy  hair  decked  with  crimson  flow- 
ers, her  lithe,  graceful  young  body 
charmingly  set  off  by  the  sari  with  its 
pattern  of  rose-colored  twigs,  had  been 
edging  closer  to  Okhoy  Babu,  and  now, 
eluding  the  vigilance  of  the  guards,  she 
gave  him  a  cocoanut  shell  of  water, 
which  he  greedily  drank,  and,  —  oh, 
mysterious  feminine  heart !  —  she  was 
patting  his  cheek.  I  began  to  see  day- 
light. 

The  first  thing  was,  to  gain  time.  So 


316 


OKHOY  BABU'S  ADVENTURE 


I  made  a  quick  decision  and,  rising, 
said  in  my  best  Bengali,  — 

'The  Babu  is  evidently  a  wicked 
man,  and  deserving  of  death.  He  has 
lied,  and  he  has  advised  you  to  lie.  But 
to-day  is  the  seventh  day  of  the  moon ' 
—  fortunately  I  had  noticed  the  even- 
ing before —  'and  this  is,  therefore,  an 
inauspicious  day  for  you  to  put  the 
Babu  to  death/ 

That  was  true  enough.  Any  day 
would  be,  for  they  would  have  to  stand 
trial  for  murder,  and  very  possibly  hang 
for  it.  But  they  did  not  take  my  words 
in  that  sense.  Indeed,  they  looked  gen- 
uinely frightened.  They  were  chock- 
full  of  superstition,  and  they  had  near- 
ly killed  a  Babu  —  on  the  wrong  day! 
They  were  genuinely  glad  that  I  had 
come.  I  saw  that,  and  went  on  more 
confidently,  — 

'Not  before  the  tenth  day  will  the 
time  be  auspicious.  Therefore  let  the 
Babu  be  left  bound  in  a  hut,  with  none 
to  keep  him  company,  and  let  us  wait 
until  the  auspicious  day.  Meanwhile, 
if  the  village  wishes  to  hold  a  feast  in 
honor  of  the  Sahib,  the  Sahib  will  gra- 
ciously be  pleased  to  take  part  in  it.' 

The  joy,  the  feasting,  the  rice-wine 
generously  flowing,  the  wild  song  and 
dance  —  all  this  must  go  unrecorded. 
Babu  Okhoy  Kumar  Ganguli  was  not 
present  at  the  feast.  He  languished  in 
his  cell  —  that  is,  in  a  leaf  hut  at  the 
jungle-edge  of  the  village. 

That  night,  after  a  long  day's  revel- 
ry, the  village  slept  well.  All,  that  is, 


excepting  the  Deputy  Magistrate,  who 
kept  an  alert  ear,  and,  it  would  seem, 
that  pretty  girl  with  the  crimson  blos- 
soms in  her  hair.  Early  in  the  night, 
the  Deputy  Magistrate,  who  was  en- 
joying the  moonlight,  as  the  sentries 
snored  over  their  fires,  saw  a  lithe  fig- 
ure steal  over  to  the  prison-hut.  Then 
there  was  silence,  but  for  a  faint  sound 
of  rending  leaves;  then  the  Deputy 
Magistrate  went  to  his  own  hut,  for 
matches,  and  smoked  a  philosophic 
cigarette.  Then  he  went  to  sleep.  .  .  . 

Babu,  I  hope  you  have  good  legs  and 
wind,  for  an  hour  after  sunrise  your 
inexplicable  absence  was  discovered; 
the  absence,  too,  of  that  pretty  girl  with 
the  crimson  flowers  in  her  dark,  glossy 
hair.  I  hope  your  legs  and  your  wind 
are  good,  for,  ten  minutes  after  these 
discoveries,  forty  able-bodied  Santalis, 
whose  power  of  wind  and  limb  was 
unquestionable,  were  on  your  trail, 
armed  with  boar-spears.  And  I  think, 
that  if  they  caught  up  with  you,  they 
would  finish  you  without  benefit  of 
magistrate! 

Shortly  thereafter,  I  succeeded  in 
scraping  together  half-a-dozen  hoary- 
headed  men,  past  the  age  for  Babu-bait- 
ing,  who  consented  to  carry  my  palki, 
and,  with  sincere  regret,  I  bade  fare- 
well to  the  Santal  country;  regret,  in 
part,  for  that  I  had  in  fact  contributed 
to  deceive  these  honest  men  for  such  a 
one  as  Okhoy  Babu,  procurer  of  per- 
jury. But  not  for  the  sake  of  Okhoy; 
for  the  honor  of  the  law. 


NOSTALGIA 

BY  KATHARINE    FULLERTON   GEROULD 

I  HAVE  not  trod  those  burning  sands, 
I  have  not  plumbed  those  frozen  seas; 

My  palace  was  not  made  with  hands, 
My  sails  are  furled  from  every  breeze. 

I  sit  behind  a  curtained  pane 
And  gaze  into  a  village  street; 

Homeward,  at  eve,  return  again 
My  indolent,  untraveled  feet. 

But  in  the  books  you  bring  to  me, 
I  find  strange  places  that  I  knew: 

Cathay  or  Ind  or  Muscovy, 

The  Isles  of  Spice  or  Khatmandhu. 

I  close  my  eyes  and  call  it  back  — 

The  tedium  of  the  caravan, 
The  jackals  howling  on  our  track, 

The  wile  and  sloth  of  savage  man. 

My  homesickness  was  born  with  me 
Whom  the  ancestral  walls  enclose; 

But  it  is  nice  as  memory, 

And  chooses  only  what  it  knows. 

And  when  the  page  divines  aright, 

I  do  not  shrink  or  find  it  far; 
But  answer,  as  an  exile  might, 

*  That  is  my  home,  and  there  my  star ! ' 


UNION   PORTRAITS 


III.    WILLIAM  T.  SHERMAN 


BY   GAMALIEL   BRADFORD 


IT  is  curious  to  turn  from  the  study 
of  Thomas  to  the  study  of  Sherman. 
Thomas  instinctively  hides  himself.  To 
get  at  his  soul  you  have  to  watch  keen- 
ly, to  pick  up  fine  threads  of  self-revel- 
ation in  a  waste  of  conventional  formal- 
ity and  follow  their  light  tissue  with  the 
closest  care.  Sherman  turns  himself  in- 
side out  even  in  an  official  document. 
He  wore  his  coat  unbuttoned,  and  his 
heart  also;  exposed  its  inmost  lining  to 
all  the  winds  of  heaven  —  and  all  the 
eyes  of  curious  reporters,  whom  he  de- 
tested for  seeing  and  recording  what 
was  there  and  what  was  not.  This  per- 
petual exposure  is  almost  as  baffling 
as  Thomas's  concealment,  though  in 
another  fashion.  We  like  a  soul  to  be 
open,  and  clean,  and  wind-blown.  But 
I  am  not  sure  that  we  like  to  see  it  al- 
ways thrashing  on  the  clothes-line. 

*  Typically  American '  is  a  loose  term 
and  gets  looser  every  day.  But  Ropes 
and  many  others  have  applied  it  to 
Sherman,  and  with  singular  justice. 
Few  figures  of  the  war  have  more 
marked  American  characteristics  than 
he.  Lincoln  is  often  instanced.  But 
Lincoln  had  strange  depths,  even  yet 
unexplored,  which  do  not  seem  Amer- 
ican at  all.  Grant  was  too  quiet. 

Sherman  was  never  quiet,  physically 
or  mentally.  Like  so  many  Americans 
who  do  things,  he  had  not  robust 

318 


health.  In  1846,  on  his  way  to  Califor- 
nia, he  gave  up  smoking.  '  The  reason 
was,  it  hurt  my  breast.  .  .  .  The  habit 
shall  never  be  resumed.'  It  was  re- 
sumed, and  given  up  again,  and  invet- 
erate, as  the  hurt  was.  But  no  hurt 
made  flag  that  indefatigable,  unfalter- 
ing, resistless  energy.  *  Blessed  with  a 
vitality  that  only  yields  to  absolute 
death,'  he  says  of  himself.  Assuredly 
he  was  so  blessed.  One  who  did  not 
love  him  observed,  *  With  a  clear  idea  of 
what  he  wanted  and  an  unyielding  de- 
termination to  have  it,  he  made  himself 
and  everybody  around  him  uncomfort- 
able, till  his  demands  were  gratified.' 

His  character  was  written  all  over 
him.  The  tall,  spare,  wiry  figure,  the 
fine-featured,  wrinkle-netted  face,  ex- 
pressed the  man.  He  had  auburn  hair, 
and  one  lock  of  it  behind  would  stick 
straight  out  when  he  was  eager  or  ex- 
cited. I  never  think  of  Sherman  with- 
out seeing  that  lock. 

His  manner  was  even  more  expres- 
sive than  his  features.  He  was  always 
in  movement,  striding  up  and  down, 
when  he  talked,  if  possible;  if  not, 
moving  head,  or  hands,  or  feet.  When 
Horace  Porter  first  went  to  him 
from  Grant,  he  found  Sherman  in  his 
slippers,  reading  a  newspaper,  and  all 
through  the  conversation  the  news- 
paper was  frantically  twisted  and  one 
foot  was  in  and  out  of  its  slipper  perpet- 
ually. The  general's  talk  was  hurried, 


WILLIAM  T.  SHERMAN 


319 


vigorous,  incisive,  punctuated  with 
strange,  sharp,  and  uncouth  gestures. 
'  In  giving  his  instructions  and  orders,' 
says  one  acute  observer,  'he  will  take 
a  person  by  the  shoulder  and  push  him 
off  as  he  talks,  follow  him  to  the  door 
all  the  time  talking  and  urging  him 
away.  His  quick,  restless  manner  al- 
most invariably  results  in  the  confu- 
sion of  the  person  whom  he  is  thus  in- 
structing, but  Sherman  himself  never 
gets  confused.  At  the  same  time  he 
never  gets  composed.' 

As  he  was  American  in  look  and  man- 
ner, so  he  was  eminently  American  in 
the  movement  of  his  life.  He  himself 
writes,  'It  does  seem  that  nature  for 
some  wise  purpose  .  .  .  does  ordain 
that  man  shall  migrate,  clear  out  from 
the  place  of  his  birth.'  He  migrated,  at 
any  rate,  like  a  bird  or  the  thought  of 
a  poet.  Born  in  Ohio,  in  1820,  he  pass- 
ed apparently  a  tranquil  boyhood.  But 
with  youth  his  adventures  began .  From 
West  Point  he  went  to  Florida,  from 
Florida  to  South  Carolina.  Then  came 
California,  then  New  York,  then  New 
Orleans,  California  again,  New  York 
again,  St.  Louis,  and  again  New  Orle- 
ans. Remember  that  in  those  days  the 
journey  from  New  York  to  San  Fran- 
cisco was  like  a  journey  round  the 
world  at  present. 

Nor  was  all  this  divagation  merely 
military.  Sherman  was  soldier  only  in 
part.  At  other  times  he  was  banker, 
farmer,  lawyer,  president  of  a  railroad, 
president  of  a  college.  Only  heroic  self- 
restraint  saved  him  from  being  an  art- 
ist. 'I  have  great  love  for  painting  and 
find  that  sometimes  I  am  so  fascinated 
that  it  amounts  to  pain  to  lay  down  the 
brush,  placing  me  in  doubt  whether  I 
had  better  stop  now  before  it  swallows 
all  attention,  to  the  neglect  of  all  my 
duties,  discard  it  altogether,  or  keep 
on.  What  would  you  advise?'  Here  is 
the  first  and  last  time  he  ever  mentions 
painting. 


After  this  twenty  years'  Odyssey, 
just  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  he  gets 
a  spell  at  home  with  Penelope  and  the 
budding  Telemachus,  and  observes,  — 
with  a  sigh, — '  I  must  try  and  allay  this 
feeling  of  change  and  venture  that  has 
made  me  a  wanderer.  If  possible  I  will 
settle  down  —  fast  and  positive.' 

The  war  comes.  He  rides  and  rages 
through  Bull  Run,  Shiloh,  Vicksburg, 
Chattanooga,  like  a  comet  through 
Georgia  and  the  Carolinas,  to  the  high- 
est war  can  give  him,  and  to  peace. 
But  he  never  settles  down  —  never. 


II 

Some  men  whose  feet  are  thus  tire- 
lessly wandering,  tread  a  very  narrow 
region  in  their  minds,  just  as  others' 
minds  rove  widely  while  their  feet  are 
still.  With  Sherman  there  was  inces- 
sant movement  of  both  mind  and  body. 
He  had  the  busiest  imagination  in  all 
these  various  careers,  saw  all  possibili- 
ties of  chance  and  accident  and  en- 
deavored to  provide  for  them,  turned 
over  a  dozen  courses  of  action  before  he 
hit  the  one  that  would  answer  his  pur- 
pose best.  At  the  beginning  of  the  war 
others  tried  to  accomplish  full  results 
with  half  measures,  could  not  stretch 
prevision  to  the  scope  of  effort  neces- 
sary to  avert  the  immense  train  of  dam- 
age and  disaster.  Sherman  saw  and  fore- 
saw everything,  and  because  he  pre- 
dicted the  vastness  of  the  struggle  and 
demanded  means  adequate  to  meet  it, 
those  in  authority,  and  the  press  men 
whose  imagination  was  always  hugely 
busy  at  short  range,  decried  and  al- 
most displaced  him  as  a  sheer,  unbal- 
anced lunatic. 

All  through  the  war  this  acute  imag- 
ination of  military  possibility  and  ne- 
cessity marked  him  more  than  almost 
any  one.  Sometimes,  doubtless,  it  led 
him  to  curious  extremes,  as  in  his  ad- 
vice to  Sheridan  in  November,  1864: 


320 


WILLIAM  T.  SHERMAN 


*I  am  satisfied,  and  have  been  all  the 
time,  that  the  problem  of  the  war  con- 
sists in  the  awful  fact  that  the  present 
class  of  men  who  rule  the  South  must 
be  killed  outright  rather  than  in  the 
conquest  of  territory  .  .  .  therefore  I 
shall  expect  you  on  any  and  all  occa- 
sions to  make  bloody  results/ 

An  imagination  so  vivid  and  ener- 
getic has  its  dangers.  One  is  the  mis- 
representation of  fact,  especially  in  the 
past.  Perhaps  Sherman  was  careless  in 
this  matter.  His  attitude  is  partly  in- 
dicated in  his  remark  to  a  newspaper 
man  who  had  written  a  sketch  of  him: 
'You  make  more  than  a  dozen  mis- 
takes of  facts,  which  I  need  not  correct, 
as  I  don't  desire  my  biography  till  I 
am  dead.*  This  is  all  very  well,  but  if 
a  man  does  not  correct  his  biography 
while  living,  his  chance  of  doing  it  later 
is  limited. 

Sherman's  Memoirs  have  been  bit- 
terly attacked  on  the  score  of  inaccu- 
racy. 'His  story  is  often  widely  at  Vari- 
ance with  the  Official  Records,  and 
with  every  one's  recollection,  except 
his  own,'  says  Colonel  Stone;  and  Pro- 
fessor Royce  comments  thus  on  the 
Calif ornian  portion:  'In  fact,  not  only 
antecedent  probability,  but  sound  tes- 
timony, is  against  General  Sherman's 
memory,  a  memory  which,  for  the  rest, 
was  hardly  meant  by  the  Creator  for 
purely  historical  purposes,  genial  and 
amusing  though  its  productions  may 
be/ 

The  general's  remark  in  the  preface 
to  the  revised  edition  of  the  Memoirs  — 
revised  chiefly  by  the  printing  of  pro- 
tests in  an  appendix  —  is  most  happily 
characteristic.  I  am,  he  says  in  sub- 
stance, writing  my  own  memoirs,  not 
those  of  other  people. 

As  to  this  question  of  accuracy,  how- 
ever, it  is  essential  not  to  overlook  the 
testimony  of  Grant,  who  declared  that 
Sherman  was  thoroughly  accurate,  that 
he  always  kept  a  diary,  and  that  the 


Memoirs  were  founded  on  that  diary 
in  all  matters  of  fact. 

Another  serious  danger  of  a  too  act- 
ive imagination  is  that  it  may  go  far 
outside  the  province  that  belongs  to 
it.  This  was  certainly  the  tendency  of 
Sherman's.  Not  content  with  giving 
sleepless  hours  to  devising  all  sorts  of 
schemes  for  the  military  destruction  of 
the  enemy,  he  ranged  far  into  politics, 
conceived  and  ceaselessly  suggested 
measures  financial  and  political  which 
would  aid  in  bringing  about  the  mili- 
tary result.  Many  other  generals  had 
this  habit,  just  as  many  politicians  con- 
trived to  win  victories  in  a  back  cor- 
ner of  an  office;  but  few  whirled  out 
of  their  proper  sphere  with  such  break- 
neck velocity  as  Sherman.  He  was  al- 
ways delivering  huge  screeds  of  polit- 
ical comment,  oral  or  written,  to  the 
North,  to  the  South,  to  soldiers,  to 
civilians,  to  officials,  to  laymen. 

Hear  one  of  his  wildest  outbursts  on 
the  general  conduct  of  the  war.  *  To  se- 
cure the  safety  of  the  navigation  of  the 
Mississippi  River  I  would  slay  millions. 
On  that  point  I  am  not  only  insane,  but 
mad.  .  .  .  For  every  bullet  shot  at  a 
steam-boat,  I  would  shoot  a  thousand 
30-pounder  Parrotts  into  even  helpless 
towns  on  Red,  Ouachita,  Yazoo,  or 
wherever  a  boat  can  float  or  soldier 
march/  Do  you  wonder  that  some 
thought  the  general  a  little  unreli- 
able? 

Hear  him  again  on  the  deserts  of  the 
South.  'To  the  petulant  and  persist- 
ent secessionist,  why,  death  is  mercy, 
and  the  quicker  he  or  she  is  disposed  of, 
the  better.  Satan  and  the  rebel  saints 
of  Heaven  were  allowed  a  continued 
existence  in  hell  merely  to  swell  their 
just  punishment.  To  such  as  would  re- 
bel against  a  government  so  mild  and 
just  as  ours  was  in  peace,  a  punish- 
ment equal  would  not  be  unjust/ 

It  is  this  abstract  and  imaginative 
fury,  constantly  suggestive  of  the  doc- 


WILLIAM  T.  SHERMAN 


321 


trinaire  idealists  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution, which  makes  Sherman  appear 
decidedly  at  a  disadvantage  in  his  cor- 
respondence with  Hood  concerning  the 
treatment  of  Atlanta,  and  again  in 
his  correspondence  with  Hardee  before 
Savannah. 

As  to  details  of  policy  there  is  the 
same  fertility  of  suggestion,  the  same 
imperious  decisiveness.  Finance?  Are 
you  short  of  currency?  Use  cotton. 
Tie  it  up  in  neat  weighed  bales,  and  it 
will  at  least  be  better  than  your  Con- 
federate shinplasters.  The  draft?  The 
draft?  Certainly  enforce  the  draft. 
'Unless  you  enact  a  law  denying  all 
citizens  between  the  ages  of  18  and 
45  who  do  not  enlist  and  serve  three 
years  faithfully,  all  right  of  suffrage, 
or  to  hold  office  after  the  war  is  over, 
you  will  have  trouble.'  Niggers?  Now 
what  can  you  do  with  Niggers?  They 
are  not  fit  for  soldiers,  they  are  not  fit 
for  citizens,  they  are  just  fit  for  labor 
that  white  men  cannot  do.  *I  would 
not  if  I  could  abolish  or  modify  slav- 
ery/ he  wrote  in  December,  1859. 

The  influence  of  all  this  varied  think- 
ing was  doubled  by  a  really  demonic 
power  of  expression.  Sherman's  dis- 

I  patches  became  letters,  his  letters  pam- 
phlets. Some  accuse  him  of  loquacity. 
This  is  absurd.  His  style  is  vigorous, 
pointed,  energetic  as  his  person.  His 
abundance  of  words,  great  as  it  is,  is 
lame  and  impotent  to  the  hurry  of  his 
thought.  This  is  the  real  significance 
of  his  ludicrous  remark,  'I  am  not 
much  of  a  talker';  and  again,  'Excuse 
so  long  a  letter,  which  is  very  unusual 
from  me/  Not  much  of  a  talker!  Oh, 
ye  gods!  The  point  really  is  that  he 
talked  vastly  much,  but  he  could  have 
talked  vastly  more.  On  the  whole,  I  am 
glad  that  he  did  not. 

Those  at  whom  he  launched  these 
verbal  whirlwinds  did  not  always  ap- 
preciate them,  or  profit.  Men  thought 
he  talked  too  freely,  -  *  more  than  was 
VOL.114 -NO.  3 


proper/  was  the  opinion  of  the  judi- 
cious Villard.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
war  Halleck  gave  his  subordinate  a 
kind  and  helpful  caution,  warning  him 
that  his  use  of  his  tongue  was,  to  say 
the  least,  indiscreet.  What  is  most 
charming  in  this  connection  is  Sher- 
man's way  of  receiving  such  good  coun- 
sel. He  knows  the  danger.  He  will  do 
all  he  can  to  avoid  it.  'We  as  soldiers 
best  fulfill  our  parts  by  minding  our 
own  business,  and  I  will  try  to  do  that/ 
'I  will  try  and  hold  my  tongue  and 
pen  and  give  my  undivided  attention 
to  the  military  duties  devolving  on 
me/ 

He  might  as  well  have  tried  to  dam 
his  beloved  Mississippi.  Listen  to  the 
comment  of  one  excellent  observer  on 
the  general's  conversational  proclivi- 
ties: 'He  must  talk,  quick,  sharp,  and 
yet  not  harshly,  all  the  time  making 
his  odd  gestures,  which,  no  less  than 
the  intonation  of  his  voice,  serve  to  em- 
phasize his  language.  He  cannot  bear 
a  clog  upon  his  thoughts  nor  an  inter- 
ruption to  his  language.  He  admits  of 
no  opposition.  He  overrides  every- 
thing. He  never  hesitates  at  interrupt- 
ing any  one,  but  cannot  bear  to  be 
interrupted  himself/ 

The  most  striking  instance  of  Sher- 
man's talking  and  writing  tendency  to 
digress  into  politics  was  his  agreement 
with  Johnston  upon  terms  of  peace  at 
the  close  of  the  war.  In  his  zeal  to  car- 
ry out  his  ideas  of  the  public  good  the 
Union  commander  certainly  exceeded 
the  ordinary  limits  of  military  negotia- 
tion. It  is  equally  true  that  Stan  ton 
and  Halleck  were  unnecessarily  rough 
and  discourteous  in  disapproving  of 
his  arrangements.  Nevertheless,  their 
ill-judged  harshness  did  not  justify 
Sherman's  violent  outburst  to  his  own 
subordinate,  Logan.  'If  such  be  the 
welcome  the  East  gives  to  the  West, 
we  can  but  let  them  make  war  and  fight 
it  out  themselves/ 


322 


WILLIAM  T.  SHERMAN 


in 

What  I  have  written  so  far  must  not 
be  held  to  imply  that  Sherman  was  a 
dreamer,  a  mere  visionary,  who  lived 
in  the  clouds.  His  whole  career,  and 
his  immense  accomplishment,  would 
make  such  a  suggestion  absurd.  Rich 
and  eager  as  his  imagination  was,  it  was 
always  subject  to  the  closest  bonds  of 
logic  and  reasoning.  It  was  this  that 
made  his  conclusions  not  only  abund- 
ant, but  positive.  'My  opinions  are  all 
very  positive,'  he  writes,  'and  there  is 
no  reason  why  you  should  not  know 
them/  To  him,  at  any  rate,  they  ap- 
peared to  be  based  on  arguments  which 
he  had  examined  and  found  irrefragable. 

It  is  curious  that  some  who  knew 
him  well  have  denied  that  he  was  a  rea- 
soner.  Professor  Boyd  declared  that 
he  leaped  to  results  by  intuition,  that 
he  could  not  give  reasons,  and  that  his 
letters  contained,  not  reasons,  but  con- 
clusions. This  seems  to  me  a  misappre- 
hension. It  was  not  that  he  could  not 
give  reasons,  but  that  he  would  not. 
He  was  a  soldier,  a  man  of  action.  He 
could  not  stop  to  make  plain  his  men- 
tal processes  to  a  bungler  like  you  or 
me.  Paper  would  not  suffice  to  hold  his 
conclusions.  How  then  should  he  both- 
er with  explaining  the  long  and  devious 
paths  by  which  he  came  to  them?  His 
own  view  of  his  logical  activity  is  de- 
lightful. 'I  am  too  fast,  but  there  are 
principles  of  government  as  sure  to  re- 
sult from  war  as  in  law,  religion  or  any 
moral  science.  Some  prefer  to  jump  to 
the  conclusion  by  reason.  Others  prefer 
to  follow  developments  by  the  slower 
and  surer  road  of  experience/  Even 
more  delightful  is  his  adjustment  of  the 
whole  matter  to  the  somewhat  aca- 
demic level  of  Professor  Boyd :  *  Never 
give  reasons  for  what  you  think  or  do 
until  you  must.  Maybe,  after  a  while, 
a  better  reason  will  pop  into  your 
head/ 


This  blending  of  iron  logic  with  vivid 
imagination  is  most  characteristic  of 
Sherman  always.  His  imagination 
made  him  wonderfully,  charmingly  tol- 
erant, up  to  a  certain  point,  of  the 
views  of  others,  and  even,  where  he 
had  not  concluded  positively,  distrust- 
ful of  his  own.  He  begs  to  be  checked, 
if  inclined  to  exceed  proper  authority. 
With  winning  self-criticism  he  assures 
Grant  that  'Rosecrans  and  Burnside 
and  Sherman  would  be  ashamed  of 
petty  quarrels  if  you  were  behind  and 
near  them/  And  what  an  admirable 
piece  of  analysis  is  his  comparison  of 
himself  with  Grant  and  McClernand. 
McClernand,  he  says,  sees  clearly  what 
is  near,  but  very  little  beyond.  'My 
style  is  the  reverse.  I  am  somewhat 
blind  to  what  occurs  near  me,  but  have 
a  clear  perception  of  things  and  events 
remote.  Grant  possesses  the  happy 
medium,  and  it  is  for  this  reason  I  ad- 
mire him/ 

But  if  Sherman  was  broad-minded 
and  gently  tolerant  up  to  a  certain 
point,  beyond  that  he  ceased  to  be  so, 
and  then  his  energetic  logic  made  him 
refuse  all  compromise.  He  was,  if  I 
may  use  the  phrase,  fiercely  reason- 
able. Just  because  he  saw  so  far  and 
saw  so  clearly,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
there  could  be  nothing  worth  consid- 
ering beyond  the  limits  of  his  vision. 
To  serve  under  him,  when  you  shared 
his  views,  or  when  you  trusted  him 
wholly,  must  have  been  a  joy;  but  it 
was  surely  purgatory  when  you  dis- 
liked him  and  he  disliked  you.  If  he 
was  once  convinced  that  you  were  in 
the  wrong,  nothing  too  savage  could 
be  done  to  set  you  intellectually  right, 
for  your  own  good.  In  other  words,  as 
an  officer  of  the  Inquisition  he  would 
have  been  unmatched  in  ingenuity  and 
in  severity. 

Probably  the  most  amusing  as  well 
as  the  most  instructive  of  his  intoler- 
ances was  his  animosity  toward  news- 


WILLIAM  T.  SHERMAN 


323 


paper  men.  No  working  general  on 
either  side  enjoyed  them  or  permitted 
them  more  freedom  than  policy  abso- 
lutely required.  But  Sherman  detested 
them.  It  has  been  shrewdly  pointed 
out  that  he  was  too  much  like  them  to 
love  them,  and  that  as  a  war  correspon- 
dent he  could  probably  have  earned  a 
much  larger  salary  than  as  a  general. 
It  has  been  suggested,  also,  that  his 
professed  hatred  of  publicity  arose  from 
a  desire  to  supply  his  own,  which  he 
was  royally  able  to  do. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  the  general  is  nev- 
er more  entertaining  than  when  speak- 
ing his  mind  about  the  press.  Some- 
times he  lashes  it  with  sarcasm.  'We 
have  picked  up  the  barges,  and  will 
save  some  provisions,  but  none  of  the 
reporters  "floated."  They  were  so  deep- 
ly laden  with  weighty  matter  that  they 
must  have  sunk.  In  the  language  of 
our  Dutch  captain,  "What  a  pity  for 
religion  is  this  war!"  but  in  our  afflic- 
tion we  can  console  ourselves  with  the 
pious  reflection  that  there  are  plenty 
more  left  of  the  same  sort.*  Sometimes 
he  lectures  it  paternally  and  endeavors 
to  put  these  children  of  the  evil  one  in- 
to the  right  way.  'Now  I  am  again  in 
authority  over  you  and  you  must  heed 
my  advice.  Freedom  of  speech  and 
freedom  of  the  press,  precious  relics  of 
former  history,  must  not  be  construed 
too  largely.  You  must  print  nothing 
that  prejudices  government,  or  excites 
envy,  hatred,  and  malice  in  a  commun- 
ity. Persons  in  authority  must  not  be 
abused.' 

Is  not  every  word  of  that  delicious? 
And  for  misbehavior  he  would  in  all 
cases  exact  the  severest  penalty.  *  Even 
in  peace  times  I  would  make  every 
publisher  liable  in  money  for  the  truth 
of  everything  he  prints/  Oh,  stern 
idealist, 

Hereafter  in  a  better  world  than  this 

I  shall  desire  more  love  and  knowledge  of  you. 

As     newspapers     represented     free 


speech,  and  as  free  speech  is  insepar- 
ably bound  up  with  democracy,  Sher- 
man's mistrust  of  popular  government 
grew  all  through  the  war.  Personally  he 
was  the  most  democratic  of  men.  Also, 
he  was  convinced  that  one  political  or- 
ganization must  prevail  over  the  whole 
United  States.  But  as  to  the  final 
character  of  that  organization  he  was 
somewhat  doubtful.  'This  country 
must  be  united  by  the  silken  bonds  of 
a  generous  and  kindly  Union  if  possible, 
or  by  the  harsh  steel  bands  of  a  despot- 
ism otherwise.  Of  course,  we  all  prefer 
the  former.'  Of  course  he  did  prefer  it. 
Still,  the  editors  sometimes  tried  his 
patience.  Once,  when  it  was  over-tried, 
he  wrote,  'The  rapid  popular  change 
almost  makes  me  monarchist,  and  raises 
the  question  whether  the  self-interest 
of  one  man  is  not  a  safer  criterion  than  • 
the  wild  opinions  of  ignorant  men.' 

The  nice  combination  of  restless  fan- 
cy with  rigorous  logic  which  we  have 
been  analyzing  probably  reached  its 
climax  in  Sherman's  career  with  the 
celebrated  and  dramatic  march  from 
Atlanta  to  the  seaboard:  Hardly  any 
other  general,  North  or  South,  would 
have  conceived  anything  so  unusual. 
Sober  critics,  at  the  time  and  since, 
have  condemned  it  from  the  purely 
military  point  of  view.  If  justifiable,  its 
justification  must  be  found  in  those 
larger  political  arguments  which  delight- 
ed its  contriver.  It  was  forged  almost 
as  a  dream  in  that  eager  and  fertile 
workshop  from  which  dreams  came 
so  thickly.  But  the  point  is  that,  con- 
ceived as  a  dream,  it  was  worked  out 
with  minutely  reasoned  care,  so  that  in 
the  end  success  attended  almost  every 
step.  It  was  no  dream  to  lead  a  hun- 
dred thousand  men  two  hundred  miles 
through  a  hostile  country  and  bring 
them  out  in  perfect  fighting  trim  and 
with  a  confidence  in  their  cpmmander 
which  had  grown  at  every  step  they 
took. 


324 


WILLIAM  T.  SHERMAN 


IV 

So  we  see  that,  for  all  his  visions 
and  all  his  theories,  Sherman  was  an  in- 
tensely practical  man.  Dreams  to  him 
were  simply  rich  possibilities  of  fact. 
Except  as  they  could  be  realized,  he 
took  no  interest  in  them.  And  he  de- 
voted himself  to  realizing  them  with  all 
the  masterful  energy  of  his  nature.  *I 
must  have  facts,  knocks,  and  must  go 
on/ 

Everybody  recognizes  that  he  stud- 
ied his  troops  closely,  kept  careful 
count  of  just  what  men  he  had  and 
what  sort  of  men,  and  the  same  for  the 
enemy.  It  is  remarkable  that,  when  so 
many  generals  allowed  their  imagina- 
tions to  run  away  with  them  in  over- 
estimating the  number  opposed,  Sher- 
'man  more  often  calculated  under  than, 
over. 

Again,  he  was  notable  as  a  provider. 
He  figured  his  needs  carefully  and 
made  everything  yield  to  them.  Tracks 
must  be  kept  clear,  trains  must  be  kept 
running,  non-combatants  must  be  dis- 
regarded, even  though  high  authority 
appealed  for  them.  No  difficulties  were 
recognized  and  no  excuses  would  serve. 
To  a  hesitating  quartermaster  the  curt 
answer  was,  'If  you  don't  have  my 
army  supplied,  and  keep  it  supplied, 
we  '11  eat  your  mules  up,  sir  —  eat  your 
mules  up.' 

In  other  matters  of  organization 
Sherman  had  the  same  instinct  for  sys- 
tem and  disliked  what  interfered  with 
it.  He  objected,  as  Thomas  did,  to  the 
intrusion  even  of  philanthropy  into  the 
sphere  of  his  command :  *  The  sanitary 
and  Christian  Commissions  are  enough 
to  eradicate  all  traces  of  Christian- 
ity out  of  our  minds.'  Yet,  while  he 
exacted  absolute  subordination  from 
others,  he  was  ready  and  eager  to  obey 
the  orders  of  his  superiors,  even  though 
he  might  not  approve  of  them. 

There  is  difference  of  opinion  as  to 


the  minuteness  with  which  he  planned 
for  possible  contingencies.  Schofield 
thinks  that  in  this  regard  he  was  ne- 
glectful of  detail.  Possibly.  But  the 
activity  of  his  imagination  led  him  to 
consider  and  reconsider  all  the  essen- 
tials of  accident.  And  it  was  rare  that 
either  circumstances  or  the  enemy  con- 
fronted him  with  a  situation  which  he 
had  not  already  taken  into  account,  - 
in  most  cases  with  adequate  precaution. 

The  greatest  test  of  a  general's  prac- 
tical ability  is  his  skill  in  handling  men. 
Perhaps  others  surpassed  Sherman  in 
this,  but,  considering  his  temperament, 
his  success  was  wonderful.  His  great- 
est lack  was  patience.  When  things  did 
not  suit  him,  he  could  be  very  disagree- 
able, as  with  Hooker.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  had  three  admirable  qualities, 
sympathy,  simplicity,  sincerity.  He 
could  understand  a  man's  difficulties. 
He  could  step  right  down  from  his  dig- 
nity and  take  hold  of  them.  He  had 
no  hesitation  in  telling  you  what  he 
thought,  and  you  knew  it  was  exactly 
what  he  did  think. 

With  his  equals  and  superiors  this 
frankness  is  especially  fine.  How  gen- 
uine, how  free  from  offense  because  of 
that  genuineness,  and  how  helpful,  are 
his  letters  of  advice  and  caution  to 
Grant,  who  was  large  enough  to  take 
them  as  they  were  meant  and  profit 
by  them.  Those  addressed  indirectly 
to  Buell  are  no  less  creditable,  though 
perhaps  not  received  in  quite  the  same 
spirit. 

With  his  own  subordinates  Sher- 
man's human  qualities  were  even  more 
effective.  The  soldiers  delighted  in  *  the 
old  man's'  brusqueness  and  oddities. 
*  Uncle  Billy '  was  a  quaint  figure  such 
as  simple  minds  love  to  mock  at  and 
tell  tales  of.  It  is  alleged  that  strict 
discipline  was  not  always  observed  in 
Sherman's  armies.  If  so,  it  was  because 
the  commander  cared  nothing  for  pa- 
rade troops.  He  was  too  busy  with 


WILLIAM  T.  SHERMAN 


325 


what  was  essential  to  bother  with  what 
was  not.  But  if  discipline  means  in- 
stant readiness  to  go  when  and  where 
ordered,  Sherman's  men  were  disci- 
plined enough.  They  had  confidence 
in  their  chief.  Even  when  he  seemed 
to  be  leading  them  out  into  the  dark- 
ness, away  from  all  support  and  all 
communication,  they  never  hesitated 
to  follow.  He  said  everything  would  be 
right,  and  they  knew  it  would.  What 
is  more,  they  loved  him.  In  spite  of  his 
wrinkled  face  and  his  harsh  speech  and 
his  uncouth  ways,  they  loved  him,  be- 
cause they  knew  that  he  was  honest 
and  fearless,  and  thought  more  about 
them  than  he  did  about  himself. 


Through  all  this  discussion,  the  read- 
er will  constantly  have  appreciated 
what  I  meant  by  calling  Sherman  typ- 
ically American.  Though  by  profession 
and  habit  a  soldier,  in  his  union  of  the 
theoretical  and  practical  he  was  essen- 
tially the  man  of  business  who  is  to-day 
everywhere  the  most  prominent  and 
characteristic  American  figure.  Let  us 
see  how  thoroughly  the  business  qual- 
ity entered  into  the  various  aspects  of 
Sherman's  career. 

To  begin  with,  he  was  a  vast  and 
tireless  worker.  'His  industry  was  pro- 
digious,' says  Grant.  'He  worked  all 
the  time,  and  with  an  enthusiasm,  a 
patience,  and  a  good  humor  that  gave 
him  great  power  with  his  army/  He 
was  no  shirk,  no  man  to  throw  on  to 
others  anything  that  he  could  do  him- 
self. On  the  contrary,  if  others  failed 
him,  he  would  do  double.  'They  have 
not  sent  me  a  single  officer  from  Wash- 
ington, and  so  engrossed  are  they  with 
Missouri  that  they  don't  do  us  justice. 
The  more  necessity  for  us  to  strain 
every  nerve.' 

Again,  fighting,  with  him,  was  rather 
a  business  than  a  pleasure.  His  per- 


sonal courage  was,  of  course,  beyond 
question.  But  some  have  questioned 
whether,  as  a  consequence  of  his  imagi- 
native and  sensitive  temperament,  he 
was  not  somewhat  less  clear-headed 
and  capable  under  the  pressure  of  com- 
bat than  when  planning  a  battle  or  a 
campaign.  General  Howard  asserts 
that  'his  intense  suggestive  faculties 
seemed  often  to  be  impaired  by  the  ac- 
tual conflict.'  On  the  other  hand,  Cox 
and  Schofield  both  testify  that  where 
others  grew  excited  Sherman  grew  cool, 
and  that  in  the  presence  of  immediate 
danger  he  dropped  theoretical  discus- 
sion and  settled  all  difficulties  with  per- 
emptory sternness.  'On  the  battle- 
fields where  he  commands  Sherman's 
nervous  manner  is  toned  down.  He 
grates  his  teeth  and  his  lips  are  closed 
more  firmly,  giving  an  expression  of 
greater  determination  to  his  counte- 
nance/ 

In  any  case,  although  he  calls  being 
at  the  head  of  a  strong  column  of  troops, 
in  the  execution  of  some  task  that  re- 
quires brain,  the  highest  pleasure  of 
war,  yet  it  is  evident  that  to  him  fight- 
ing was  chiefly  a  means  to  an  end;  in 
other  words,  a  matter  of  business,  to  be 
carried  on  calmly,  carefully,  and  intel- 
ligently as  such.  'Neither  of  us/  he 
says  of  Grant  and  himself,  'naturally 
was  a  combative  man/  In  the  same 
spirit,  though  infinitely  careful  of  his 
troops,  he  viewed  slaughter  with  indif- 
ference when  the  necessities  of  business 
required  it.  'Tell  Morgan/  he  said, 
'  that  we  will  lose  4000  men  before  we 
take  Vicksburg,  and  we  may  as  well 
lose  them  here  as  anywhere/ 

The  same  businesslike  tone  appears 
in  Sherman's  attitude  toward  ambi- 
tion and  glory.  Like  every  man  who 
does  things,  he  wished  posterity  to 
speak  well  of  him,  to  speak  highly  of 
him,  and  he  would  have  been  the  last 
to  deny  it.  But  he  was  singularly  free 
from  the  petty  vanities  of  show  and 


326 


WILLIAM  T.   SHERMAN 


adulation  which  disfigure  the  biogra- 
phy of  so  many  generals.  As  he  rather 
affected  a  shabby  appearance,  so  he 
rather  affected  an  avoidance  of  news- 
paper notoriety.  '  I  never  see  my  name 
in  print  without  a  feeling  of  contami- 
nation, and  I  will  undertake  to  forego 
half  of  my  salary,  if  the  newspapers 
will  ignore  my  name.'  Even  as  regards 
more  substantial  recognition  he  was 
somewhat  reluctant,  not  from  undue 
modesty,  for  no  one  ever  better  gauged 
his  own  achievements,  but  because  he 
feared  that  sudden  exaltation  meant  a 
sudden  fall.  Early  in  his  career  he  ex- 
pressed his  wish  to  remain  in  the  back- 
ground, and  when  promotion  came  his 
first  feeling  was  that  he  had  not  yet 
deserved  it.  Few  men  on  the  road  to 
distinction  have  expressed  themselves 
more  sensibly  than  he  does  in  his  ad- 
mirable letter  of  advice  to  Buell.  'To 
us,  with  an  angry,  embittered  enemy 
in  front  and  all  around  us,  it  looks 
childish,  foolish,  yea,  criminal  —  for 
sensible  men  to  be  away  off  to  the  rear, 
sitting  in  security,  torturing  their  brains 
and  writing  on  reams  of  foolscap  to  fill 
a  gap  which  the  future  historian  will 
dispose  of  by  a  very  short,  and  maybe, 
an  unimportant  chapter,  or  even  par- 
agraph. .  .  .  Like  in  a  race,  the  end  is 
all  that  is  remembered  by  the  great 
world.' 

It  is  in  this  purely  business  instinct, 
the  combining  of  theory  with  practice 
for  a  business  purpose,  that  we  must 
seek  the  explanation  of  the  most  curi- 
ous problem  in  Sherman's  career,  his 
harsh  and  barbarous  treatment  of  the 
invaded  enemy.  No  man  was  by  na- 
ture less  cruel  than  he.  No  general  ex- 
presses himself  in  the  earlier  part  of  the 
war  more  decidedly  against  plundering 
and  vandalism.  He  urges  upon  his  sub- 
ordinates consideration  for  non-com- 
batants: 'War  at  best  is  barbarism, 
but  to  involve  all  —  children,  women, 
old  and  helpless  —  is  more  than  can 


be  justified.'  He  deplores  the  lack  of 
discipline  which  makes  possible  the 
excesses  of  the  soldiers.  *  I  am  free  to 
admit  that  we  all  deserve  to  be  killed 
unless  we  can  produce  a  state  of  disci- 
pline when  such  disgraceful  acts  can- 
not be  committed  unpunished.'  He  is 
even  almost  ready  to  resign  his  posi- 
tion, he  feels  the  disgrace  so  keenly. 
'The  amount  of  burning,  stealing,  and 
plundering  done  by  our  army  makes 
me  ashamed  of  it.  I  would  quit  the 
service  if  I  could,  because  I  feel  we  are 
drifting  to  the  worst  sort  of  vandalism.' 

Then  he  has  an  army  of  his  own, 
marches  straight  into  the  South,  and 
leaves  a  trail  behind  which  makes  him 
not  only  execrated  by  his  enemies,  but 
typical  in  modern  warfare  for  destruc- 
tion and  plunder.  And  all  just  as  a 
sheer  matter  of  business.  The  war  must 
be  ended,  and  the  way  to  end  it  was  not 
merely  to  defeat  armies  in  the  field  but 
to  bring  desolation  and  misery  to  the 
humblest  homes  of  the  Confederacy. 
He  may  not  have  said  *  War  is  hell,'  but 
assuredly  he  acted  it.  He  may  not 
have  burned  Columbia,  but  he  did 
write  officially,  'I  should  not  hesitate 
to  burn  Savannah,  Charleston,  and 
Wilmington,  or  either  of  them,  if  the 
garrisons  were  needed.'  And  he  sum- 
med up  the  whole  bare  naked  theory 
in  one  tremendous  passage,  as  charac- 
teristic of  the  man  as  of  the  meth- 
ods he  employed :  '  Of  necessity  in  war 
the  commander  on  the  spot  is  the  judge, 
and  may  take  your  house,  your  fields, 
your  everything,  and  turn  you  all  out, 
helpless,  to  starve.  It  may  be  wrong, 
but  that  don't  alter  the  case.  In  war 
you  can't  help  yourselves,  and  the  only 
possible  remedy  is  to  stop  war  .  .  .  Our 
duty  is  not  to  build  up;  it  is  rather  to 
destroy  both  the  rebel  army  and  what- 
ever of  wealth  or  property  it  has  found- 
ed its  boasted  strength  upon.' 

As  an  admirable  concrete  illustration 
of  this  thoroughly  businesslike  frame 


WILLIAM  T.   SHERMAN 


327 


of  mind,  take  the  following  little  touch. 
At  the  bottom  of  a  page  of  the  Memoirs 
we  read  the  solemn  injunction,  'There 
should  be  no  neglect  of  the  dead.'  Turn 
the  page  and  we  find  out  why:  'be- 
cause it  has  a  bad  effect  on  the  living/ 

In  enlarging  on  this  fiercely  practical 
element  in  Sherman  I  have  not  meant 
to  give  the  impression  that  he  was  a 
mere  machine  man,  without  nerves  or 
emotions.  Quite  the  contrary  was  the 
case.  He  was  all  nerves,  at  least  on  the 
surface;  for  I  have  a  shrewd  suspicion 
that,  as  with  so  many  Americans,  the 
dance  of  the  muscles  was  a  helpful  out- 
let for  inward  restlessness.  To  every 
emotional  stimulus  he  responded  with 
the  utmost  vivacity.  A  fair  day  al- 
most distracts  him  from  the  rush  of  bat- 
tle, and  in  a  formal  report  he  writes, 
'The  scene  was  enchanting;  too  beau- 
tiful to  be  disturbed  by  the  harsh  cla- 
mor of  war;  but  the  Chattahoochee  lay 
beyond  and  I  had  to  reach  it.'  On  the 
other  hand,  when  the  news  of  South 
Carolina's  secession  came  to  him  in 
New  Orleans,  he  burst  into  tears. 

Also,  he  was  irritable,  as  every  one 
admits,  had  sharp  outbursts  of  temper 
when  things  went  wrong.  This  ap- 
peared in  many  little  matters  as  well 
as  in  the  great  historical  scene  when  he 
showed  his  bitter,  if  justifiable,  wrath 
against  Stanton  by  refusing  to  take  his 
hand  before  the  eyes  of  the  country  and 
the  world.  As  with  his  other  faults, 
Sherman  was  quick  to  recognize  this 
one,  illustrating  Grant's  excellent  com- 
ment on  him,  'Sherman  is  impetuous, 
faulty,  but  he  sees  his  faults  as  well  as 
any  man.'  Speaking  once  of  his  com- 
panion in  arms,  McPherson,  the  general 
said,  'He  is  as  good  an  officer  as  I  am, 
is  younger,  and  has  a  better  temper.' 

Again,  as  Sherman  was  irritable,  so 
he  was  susceptible  of  depression  and 
discouragement.  The  term  melancho- 
ly, so  applicable  to  Lincoln,  has  no  sig- 
nificance here.  Sherman's  downheart- 


edness  is  far  better  expressed  by  the 
very  American  word  for  a  very  Ameri- 
can thing,-  -disgusted.  His  low  spirits 
had  always  a  perfectly  tangible  cause, 
and  a  moment's  change  in  external  cir- 
cumstances could  remove  them.  But 
while  they  lasted,  they  were  very  low 
indeed,  and  his  expressive  organiza- 
tion made  them  widely  manifest.  Read 
Villard's  account  of  the  behavior  which 
led  to  the  widespread  belief  that  the 
general  was  insane.  His  fear  as  to  the 
future  of  the  Union  was  so  great  that 
it  clung  to  him  day  and  night  like  an 
obsession.  'He  lived  at  the  Gait  House, 
occupying  rooms  on  the  ground  floor. 
He  paced  by  the  hour  up  and  down 
the  corridor  leading  to  them,  smoking 
and  obviously  absorbed  in  oppressive 
thoughts.  He  did  this  to  such  an  ex- 
tent that  it  was  generally  noticed  and 
remarked  upon  by  the  guests  and  em- 
ployees of  the  hotel.  His  strange  ways 
led  to  gossip,  and  it  was  soon  whispered 
about  that  he  was  suffering  from  men- 
tal depression.' 

For  the  internal  view  of  these  moods 
take  a  passage  from  Sherman's  own 
letters  on  a  slightly  different  occasion. 
'  My  feelings  prompted  me  to  forbear 
and  tire  consequence  is  my  family  and 
friends  are  almost  cold  to  me,  and  they 
feel  and  say  that  I  have  failed  at  the 
critical  moment  of  my  life.  It  may  be 
I  am  but  a  chip  on  the  whirling  tide  of 
time*  destined  to  be  cast  on  the  shore 
as  a  worthless  weed.' 

Then  would  come  the  rebound,  and 
natural  vivacity  and  gayety  would  am- 
ply justify  the  remark  of  one  who  knew 
him  well,  that, '  Of  a  happy  nature  him- 
self, he  strove  to  make  all  around  him 
happy.'  For  laughter  as  a  leisurely  or- 
nament of  life  Sherman  had  too  little 
time.  The  humorous  wrinkles  were 
crossed  and  crowded  out  by  wrinkles  of 
care  and  passionate  endeavor.  But  he 
had  in  a  high  degree  the  American  gift 
of  shrewd,  witty  words  that  either  tickle 


328 


WILLIAM  T.   SHERMAN 


or  sting.  How  apt  is  his  description 
of  Beauregard,  'bursting  with  French 
despair.'  How  merry  is  his  account  of 
a  lawsuit  he  would  wish  to  have  con- 
ducted. 'I  would  give  one  hundred  dol- 
lars to  be  free  to  take  Levy's  case  — 
put  St.  Ange  on  the  stand  and  make 
him  describe  his  drive  to  Judge  Boyce's 
and  back  —  he  first  described  the  jour- 
ney as  enough  to  kill  any  horse,  but 
now  that  his  horse  is  lame  he  insists  it 
was  a  sweet  ride  and  not  enough  to  hurt 
a  colt.  There  is  plenty  of  fun  in  the 
case.'  How  apt  and  merry  both  is  his 
recommendation  of  some  Negro  troops 
to  McPherson.  Mark  Twain  might 
have  written  it.  'There  are  about  one 
hundred  Negroes  fit  for  service  enrolled 
under  the  venerable  George  Washing- 
ton, who,  mounted  on  a  sprained  horse, 
with  his  hat  plumed  with  the  ostrich 
feather,  his  full  belly  girt  with  a  stout 
belt,  from  which  hangs  a  stout  cleaver, 
and  followed  by  his  trusty  orderly  on 
foot,  makes  an  army  on  your  flank  that 
ought  to  give  you  every  assurance  of 
safety  from  that  exposed  quarter.' 

The  nerves  which  were  so  susceptible 
to  comedy  were  also  responsive  to  the 
pathos  of  life.  Very  little  acquaintance 
with  Sherman  is  needed  to  show  that 
his  imagination  made  him  quickly 
aware  of  the  sufferings  of  others  and  his 
energy  hastened  to  relieve  them.  This 
is  evident  at  all  stages  of  his  career, 
whether  he  was  visiting  the  bedside  of 
a  sick  cadet  in  his  Southern  college,  or 
interfering  to  protect  some  poor  widow 
from  the  misery  his  abstract  theories 
of  destruction  had  brought  upon  her. 
'The  poor  woman  is  distracted  and 
cannot  rest.  She  will  soon  be  as  pros- 
trate as  her  dying  daughter.  Either  the 
army  must  move  or  she.' 

And  though  neither  fantastic  nor 
morbid,  Sherman  was  as  sensitive  in  his 
conscientiousness  as  in  his  sympathy. 
Where  he  thought  he  had  done  injust- 
ice, he  would  not  rest  till  he  had  made  it 


right.  However  his  eager  fancy  might 
lead  him  into  misstatements,  no  man 
was  more  scrupulous  about  telling  the 
truth  as  he  knew  it.  Above  all,  he  was 
rigidly  insistent  on  financial  honesty. 
In  commercial  as  well  as  in  military 
pursuits,  he  would  tolerate  no  trans- 
action which  had  the  slightest  taint. 
Even  such  a  trivial  matter  as  sending 
home  insignificant  souvenirs  troubled 
him.  'I  could  collect  plenty  of  tro- 
phies but  have  always  refrained  and 
think  it  best  I  should.  Others  do  col- 
lect trophies  and  send  home,  but  I  pre- 
fer not  to  do  it.' 

Upon  what  foundation  of  religion 
this  strict  morality  was  based  is  a  curi- 
ous study.  Considering  his  freedom  of 
expression  in  other  respects,  there  are 
singularly  few  religious  references  in 
Sherman's  letters.  If  he  was  at  all  lack- 
ing in  positive  beliefs,  such  uncertainty 
was  at  any  rate  not  of  the  rather  abject 
type  so  exquisitely  mocked  by  Voltaire 
in  his  story  of  the  Swiss  captain  who 
withdrew  into  a  thicket  before  battle 
and  prayed,  'O  my  God,  if  there  is  a 
God,  please  save  my  soul,  if'  I  have  a 
soul.'  It  is  probable,  however,  from  oc- 
casional allusions  to  the  matter,  that 
Sherman  cherished  some  broad  religi- 
ous beliefs  rather  positively,  but  that 
his  essential  effort  was  to  forward  the 
cause  of  good  in  the  world  and  to  love 
his  fellow  men.  In  other  words,  here 
again  his  religion  was  that  of  millions 
of  other  honest,  earnest,  hard-working 
Americans :  that  is,  a  religion  made  up, 
in  about  equal  parts,  qf  reverence  and 
indifference,  and  perhaps  well  express- 
ed in  the  phrase  of  one  of  them,  'I  am 
doing  my  work,  let  God  do  his.' 


VI 

To  complete  the  picture  it  will  be 
well  to  point  out  some  defects,  or  shall 
we  say  limitations,  of  this  vital,  intri- 
cate, most  fascinating  character,  though 


WILLIAM  T.  SHERMAN 


329 


these  limitations  are  hard  to  seize  and 
still  harder  to  define. 

To  begin  with,  you  feel  a  little  ex- 
cess of  purpose  in  his  life.  Purpose  is 
a  splendid  thing,  a  thoroughly  Amer- 
ican thing;  it  moves  the  world  like  the 
lever  of  Archimedes.  But  purpose  for 
breakfast,  luncheon,  and  dinner  does 
grow  wearisome.  A  day  of  mere  quiet 
is  good  for  every  one.  I  do  not  believe 
Sherman  ever  had  an  hour.  To  live 
with  him  must  have  been  like  living 
with  a  bumble-bee. 

Then  I  feel  that  Sherman  had  not 
depth  quite  in  proportion  to  his  ample 
breadth  and  variety.  There  were  ele- 
ments in  life  that  he  never  touched .  The 
most  striking  illustration  of  this  is  in 
his  letters.  I  read  his  official  corre- 
spondence and  I  was  astonished  at  the 
freedom  and  ease  with  which  the  man 
poured  forth  his  thoughts  and  feelings 
on  matters  that  others  were  inclined  to 
treat  merely  formally.  I  said  to  myself, 
what  a  treasure  of  self-revelation  in 
things  of  the  soul  his  personal  letters 
will  be.  Well,  when  I  turned  to  the  per- 
sonal letters,  they  added  little  or  no- 
thing to  the  official.  To  his  brother  and 
his  wife  he  writes  exactly  as  to  a  sub- 
ordinate, or  a  department  official,  or  an 
editor.  He  says  all  he  has  to  say  to  ev- 
erybody and  anybody.  It  will  be  urged 
that  only  those  portions  of  his  private 
correspondence  which  bear  on  public 
interests  have  been  published.  But 
that  is  not  the  point.  It  is  what  he  does 
write  that  counts,  not  what  he  does 
not.  His  letters  to  the  girl  he  loved 
would  make  excellent  weekly  corre- 
spondence for  a  newspaper.  Take  a  cu- 
rious instance.  He  begins  an  affection- 
ate letter  to  his  daughter.  Before  he 
has  written  a  page,  he  drifts  into  polit- 
ical discussion  and  concludes  that  he  is 
writing  to  the  mother,  not  to  the  daugh- 
ter at  all. 

Another  odd  case  of  this  living  for 
publicity  is  Sherman's  insertion  in  his 


Memoirs  of  the  letter  referring  to  his 
son  Willie's  death.  The  paper  in  itself 
is  touching.  The  father's  affection  for 
his  son,  as  for  all  his  family,  is  evident- 
ly strong  and  true.  But  the  introduc- 
tion of  such  a  letter  in  such  a  way 
would  have  been  utterly  impossible  for 
a  nature  like  that  of  Thomas. 

Ami  since  I  have  mentioned  Thom- 
as, let  me  refer  to  still  another  matter 
which  will  help  to  make  plain  the  sub- 
tle point  I  am  elucidating.  To  both 
Thomas  and  Lee,  grateful  fellow  citi- 
zens made  offer  of  a  house  purchased 
by  subscription.  Both  Thomas  and  Lee 
refused,  requesting  that  the  money 
might  be  given  to  poor  and  suffering 
soldiers.  A  similar  offer  was  suggested 
for  Sherman.  Though  unwilling  to  take 
anything  for  himself,  he  was  ready  to 
accept  it  for  his  family,  provided  it  was 
accompanied  with  bonds  sufficient  to 
pay  the  taxes.  There  was  nothing  in 
the  least  discreditable  about  this,  noth- 
ing even  indelicate.  It  may  be  that 
the  nicety  of  Thomas  was  overstrain- 
ed. But  the  difference  of  attitude  illus- 
trates exactly  what  I  am  attempting 
to  analyze. 

May  we  use  the  painter's  phrase,  and 
say  that  Sherman's  character  lacked 
atmosphere,  lacked  that  something  of 
depth  and  mystery  which  makes  the  in- 
describle,  inexhaustible  charm  of  Lin- 
coln? Sherman  is  like  one  of  our  clear, 
blue  January  days,  with  a  fresh  north 
wind.  It  stimulates  you.  It  inspires 
you.  But  crisp,  vivid,  intoxicating  as 
it  is,  it  seems  to  me  that  too  prolonged 
enjoyment  of  such  weather  would  dry 
my  soul  till  the  vague  fragrance  of  im- 
mortality was  all  gone  out  of  it. 

Yet  in  his  defects,  as  in  his  excellen- 
ces, he  was,  we  may  repeat,  a  typical 
American.  Perhaps  I  cannot  better 
emphasize  the  absurdity  of  that  word 
*  typical/  than  by  expressing  the  wish 
that  there  were  many  more  Americans 
like  him. 


TELEPHONE 


BY   JOSEPH   HUSBAND 


THERE  was  a  continuous  sound  of 
many  voices;  a  steady  cadence  in  which 
no  individual  note  dominated;  a  hun- 
dred women's  voices  incessantly  repeat- 
ing brief  sentences  with  a  rising  inflec- 
tion at  the  end,  each  sentence  lost  in 
the  continuous  tumult  of  sound.  In  a 
long  line,  perched  on  high  stools,  they 
sat  before  the  black  panels  which  rose 
behind  their  narrow  desk.  Into  the 
transmitters  —  hung  from  their  necks 
—  they  articulated  their  strange  con- 
fused chorus.  And  apparently  without 
relation  to  the  words  they  uttered,  a 
hundred  pairs  of  hands  reached  back 
and  forth  across  the  panels,  weaving 
interminably  a  never-to-be-completed 
pattern  on  its  finely  checkered  face. 

On  the  panels  a  thousand  little  lights 
blinked  white  and  disappeared.  Tiny 
sparks  of  ruby  and  green  flashed  and 
were  gone.  Untiring,  the  white  stars 
flickered  in  and  out,  and  behind  them 
raced  the  tireless  hands,  weaving  a 
strange  pattern  with  the  long  green 
cords.  And  unbroken,  unintelligible, 
the  murmur  of  the  girls'  voices  vibrated 
unceasingly. 

Outside,  under  the  gray  sky  of  a 
rainy  day,  the  life  of  the  city  was  at  the 
flood.  Over  slim  wires,  buried  in  con- 
duits below  the  trampled  street,  or  high 
strung,  swinging  in  the  rising  wind,  the 
voices  of  a  thousand  people  told  their 
thousand  messages  to  waiting  ears.  A 
passing  thought,  perhaps,  that  you 
would  have  me  hear;  with  a  single 
movement  you  lift  the  transmitter 
from  the  hook  beside  you;  white  flash- 
es the  tiny  lamp  on  the  black  panel;  a 

330 


girl's  hand  sweeps  across  the  board  and 
plugs  in  the  connection.  Space,  useless, 
is  swept  aside;  though  actual  miles  may 
intervene  I  am  suddenly  beside  you. 

Messages  of  business  that  can  make 
or  ruin,  death,  love,  infidelity,  appeal! 
Automatically,  surely,  she  weaves  back 
and  forth  across  the  panels.  Clotho, 
Lachesis  and  Atropos,  —  Parcae  of  the 
switch-board ! 

Here  is  the  throbbing  pulse  of  the 
city  bared  and  visible.  Night  is  over; 
with  rapidly  increasing  frequency  the 
flashing  drops  of  light  indicate  that  the 
activity  of  day  has  begun.  Every  ac- 
tion must  be  expressed  in  words,  and, 
bared  and  concentrated,  that  word-cur- 
rent of  the  city  rises  like  a  gathering 
wave.  From  ten  in  the  morning  to  five 
minutes  after,  the  tide  is  at  the  flood. 
The  flicker  of  lights  is  dazzling;  the 
girls'  hands  race  dizzily  behind  their 
flashing  summons.  Business  is  at  its 
height.  But  here  on  another  row  of 
panels  the  occasional  flash  of  lights  of- 
fers a  curious  contrast:  this  is  a  panel 
for  a  part  of  the  residence  district; 
from  seven  to  eight  in  the  evening  its 
lights  will  glow  with  activity.  Then 
business  is  over  and  the  downtown 
panels  will  be  darkened.  Here  is  a  visu- 
al shifting  of  scene  and  interest.  Work 
over,  the  social  engagements  are  made, 
and  business  is  forgotten.  There  is  a 
friendly  gossiping  along  the  wires. 

Night  has  come,  and  a  dozen  girls 
watch  the  long,  deserted  boards.  Like 
the  occasional  glimmer  of  a  cab  lamp 
late  upon  the  street,  the  signals,  one  by 
one,  flash  and  are  gone.  The  world  is 


TELEPHONE 


331 


fast  asleep.  Far  down  at  the  end  of 
the  panel  a  signal  brightens.  '  Number 
please  ? '  —  *  Police ! '  It  was  a  woman's 
voice.  From  the  card  index  'Central* 
picks  out  the  street  address  which  cor- 
responds to  the  number,  and  the  near- 
est station  is  advised  of  the  call.  Had 
the  woman  no  time  to  finish  her  mes- 
sage? There  is  another  light  burning 
on  the  panel.  Already  she  is  forgotten 
and  the  slim  hands  are  making  another 
connection.  Police  or  doctor,  —  the 
night  calls  are  laden  with  portent. 

What  interests  the  world  to-day? 
Does  something  disturb  the  minds  of 
men?  The  flashing  panels  answer.  As 
surely  as  the  sun  will  rise  to-morrow 
will  the  increased  throb  of  light  betray 
the  fevered  interest  of  mankind.  Five 
o'clock!  usually  there  is  a  slacking  up, 
but  not  to-day.  Heavier  than  at  the 
busiest  five  minutes  in  the  whole  twen- 
ty-four hours,  come  the  calls  for  con- 
nections. Did  the  White  Sox  win  their 
game?  It  is  the  final  of  the  series.  Who 
was  elected?  Politics  to-day  runs  high. 
War?  The  troops  are  off;  marines  have 
landed!  Strikes,  fires,  or  the  sinking 
ship;  the  racing  hands  weave  faster; 
the  steady  hum  of  the  girls'  voices  ac- 
celerates almost  imperceptibly.  Here 
beats  the  pulse  upon  the  surface;  they 
know  its  normal  rise  and  fall;  by  its  fe- 
vered beat  they  can  read  diversion  or 
disaster. 

Back  over  the  years  the  superinten- 
dent recalled  the  various  events  which 


had  been  dramatically  visualized  on 
the  switch-board  panels.  Twelve  years 
ago,  about;  the  panels  were  fewer  then. 
It  was  almost  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon; in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  day 
operators  would  be  leaving,  tired  from 
their  long  labor  at  the  board.  The 
lights  were  flashing  slowly,  perfectly  re- 
cording the  slackened  beat  of  business. 
Five  minutes  to  five, —  a  wave  of  white 
light  seemed  to  flare  across  the  down- 
town panels,  suddenly,  unexpectedly. 
Ignorant  of  the  cause,  the  girls  plug- 
ged in  the  desired  connections.  Every 
one  seemed  to  be  calling  out  to  the  resi- 
dence sections.  For  a  brief  minute  there 
was  a  pause  —  The  flood  of  light  was 
gone  as  abruptly  as  it  had  come.  Then 
like  a  flame  across  the  residence  pan- 
els gleamed  the  signals,  calling  back, 
a  hundredfold,  back  to  the  stores  and 
offices. 

The  men  had  heard  first  the  terri- 
ble rumor.  Their  messages  across  the 
wires  to  their  homes  had  sought  the 
answer  to  their  first  thought  that  she, 
that  they,  were  safe.  And  then  back,  in 
anguished  women's  voices,  came  frantic 
appeals  for  names  of  the  missing.  For 
long  hours  through  the  night  the  white- 
faced  girls  held  to  their  posts;  and  in 
their  tired  eyes  the  signals  burned  fev- 
erishly. That  night  Chicago  shudder- 
ed in  its  grief, —  for  in  the  flames  of  the 
Iroquois  Theatre,  at  a  holiday  matinee, 
had  gone  out  the  lives  of  countless 
women,  men,  and  little  children. 


THE   CRITICS  OF  THE  COLLEGE 


BY   HENRY   S.    PRITCHETT 


*I  AM  nothing,  if  not  critical/  said 
lago  of  himself.  His  phrase  aptly  de- 
scribes a  tendency  of  our  day.  We  live 
in  a  social  order  self-conscious  and 
critical. 

One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world 

kin  — 

That  all  with  one  consent  praise  newborn  gawds, 
Though  they  are  made  and  moulded  of  things 

past. 

This  critical  spirit  —  this  touch  of 
nature  which  makes  the  whole  world 
kin  —  has  characterized  every  com- 
plex civilization.  Even  in  their  decay, 
Greece  and  Rome  developed  their  crit- 
ics —  not  only  keen,  but  wise.  In  our 
day  the  critics  are  perhaps  no  wiser, 
but  they  are  more  numerous.  In  a  peo- 
ple given  over,  as  ours  is,  to  the  daily 
paper  and  to  the  uplift  magazine,  the 
touch  of  nature  is  intensified.  We  are 
a  nation  of  critics. 

Uncomfortable  as  this  is  for  all  of  us 
who  live  in  glass  houses,  we  dare  not 
forget  that  the  ability  to  learn  from 
just  criticism  is  perhaps  the  highest 
test  of  civilization.  Individual  success 
is  measured  by  it;  the  progress  of  an  in- 
stitution or  a  state  is  conditioned  upon 
the  capacity  to  avail  itself  of  criticism. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  few  attain 
that  serene  plane  where  the  critic  is 
really  welcome.  Charm  he  never  so 
wisely,  your  critic  is  generally  an  Ahith- 
ophel.  Those  who  most  need  to  heed 
him  call  him  academic,  and  after  that 
nobody  pays  any  further  attention  to 
what  he  says.  One  does  not  need  a  long 
memory  to  recall  the  rise  of  criticism  of 
our  railway  management,  The  critics 

332 


objected  to  rebates;  to  railway  politics; 
to  discrimination  between  shippers. 
They  were  laughed  at  as  academic.  To- 
day these  abuses  are  being  stamped 
out  by  legislative  and  executive  action 
far  more  drastic  than  anything  that 
these  academic  critics  ever  dreamed  of. 
Who  knows  but  that  some  future  presi- 
dent may  appoint  an  interstate  college 
commission  whose  function  it  shall 
be  to  squeeze  the  water  out  of  the  col- 
leges, just  as  President  Wilson  is  pre- 
paring to  squeeze  it  out  of  the  other 
trusts? 

For  it  is  inevitable  that  in  an  age  so 
critical  our  chief  agency  of  higher  edu- 
cation should  come  in  for  its  full  share 
of  censure.  Furthermore,  the  critics 
assume  (of  course  unreasonably)  that 
the  college,  as  an  exponent  of  our  high- 
est intelligence,  will  receive  these  cen- 
sures with  a  sweet  reasonableness  and 
will  promptly  bring  forth  fruits  of  re- 
form. 

Whatever  be  the  origin  of  this  crit- 
icism of  the  college,  though  much  of  it 
be  wide  of  the  mark  and  some  of  it  un- 
just,  it  still  remains  true  that  in  no  way 
can  the  college  justify  itself  more  com- 
pletely than  by  meeting  such  criticism 
in  good  temper,  by  dealing  with  it  pa- 
tiently and  honestly;  and  while  it  dis- 
cards the  censures  of  the  carping,  by 
availing  itself  of  whatsoever  wisdom 
such  criticism  offers. 


Who  are  the  critics  of  the  college, 
and  what  are  they  saying  about  it? 


THE  CRITICS  OP  THE  COLLEGE 


333 


To  make  a  catalogue  of  the  critics 
and  their  complaints  would  outrun  the 
limit  of  a  magazine.  Everything  about 
the  college  is  under  the  fire  of  the  crit- 
ics -  -  its  government  and  administra- 
tion, its  teaching,  its  financial  conduct, 
its  ideals  of  social  life,  its  right  to  exist 
at  all.  These  criticisms  run  into  details 
so  varied  as  to  confuse  the  general  read- 
er, and  for  that  matter  the  student  of 
education.  Is  it  possible  so  to  classify 
them  under  a  few  heads  as  to  show  in 
the  first  place  the  points  of  view  of 
the  critics,  and  secondly  to  indicate  the 
nature  and  sweep  of  their  criticisms? 
It  is  this  which  I  have  attempted  to 
do. 

The  first  difficulty  which  one  meets 
in  such  an  effort  arises  out  of  the  incon- 
gruities of  our  educational  situation. 
In  our  country  the  very  name  college 
has  no  definite  meaning. 

In  the  United  States  there  are  ap- 
proximately nine  hundred  institutions 
called  colleges  and  empowered  to  grant 
degrees.  Illinois,  Iowa,  Ohio,  and  Penn- 
sylvania have  more  than  forty  each; 
Georgia,  Missouri,  New  York,  North 
Carolina,  Tennessee,  and  Texas,  more 
than  thirty  each.  Iowa  has  one  such 
degree-granting  college  for  each  50,000 
of  her  inhabitants,  Ohio  one  for  each 
100,000,  Massachusetts  one  for  each 
200,000,  and  New  York  one  for  each 
300,000.  England  has  one  degree- 
granting  institution  for  every  three  mil- 
lions. 

These  establishments  bearing  the 
name  college  differ  so  widely  in  what 
they  undertake  to  do  and  in  the  meth- 
ods by  which  they  undertake  to  do  it, 
that  they  cannot  be  discussed  as  if 
they  belonged  to  a  homogeneous  group. 
Some  of  them  are  real-estate  ventures. 
A  very  large  proportion  are  prepara- 
tory schools  in  whole  or  in  part.  The 
majority  of  them  have  vague  and  un- 
certain relations  to  the  system  of 
schools  in  their  region. 


Many  attempts  have  been  made  to 
simplify  this  situation.  The  suggestion 
most  often  put  forward  is  that  colleges 
should  be  segregated  into  groups  com- 
parable with  each  other,  as  the  Amer- 
ican Medical  Association  classifies  the 
medical  schools,  so  that  the  public 
may  know  whether  a  given  institution 
is  a  No.  1  college,  a  No.  2  college,  or  a 
No.  3  college,  just  as  it  now  thinks  of 
the  medical  schools  as  belonging  to 
Class  A,  B,  or  C.  A  study  intended  to 
provide  an  approximate  grouping  of 
colleges  was  prepared  a  few  years  ago 
in  the  office  of  the  United  States  Com- 
missioner of  Education,  but  under  the 
gentle  pressure  of  politics  the  results 
have  never  been  allowed  to  reach  the 
public  eye. 

There  are,  in  truth,  no  specific  marks 
by  which  colleges  can  be  sharply  di- 
vided into  classes,  and  this  notwith- 
standing the  fact  that  many  things 
about  a  college  can  be  sharply  and  de- 
finitely appraised.  For  example,  it  is 
quite  possible  to  determine  whether  a 
given  college  maintains  a  wholesome 
and  fruitful  relation  to  the  public- 
school  system,  whether  it  has  a  reason- 
able and  honestly  enforced  system  of 
admission  to  its  classes,  whether  it  of- 
fers courses  which  are  of  high  quality 
given  by  good  teachers,  whether  its 
laboratories  and  its  physical  equip- 
ment are  of  a  generous  and  suitable 
kind. 

All  this  does  not  enable  one  to  sep- 
arate colleges  into  sharply  divided  class- 
es. These,  are  externals.  It  is  not  so 
easy  to  determine  in  what  way  are  de- 
fined the  intellectual  and  moral  forces 
which  ought  to  form  the  real  college. 
Take  a  single  matter,  that  of  entrance 
requirements.  An  arbitrary  standard 
of  comparison  in  this  matter  cannot  be 
instituted.  A  college  having  a  lower 
standard  of  entrance  requirements 
than  another  may  be  maintaining  a 
much  better  relation  to  the  public- 


334 


THE  CRITICS  OF  THE  COLLEGE 


school  system;  it  may  be  proceeding 
with  far  greater  honesty;  it  may  be  ex- 
ercising a  much  stronger  influence  for 
education  and  enlightenment  than  an- 
other whose  standards  of  admission 
are  artificially  higher.  In  other  words, 
nearly  all  these  matters  of  which  we 
talk  so  much  —  such  as  admission  re- 
quirements, courses  of  study,  labora- 
tory equipment  —  are  relative,  not  ab- 
solute. 

Are  there  any  absolute  criteria  upon 
which  colleges  may  be  classified? 

There  probably  are  not;  and  if  there 
were,  so  long  as  the  use  of  such  criteria 
is  affected  by  the  personal  equation  of 
the  man  who  applies  them,  there  is 
nothing  definitive  in  the  conclusions. 
There  is  no  sure  method  by  which  the 
college  goats  may  be  separated  from 
the  college  sheep.  Like  all  human  in- 
stitutions, however,  the  things  which 
differentiate  colleges  most  surely  from 
one  another  are  not  complex  intellec- 
tual qualities,  but  rather  the  funda- 
mental moral  ones.  Colleges  can  be 
classified  more  accurately  upon  a  com- 
parison of  their  relative  honesty  than 
upon  the  basis  of  their  relative  intellec- 
tuality. 

To  be  convinced  of  this  one  needs  to 
visit  many  colleges.  He  must  be  able 
to  think  in  terms  of  education  in  the 
nation  rather  than  in  terms  of  the  aspi- 
rations of  his  own  particular  college; 
he  must  visualize  education  as  one 
thing  from  elementary  school  to  uni- 
versity, not  as  a  series  of  unconnected 
things.  When  he  has  had  this  experi- 
ence he  will  come,  slowly  it  may  be, 
but  none  the  less  surely,  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  the  test  applied  to  banks  and 
churches  and  all  other  human  agencies 
—  the  test  of  common  honesty  —  is  on 
the  whole  the  most  fair  and  the  most 
applicable  in  any  attempt  to  differen- 
tiate among  colleges. 

Not  only  is  this  method  of  compar- 
ing colleges  fair  and  just,  but  the  col- 


leges furnish  the  means  for  its  uni- 
versal application.  Every  college  sets 
before  the  public  a  statement  of  its  of- 
ferings, in  the  form  of  an  annual  cata- 
logue. If  one  will  take  the  time  and 
labor  and  expense  (for  it  is  at  once  a 
time-consuming,  laborious,  and  expen- 
sive process)  to  compare  the  offerings 
of  a  number  of  colleges  as  presented  in 
their  catalogues  with  the  actual  fulfil- 
ment of  these  claims  as  carried  out  on 
the  college  campus,  he  will  conclude  that 
an  honest  catalogue  is  the  noblest  work 
of  a  college  and  the  surest  mark  of  col- 
lege virtue. 

Perhaps  the  college  catalogue  is  no- 
where so  misleading  as  in  its  references 
to  what  President  Wilson  once  called 
the  side  shows.  Many  colleges  lend  the 
shelter  of  their  charters  to  various  tech- 
nical or  professional  schools  which  they 
neither  support  nor  control,  such  as 
conservatories  of  music,  commercial 
schools,  medical  schools,  engineering 
schools,  and  graduate  schools.  Many  a 
good  college  which  guards  its  bachelor- 
of-arts  degree  with  watchful  care  will, 
without  the  quiver  of  an  eyelash,  shel- 
ter a  weak  engineering  school  or  a  com- 
mercial medical  school  of  the  lowest 
type.  The  tenderest  part  of  the  college 
conscience  lies  apparently  in  the  bach- 
elor-of-arts  course,  and  the  most  cal- 
lous in  the  medical  course. 

There  are  few  colleges  which  have 
not  felt  the  effect  of  the  universal 
scramble  for  numbers,  few  which  have 
not  become  in  greater  or  less  measure 
agencies  of  promotion,  few  which  do 
not  participate,  hi  some  degree  at  least, 
in  our  national  tendency  to  superficial- 
ity; but  on  the  whole  one  may  with 
some  fair  degree  of  justice  divide  these 
900  colleges  into  two  groups  —  those 
which  publish  catalogues  measurably 
honest  and  those  which  do  not.  Now 
the  criticisms  which  I  have  undertaken 
to  summarize  are  those  which  are  di- 
rected at  the  first  group.  This  simpli- 


THE  CRITICS  OF  THE  COLLEGE 


335 


fies  the  matter  enormously.  Not  only 
do  we  get  rid  at  one  stroke  of  the  great 
mass  of  material,  but  we  reduce  the 
criticisms  to  matters  of  large  college 
policy  instead  of  matters  of  detail. 
With  regard  to  the  second  group  one 
may  only  reflect,  'If  they  do  these 
things  in  the  green  tree,  what  shall  be 
done  in  the  dry?' 

And  now,  having  concluded  this  long 
introduction,  let  us  turn  to  our  crit- 
ics and  their  criticisms. 


ii 

/ 
The  serious  critics  of  the  college  fall 

into  three  groups :  the  college  teachers, 
students  of  the  social  order,  and  the 
business  men.  To  state  the  matter  in  a 
different  way,  the  college  is  being  crit- 
icized to-day  from  three  points  of  view : 
that  of  the  college  teacher,  that  of  the 
social  reformer,  and  that  of  the  busi- 
ness man. 

Of  these  the  college  teacher  is  the 
most  severe,  and  no  other  critic  has  so 
long  a  bill  of  indictment  or  one  con- 
taining so  many  specifications.  His 
charges  may  be  reduced  to  something 
like  the  following.  The  college,  as  it  is 
conducted  to-day,  provides  intellectual 
offerings  of  great  variety  and  of  high 
intrinsic  value,  but  fails  to  create  an 
atmosphere  in  which  these  opportuni- 
ties appeal  to  students.  Good  courses, 
good  teachers,  unequaled  equipment, 
characterize  the  modern  American  col- 
lege; a  rare  table  is  spread  for  the 
student,  but  there  is  no  appetite  for 
the  feast.  Scholarly  enthusiasm  among 
undergraduates  is  absent  save  in  rare 
cases,  and  scholarly  attainment  com- 
mands no  reward  and  little  attention. 
The  college  has  become  a  place  where 
othep  things  than  intellectual  power 
count. 

The  reasons  for  this  state  of  affairs 
are  stated  by  the  teachers  to  be  these. 
Colleges,  they  say,  are  ruled  by  presi- 


dents and  college  boards  having  lit- 
tle interest  in  the  ideals  of  the  teacher 
and  little  sympathy  for  them.  Rarely 
is  the  president  himself  a  teacher.  The 
president  and  the  board  are  swayed 
by  the  all-devouring  lust  for  numbers, 
and  everything  is  sacrificed  to  that 
end.  To  maintain  such  numbers  the 
standards  are  lowered,  examinations 
are  made  easy,  discipline  is  softened.  In 
consequence,  complains  the  college  pro- 
fessor, other  interests  than  intellectual 
ones  absorb  the  minds  of  the  college 
community. 

The  most  injurious  of  these  he  be- 
lieves to  be  intercollegiate  athletics, 
whose  overshadowing  importance  has 
affected  not  only  the  intellectual  life, 
but  the  moral  and  social  life  as  well, 
and  has  gone  far  to  increase  the  scale  of 
expenditures  of  the  college  boy.  Only 
a  board  of  trustees  and  a  college  presi- 
dent out  of  sympathy  with  the  ideals 
of  the  true  college  would  tolerate  this 
situation,  says  the  college  teacher,  and 
lays  the  blame  in  the  main  on  the  pro- 
moter president. 

The  remedy  which  the  college  teach- 
er proposes  for  all  this  is  to  reorgan- 
ize the  college  government:  to  create 
a  small  board  of  trustees  in  the  place 
of  the  present  large  one,  composed  of 
men  of  college  training  whose  function 
shall  be  primarily  to  find  the  ways 
and  means;  to  appoint  a  president  who 
shall  be  gather  an  intellectual  leader 
than  an  administrator  and  promoter; 
and  to  turn  over  to  the  faculty  the  gov- 
ernment of  the  college  in  such  measure 
as  shall  enable  its  members  to  carry 
out  their  ideals  of  intellectual  and  mor- 
al standards  and  to  maintain  what  they 
believe  to  be  the  true  purposes  of  the 
college.  If  the  college  is  turned  over  to 
us,  say  the  teachers,  we  will  make  it 
once  more  a  centre  of  intellectual  life, 
not  a  promotion  agency  or  an  athletic 
training-ground . 

The  criticisms  directed  against  the 


336 


THE  CRITICS  OF  THE  COLLEGE 


college  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  so- 
cial reformer  run  along  two  lines.  One 
has  to  do  with  the  ideal  of  democracy 
and  the  other  with  that  of  religion.  It 
is  impossible  to  discuss  one  without  the 
other.  There  is  a  strong  tendency  in 
the  college,  say  these  critics,  to  forget 
that  ideal  of  democracy  which  we  call 
American,  to  segregate  rich  and  poor 
into  different  groups,  to  increase  class 
distinctions  in  our  society  rather  than 
to  diminish  them,  to  make  the  groups 
of  students  who  attend  the  colleges 
rather  more  conscious  of  class  than  less 
so. 

Another  group  of  social  reformers  in- 
sists that  the  college,  which  was  twen- 
ty-five years  ago  distinctly  a  religious 
agency  with  a  definite  religious  atmos- 
phere, has  become,  if  not  irreligious,  at 
least  unreligious;  that  there  exists  in 
few  colleges  an  active  religious  spirit 
such  as  makes  itself  felt  upon  any  stud- 
ent who  enters  the  college  circle.  On 
account  of  these  two  changes,  the  re- 
formers say,  the  colleges  are  accentuat- 
ing the  tendency  of  the  country  away 
from  democratic  and  away  from  religi- 
ous ideals. 

The  third  criticism  comes  from  the 
business  world,  and  is  directed  both 
against  the  college  as  an  organization 
and  against  the  quality  of  the  product 
which  the  college  turns  out.  As  an  or- 
ganization, say  the  business  men,  the 
college  is  expensive,  uncritical  of  its 
own  processes,  and  grows  continually 
by  accretion.  Departments,  studies, 
and  new  divisions  are  added;  nothing 
is  ever  subtracted.  As  an  organization, 
the  business  man  claims,  the  college 
never  receives  the  critical  administra- 
tive examination  to  which  all  other  or- 
ganizations are  compelled  to  submit. 
While  a  newly  started  college  may 
therefore,  they  say,  be  soundly  organ- 
ized, all  colleges  become  after  a  greater 
or  less  time  ill  organized  and  expensive 
beyond  a  reasonable  limit.  In  the  sec- 


ond place,  say  the  business  men,  not- 
withstanding the  very  great  expendi- 
tures of  the  college,  the  men  it  turns 
out  are  on  the  whole  ill-trained,  are 
able  to  do  nothing  well,  as  a  class  are 
not  fond  of  work,  and  need  in  most  cas- 
es a  thorough  breaking-in  and  addition- 
al discipline  before  they  are  available 
for  serious  occupations.  The  college, 
therefore,  they  say,  is  not  only  poorly 
organized  and  inordinately  expensive, 
but  unsuccessful  in  what  it  undertakes 
to  do;  and  it  makes  no  serious  effort  to 
remedy  these  obvious  defects. 
i 

in 

How  far  are  these  criticisms  justi- 
fied? 

This  question  I  do  not  undertake  to 
answer.  The  Carnegie  Foundation,  as 
is  well  known,  exercises  but  a  modest 
function  in  educational  criticism.  I 
have  endeavored  rather  to  classify  the 
criticisms  and  to  reduce  them  to  some 
form  in  which  they  may  be  applicable 
to  groups  of  colleges  and  to  large  poli- 
cies. 

It  is  of  small  value  to  prove  that  this 
or  that  study  is  being  ill-taught.  No 
outside  critic  can  better  such  details. 
The  criticisms  which  are  here  brought 
together  are  fundamental.  They  are 
directed  at  the  organization  and  the 
government  of  every  college.  If  they 
are  true  criticisms,  they  are  worthy 
of  the  very  closest  attention  on  the 
part  of  those  who  govern  colleges  and 
of  those  who  teach  in  them;  and  again 
I  venture  to  recall  the  fact  that  the 
ability  to  make  use  of  intelligent  crit- 
icism is  the  surest  mark  of  a  high  order 
of  civilization. 

I  venture  only  to  call  attention  brief- 
ly to  the  source  of  the  criticisms  them- 
selves, and  the  claims  which  these  vari- 
ous groups  have  upon  the  attention  of 
college  trustees,  of  college  presidents, 
and  of  college  faculties. 


THE  CRITICS  OF  THE  COLLEGE 


337 


That  the  criticism  of  the  college 
teacher  is  in  large  measure  deserved 
there  can  be  small  doubt  on  the  part  of 
any  one  who  cares  to  know  the  facts. 
The  rage  for  numbers,  the  hot  pursuit 
of  gifts,  the  extraordinary  demoraliza- 
tion due  to  intercollegiate  athletics,  are 
all  factors  in  bringing  about  the  situa- 
tion of  which  the  teacher  complains 
and  in  which  he  himself  is  a  factor. 
The  indictment  he  brings  against  the 
government  of  the  colleges  is  in  a  very 
large  number  of  cases  true.  Outside  of 
a  few  of  the  older  colleges,  governing 
boards  are  unwieldy  in  size,  and  their 
members  are  selected  generally  upon 
material  grounds.  It  is  entirely  natural 
that  such  boards  should  choose  for 
president  a  promoter  rather  than  a 
scholar.  The  lack  of  a  capable  govern- 
ing board  is  to-day  perhaps  the  greatest 
weakness  in  our  college  organization, 
and  it  is  the  point  at  which  reform 
must  begin  if  the  evils  which  are  now 
recognized  and  admitted  are  to  be 
corrected. 

Whether  the  remedy  which  the  teach- 
er puts  forward,  that  the  governance 
of  the  college  be  handed  over  to  the 
faculty,  will  solve  these  difficulties  is 
another  question.  I  have  not  yet  en- 
countered a  teacher  critic  who  favored 
the  revision  or  even  the  scrutiny  of  his 
own  work  or  his  own  budget. 

The  distortion  of  our  present  college 
relations  produces  upon  the  mind  of  a 
European  visitor  an  effect  of  which  we 
are  seldom  conscious.  We  have  gradu- 
ally grown  accustomed  to  a  situation 
in  which  athletics  overshadows  all  else. 
To  the  European  this  discovery  comes 
with  something  of  a  shock.  A  distin- 
guished teacher  and  jurist  recently  vis- 
ited a  number  of  oui"  universities  in  a 
study  of  legal  education.  His  dismay 
and  astonishment  at  the  overpowering 
role  of  college  athletics  were  complete, 
and  he  expressed  the  naive  hope  that  in 
some  way  the  candidates  for  law  might 

VOL,  IU  -NO.  3. 


get  their  pre-legal  education  without  be- 
ing exposed  to  the  demoralizing  atmo- 
sphere of  the  college ! 

The  charge  that  the  college  is  un- 
democratic and  unreligious  has  never 
seemed  to  me  to  have  the  weight  which 
certain  reformers  attach  to  it.  Our 
American  colleges,  even  the  older  and 
richer  ones,  still  remain  wholesome, 
democratic  centres  of  student  life. 
There  are  few  places  in  the  world  where 
a  human  being  finds  himself  in  more 
sincere  relations. 

My  own  experience  makes  me  sus- 
pect that,  in  general,  the  reformer  un- 
derestimates the  capacity  of  the  Amer- 
ican college  student  for  serious  things. 
The  American  youth  is  strongly  in- 
clined to  pursue  heartily  those  things 
which  represent  in  the  society  in  which 
he  lives  the  prizes  of  life.  He  throws 
himself  into  athletics  with  such  vigor 
because,  on  the  whole,  in  the  present 
college  regime  it  seems  the  most  impor- 
tant thing  to  do,  the  thing  which  really 
demands  enthusiasm  and  devotion  and 
hard  work,  the  thing  which  brings  re- 
cognition and  reward. 

As  for  the  religious  side  of  student 
life,  that  reflects  the  prevailing  attitude 
of  the  American  people,  with  this  dif- 
ference. The  college  student  is  going 
through  an  experience  in  which  he  is 
learning  to  place  growing  emphasis 
upon  intellectual  sincerity.  At  such  a 
period  in  the  development  of  any  hu- 
man being  the  forms  of  religion  are 
sure  to  be  looked  at  critically,  but 
there  has  never  been  a  time  in  our 
history  when  the  college  student  was 
more  ready  to  take  kindly  to  a  simple, 
straightforward  conception  of  religion, 
or  when  he  was  more  ready  to  accept 
the  ideal  of  religious  service  and  of  un- 
selfish devotion.  The  tendencies  of  the 
college  life  still  seem  to  me  to  be  demo- 
cratic, and  if  the  college  boy  does  some- 
times put  his  devotion  and  his  effort 
into  the  wrong  thing,  it  is  because  he 


338 


THE  CRITICS  OF  THE  COLLEGE 


believes,  in  the  environment  in  which 
he  lives,  that  thing  to  be  of  most  im- 
portance. 

Concerning  the  complaint  of  the 
business  man,  what  I  have  to  say  has 
to  do,  not  with  the  accuracy  of  his 
charge,  but  with  the  point  of  view  from 
which  it  comes. 

Two  reasons  have  combined  in  the 
last  two  decades  to  make  business  men 
more  critical  of  the  college.  The  first 
lies  in  the  fact  that  only  within  the  last 
twenty-five  years  has  the  business 
man's  son,  as  a  rule,  gone  to  college; 
and  business  men  are  now  beginning  to 
test  in  great  numbers  in  the  records  of 
their  own  sons  the  result  of  present-day 
college  training.  It  is  very  difficult  to 
convince  an  energetic,  alert,  driving 
business  man  that  the  college  is  a  fruit- 
ful agency  in  education  when  his  sons 
come  home  lacking  serious  purpose,  de- 
ficient in  the  elements  of  an  education, 
unable  to  write  a  good  letter,  and  utter- 
ly uninterested  in  the  details  or  the  de- 
velopment of  business.  The  son  who 
comes  out  of  college  a  failure  is  to  the 
business  man  an  argumentum  ad  homi- 
nem  hard  to  overcome. 

A  second  reason  for  the  accentuation 
of  criticism  from  business  men  is  found 
in  the  systematic  exploitation  of  busi- 
ness men  by  the  colleges.  The  busi- 
ness world  has  begun  to  feel  that  it  is 
giving  so  much  money  to  support  the 
colleges  that  it  has  a  right  to  know  how 
the  money  is  spent  and  what  results 
from  it. 

We  read  in  the  daily  papers  half- 
humorous  allusions  to  the  college  pre- 
sident as  a  beggar,  but  few  appreciate 
how  large  a  business  college-begging 
has  become.  It  is  a  business;  and  it 
has  come  to  be  prosecuted  in  the  most 
systematic  and  persistent  way.  The 
amount  of  money  annually  'lifted'  in 
cities  like  New  York,  Boston,  Phila- 
delphia, Chicago,  and  St.  Louis,  as  the 
result  of  these  systematic  and  continu- 


ous efforts,  aggregates  many  millions. 
When  a  new  college  is  organized  in  any 
part  of  the  United  States,  the  first 
move  is  to  send  an  agent  —  generally 
the  president,  sometimes  a  salaried  so- 
licitor —  to  canvass  first  the  Eastern 
cities,  then  the  near-by  cities.  In  New 
York  the  business  men  have  for  the  last 
twenty  years  subscribed  to  nearly  all 
such  efforts  as  a  matter  of  course.  It 
has  been  assumed  that  any  college  was 
necessarily  a  good  thing  to  help.  The 
business  man  has  had  no  means  of 
scrutinizing  these  efforts.  He  gives  as 
the  Lord  sends  his  rain,  to  the  just  and 
to  the  unjust.  The  total  which  he  con- 
tributes is  enormous. 

The  applications  made  to  these  men 
would  in  many  cases  not  bear  the  sim- 
plest scrutiny.  The  causes  which  they 
represent  vary  from  actual  frauds  to 
the  most  sincere  and  praiseworthy  edu- 
cational efforts.  The  amount  of  fraud 
connected  with  the  business  of  solicit- 
ing money  for  colleges  will  astonish  any 
one  who  has  not  looked  into  it.  There 
are  enterprises  in  this  country  bearing 
the  name  college  or  university  which 
have  never  taught  a  class,  which  have 
not  a  single  college  building,  but  which 
have  for  years  collected  money  from  a 
confiding  public. 

Such  cases  are,  of  course,  extreme. 
Nearly  always  the  college  beggar  is  sin- 
cere in  the  belief  that  his  institution 
represents  a  real  cause.  I  have  rarely 
found  an  educational  enterprise  whose 
promoters  did  not  believe  that  it  repre- 
sented an  unusual  and  unique  oppor- 
tunity. The  most  unsanitary  and  im- 
possible medical  school  persuades  itself 
that  students  are  somehow  better  off 
with  it  than  they  would  be  under  better 
conditions. 

Some  years  ago  the  collector  for  a 
small  institution,  a  college  in  name 
only,  came  to  me  and  suggested  that  if 
1  would  give  him  a  recommendation  for 
his  college,  he  thought  he  could  collect 


THE  CRITICS  OF  THE  COLLEGE 


339 


a  large  sum  of  money  from  some  chari- 
tably inclined  men  and  women  of  New 
York.  My  reply  was  that,  in  my  judg- 
ment, his  institution  was  in  no  position 
to  solicit  such  aid.  In  the  first  place, 
it  was  not  a  college;  in  the  second 
place,  it  was  essentially  a  proprietary 
institution;  in  the  third  place,  it  was 
engaged  in  demoralizing  the  public- 
school  system  of  the  state  in  which  it 
stood.  For  all  these  reasons  I  declined 
to  be  a  factor  in  the  situation.  Three 
weeks  later  he  called  with  the  utmost 
good  nature,  merely  to  say  good-bye, 
and  as  he  left,  he  added,  *I  got  the 
money  all  right.' 

It  is  the  realization  of  these  two 
things  which  has  made  the  business 
men  more  critical  toward  the  college. 
First,  they  have  been  conscious  of 
many  failures  which  touch  them  close- 
ly. In  the  second  place,  they  have  be- 
come more  and  more  sensitive  to  the 
fact  that  they  are  contributing  at  an 
enormously  increasing  rate  to  institu- 
tions of  whose  merit  they  begin  to 
have  serious  doubts. 

The  charge  which  the  business  man 
makes  against  the  college  is  practically 
that  of  inefficiency.  The  word  has  a 
very  offensive  sound  in  the  ears  of  the 
college  man.  I  am  creditably  informed 
that  in  some  college  faculties  the  word 
efficient  is  no  longer  considered  fit  for 
decent  society. 

This  feeling  on  the  part  of  the  college 
professor  is  readily  understood.  The 
word  efficiency  has  been  overworked 
and  badly  applied.  It  is  perfectly  true 
that  one  cannot  gauge  the  work  and 
cost  of  an  educational  agency  by  the 
hard-and-fast  tests  of  business.  No  one 
has  seriously  proposed  to  do  this  save 
a  few  extraordinary  state  officers.  In 
one  state  a  board  was  at  one  time  ap- 
pointed to  test  the  efficiency  of  every 
teacher.  The  absurdity  of  the  proposal 
was  enough  to  dispose  of  it. 

This  crude  use   of  the   term    has, 


however,  been  no  justification  for  the 
extreme  tenderness  of  many  college  pro- 
fessors and  presidents.  College  profes- 
sors are  human  and  colleges  are  human 
institutions.  Selfishness  and  waste  may 
flourish  in  them  as  in  other  organiza- 
tions. What  the  business  man  has  said 
in  criticism  of  them  is  almost  equiva- 
lent to  what  the  college  professor  him- 
self has  said.  It  is  simply  expressed  in 
terms  of  business  vernacular.  There 
are  in  our  country  to-day  institutions 
which  spend  annually  larger  sums  than 
any  single  institution  of  learning  ever 
spent  in  the  previous  history  of  the 
world. 

These  vast  sums  have  been  used  at 
times  selfishly.  The  college  tends  to 
grow  all  the  time  by  accretion.  It  has 
not  set  itself  to  study  its  own  organi- 
zation and  improvement.  What  the 
business  man  really  means  to  say  in  his 
charge  of  inefficiency  is  that  the  college 
president  and  the  college  professor,  in- 
stead of  continually  asking  more  mon- 
ey, instead  of  always  urging  the  needs 
of  this  department  or  that,  should  seri- 
ously set  themselves  to  examine  What 
they  are  doing  with  the  money  gener- 
ously supplied  them  in  the  last  quarter 
century. 

After  all,  this  suggestion  is  not  very 
far  from  that  which  is  implied  in  the 
criticism  of  the  college  teacher.  It  is 
not  that  the  teacher  or  the  college  shall 
be  judged  by  impossible  materialistic 
criteria,  but  that  the  college  make  its 
own  examination  and  that  there  should 
be  some  sort  of  relation  between  the 
vast  endowments  of  the  colleges  and 
the  work  which  they  actually  perform. 


IV 

How  far  do  these  criticisms  apply  to 
the  women's  colleges? 

I  think  it  may  be  fairly  said  that  the 
women's  colleges  are  not  open  to  exact- 
ly the  same  sort  of  criticism  as  men's 


340 


THE  CRITICS  OF  THE  COLLEGE 


colleges.  First  of  all,  they  have  not 
shared  to  the  same  degree  the  flood  of 
money  which  has  gone  to  the  older 
men's  colleges;  secondly,  intercollegi- 
ate athletics  has  certainly  not  distorted 
their  ideals  of  college  life;  and  finally, 
it  will  be  admitted  that  the  young  wo- 
man in  such  a  college  takes  her  work 
on  the  average  more  seriously  and 
more  conscientiously  than  her  brother 
who  goes  to  Harvard  or  Yale  or  Prince- 
ton. 

There  is  a  feeling  that,  notwithstand- 
ing her  greater  seriousness  cind  more 
conscientious  attitude  toward  study, 
the  college  girl  does  not  get  quite  so 
much  out  of  college  as  her  brother.  The 
youth  who  goes  to  college  does  not  cut 
himself  off  during  these  four  years  from 
participation  in  the  social  order.  Some- 
times he  sees  much  more  of  the  fasci- 
nating young  women  of  the  college 
town  than  he  had  ever  seen  of  those 
at  home  in  his  previous  history.  As  a 
rule,  he  comes  out  of  college  with  what 
might  be  called  a  more  normal  social 
experience  than  his  sister  who  goes  to 
a  woman's  college. 

Whether  justly  or  unjustly,  the  col- 
lege world  believes  that  the  woman's 
college  is  a  somewhat  secluded  institu- 
tion separated  from  other  social  life, 
and  that  on  the  whole  the  young  "wo- 
man in  such  a  college  gets  more  study, 
but  less  development  as  a  member  of 
society  than  falls  to  the  lot  of  the  av- 
erage youth. 

It  is  my  pleasant  duty  now  and  again 
to  attend  a  commencement  in  one  of 
the  old-time  colleges  for  women.  They 
exist  now  only  in  remote  parts  of  our 
country.  The  curriculum  would  be  be- 
neath contempt  from  the  standpoint  of 
the  modern  woman's  college.  It  has 
scarcely  begun  to  have  psychology,  and 
every  one  understands  what  a  rudimen- 
tary stage  that  signifies.  Yet  I  confess 
that  there  is  something  very  charming 
about  these  old-time  schools;  and  while 


the  girls  lack  psychology,  they  seem  to 
know  a  deal  about  other  matters.  I 
have  noticed  that  invariably  such  col- 
leges are  placed  conveniently  near  a 
man's  college  or  a  military  academy  or 
some  similar  institution;  and  there  are 
nearly  always  interesting  goings  on  be- 
tween these  two.  They  have  a  social 
life  in  common,  which  adds  spice  to  the 
chapters  on  psychology.  I  have  won- 
dered sometimes  whether,  after  all, 
this  arrangement  did  not  make  for  a 
social  education  that  looked  toward 
charm  and  consideration  for  others  and 
a  knowledge  of  human  nature;  and  in 
this  sinful  world  charm  and  a  know- 
ledge of  human  nature  serve  many  good 
ends. 

A  notable  opportunity  is  offered  at 
Bryn  Mawr  for  such  reciprocity.  At  its 
door  stands  one  of  the  best  American 
colleges.  What  a  charming  arrange- 
ment it  would  be  if  there  were  some  so- 
cial interchange  between  Bryn  Mawr 
and  Haverford!  It  seems  an  odd  social 
conception  which  permits  them  to  sit 
side  by  side  year  in  and  year  out  and 
take  no  notice  of  each  other's  existence. 
Of  course,  the  fact  that  both  these  col- 
leges are  under  the  auspices  of  the  same 
body  of  Christians  makes  an  addition- 
al difficulty  in  any  social  rapproche- 
ment; but,  after  all,  this  might  not 
prove  an  insuperable  obstacle.  What 
delightful  opportunities  are  available 
for  Barnard  and  Radcliffe! 

I  venture  a  single  word  more  with  re- 
gard to  all  these  criticisms.  All  that 
such  criticisms  can  do  is  to  point  the 
way  by  which  those  who  are  charged 
with  the  responsibility  may  bring 
about  reforms.  One  can  at  least  say  that 
these  criticisms  call  for  a  sincere  self- 
examination  on  the  part  of  the  colleges, 
a  self-examination  on  the  part  not  only 
of  those  who  teach,  but  of  those  who 
govern  —  a  self-examination  in  which 
the  trustees  shall  make  clear  to  them- 
selves their  own  function  and  the  fit- 


THE  CRITICS  OF  THE  COLLEGE 


341 


ness  of  their  organization  to  perform 
this  function;  in  which  the  president 
shall  make  clear  to  himself  his  own  du- 
ty and  his  own  relations;  and  in  which 
the  members  of  the  faculty  shall  shoul- 
der honestly  the  actual  problems  of 
their  teaching,  shall  squarely  take  the 
responsibility  for  the  use  of  the  large 
sums  of  money  now  entrusted  to  them, 
and  shall  sincerely  undertake  to  an- 
swer the  question  whether  or  not  the 
responsibility  for  the  present  failings  of 
the  college  does  not  rest  partly  with 
them. 

To  one  whose  work  day  by  day  brings 
him  in  contact  not  only  with  many  col- 
leges, but  with  many  business  men, 
with  many  social  workers,  there  is  a 
feature  of  the  whole  college  situation 
which  always  brings  a  reassurance  of 
comfort  and  of  confidence. 

Notwithstanding  the  weaknesses  of 
the  college  to-day,  notwithstanding  the 
fact  that  many  a  youth  comes  away 
from  it  injured  for  life  rather  than 


helped,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that 
it  has  not  yet  resolutely  faced  the  pre- 
sent-day problems,  the  fact  still  re- 
mains that  it  is  the  best  agency  society 
has  yet  devised  for  the  training  of  lead- 
ers; and  I  apprehend  that  this  remains 
true  largely  for  the  reason  that,  not- 
withstanding all  these  weaknesses,  the 
youth  during  his  college  life  is  under 
the  sway  of  ideals  which  make  him 
for  all  the  rest  of  his  life  —  in  part,  at 
least — an  idealist.  These  ideals  are  not 
always  the  highest.  In  too  many  cases 
the  boy  gets  them  from  the  training 
coach  rather  than  from  the  teacher, 
from  an  obscure  instructor  rather  than 
from  an  experienced  professor,  from  the 
college  treasurer  rather  than  from  the 
college  president;  but  nevertheless  they 
express  devotion,  service,  unselfish- 
ness, patriotism.  It  is  because  the 
college  is  still  a  place  in  which  ideals 
grow  that  the  college  remains  the  most 
fruitful  training  place  for  the  world's 
leaders. 


POSSESSING  PRUDENCE 


BY   AMY   WENTWORTH   STONE 


'A  LIE'S  an  abomination  unto  the 
Lord  a  hundred  and  twenty-four,  a 
lie's  an  abomination  unto  the  Lord  a 
hundred  and  twenty-five,  a  lie's  an 
abomination  unto  the  Lord  a  hundred 
and  twenty-six,'  recited  Prudence  Jane, 
and  paused. 

*  Go  on,'  said  Aunt  Annie,  looking  up 
from  her  sewing  and  fixing  her  eyes 
severely  on  the  small  blue  back  across 
the  room. 

Prudence  Jane,  with  the  heels  of  her 
little  ankle-ties  together  and  her  hands 
clasped  tightly  behind  her,  was  standing 
in  the  corner,  saying  what  was  known 
in  the  family  as  her  punish-sentence. 
Whenever  she  had  been  unusually 
naughty  she  had  to  say  one  four  hun- 
dred times  up  in  Aunt  Annie's  room. 
It  was,  no  doubt,  a  silly  sort  of  punish- 
ment, but  it  was  one  that  Prudence 
Jane  strongly  objected  to  —  and  that, 
after  all,  is  the  essence  of  a  punishment. 
Prudence  Jane  had  seven  teasing,  mim- 
icking brothers,  and  whenever  one  of 
them  caught  her  saying  a  punish-sen- 
tence it  was  days  before  she  heard  the 
last  of  it.  Already  in  the  garden  below 
there  was  audible  a  shrill  voice  singing, 
'A  lie  is  an  a&ora-i-na-tion  un-to  the 
Lord,'  to  the  tune  of  *  Has  anybody  here 
seen  Kelly?'  And  out  of  the  corner  of 
her  eye,  that  was  supposed  to  be  fas- 
tened on  the  rosebuds  of  Aunt  Annie's 
wall-paper,  Prudence  Jane  could  see 
an  impudent  little  person  in  corduroys, 
straddling  the  gravel  walk  and  squint- 
ing up  at  the  window. 

342 


'Is  "a  lie's  an  abomination"  in  the 
Bible?'  inquired  Prudence  Jane. 

'Yes,'  said  Aunt  Annie,  'go  on.' 

'Where?'  demanded  Prudence  Jane. 

'Where?'  repeated  Aunt  Annie  a 
little  blankly.  'Why  —  why — in  the 
middle  of  the  Bible.  Don't  you  listen 
to  the  minister,  Prudence  Jane?' 

'The  middle  of  the  minister's  Bible?' 
pursued  Prudence  Jane. 

'Yes,  of  course,'  said  Aunt  Annie, 
'  Prudence  Jane,  if  you  don't  go  on  at 
once  I  shall  have  you  say  it  five  hun- 
dred times.' 

'A  lie's  an  abomination  unto  the 
Lord  a  hundred  and  twenty-seven,'  re- 
sumed Prudence  Jane  hastily. 

Prudence  Jane's  sentences  varied 
from  day  to  day,  it  being  Aunt  Annie's 
idea  to  fit  the  sentence  to  the  crime 
whenever  possible.  Thus,  for  being  late 
to  school  it  was,  naturally,  'Procrasti- 
nation is  the  thief  of  time.'  While  for 
telling  Lena,  the  cook,  that  Uncle  Ar- 
thur had  said  she  was  more  of  a  lady 
than  Aunt  Annie,  the  sentence  had  been 
nothing  less  than,  'Truth  crushed  to 
earth  will  rise  again.' 

This  particular  fib  had  been  very  dis- 
astrous in  its  consequences.  We  will 
not  dwell  upon  them  here.  They  make 
a  story  in  themselves.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  there  was  no  possible  excuse  for 
Prudence  Jane. 

It  was  otherwise  with  the  fib  for 
which  she  was  this  morning  serving  a 
sentence  up  in  Aunt  Annie's  room. 
Those  who  also  have  been  named  after 
their  two  grandmothers  will  at  once 
forgive  Prudence  Jane  for  telling  the 


POSSESSING  PRUDENCE 


343 


new  minister,  the  very  first  time  she 
met  him,  that  her  name  was  Imogen 
Rose.  It  was,  to  be  sure,  a  stupid  little 
fib,  and  was  therefore  quite  unworthy 
of  Prudence  Jane.  For  Prudence  Jane 
almost  never  told  stupid  little  fibs.  The 
fibs  of  Prudence  Jane  were  little  mas- 
terpieces, with  a  finish  and  distinction 
all  their  own.  Her  brother  Will,  who 
adored  her,  and  had  a  large  mind,  de- 
clared when  he  came  home  from  college 
that  she  was  the  greatest  mistress  of 
imaginative  fiction  since  George  Eliot. 
Her  Aunt  Annie,  who  had  not  had  the 
advantages  of  a  college  course,  and  who 
roomed  with  Prudence  Jane,  said  that 
she  was  a  'simple  little  liar.* 

Now  this  was  unfair  of  Aunt  Annie, 
for  whatever  else  Prudence  Jane  might 
be,  she  was  not  simple.  Even  her  looks 
belied  her.  With  her  big  confiding  eyes, 
as  round  and  blue  as  two  forget-me- 
nots,  and  her  pale  yellow  hair  held  de- 
murely back  from  her  forehead  by  a 
blue  ribbon  fillet,  she  gave  an  impres- 
sion of  gentle  innocence  that  was  alto- 
gether misleading. 

'She  is  so  like  little  Bertie,'  dear  old 
Grandma  Piper  would  say;  'that  same 
frail,  flower-like  look  that  he  had  to- 
ward the  last.  I  almost  tremble  some- 
times. Have  n't  you  noticed  a  trans- 
parency about  her  lately,  Annie?' 

But  Aunt  Annie  never  had. 

It  may  be  said  in  passing  that  there 
was  only  one  person  to  whom  Prudence 
Jane  was  really  transparent,  and  that 
was  her  youngest  brother,  Peter.  Peter 
was  a  square,  solid  little  person,  with 
a  vacant  countenance;  but  nothing  im- 
portant that  Prudence  Jane  did  es- 
caped him. 

'Just  to  look  into  that  sweet  little 
face  is  enough  for  me,'  Grandma  Good- 
win would  declare;  'I  don't  want  any- 
body to  tell  me  that  Prudence  Jane 
is  untruthful.-  No  child  could  look 
straight  at  you  out  of  her  little  soul  as 
she  always  does,  and  tell  a  fib.  The 


trouble  is  they  don't  understand  her 
at  home.  I  've  always  said  Annie  Piper 
had  a  suspicious  nature.' 

To  do  Aunt  Annie  justice,  it  should 
be  said  that  rooming  with  Prudence 
Jane  did  not  tend  to  cultivate  in  one  a 
nature  that  was  trustful  and  confiding. 
And  yet  at  heart  Prudence  Jane  was 
really  not  at  all  the  incorrigible  little 
fibber  that  she  seemed.  She  told  fibs, 
not  because  she  wished  to  deceive,  but 
because  the  dull  facts  of  life  were  so 
much  less  interesting  than  the  lively 
little  romances  that  she  could  make  up 
out  of  her  own  head.  When  one  is  a 
creative  genius  one  naturally  rebels  at 
being  shackled  to  anything  so  tedious 
as  a  fact.  Prudence  Jane,  looking  back 
over  a  day,  could  rarely  separate  the 
things  that  had  really  happened  from 
those  that  she  had  invented. 

Her  brother  Horace,  who  was  study- 
ing law,  said  that  he  would  give  a  hun- 
dred dollars  to  see  Prudence  Jane  on 
the  witness  stand.  This  was  one  night 
at  supper  when  she  was  being  cross- 
examined  by  Aunt  Annie.  For  five  min- 
utes she  had  kept  the  family  spell- 
bound by  a  circumstantial  account  of 
how  that  afternoon  she  had  seen  an  au- 
tomobile truck,  loaded  with  a  thousand 
boxes  of  eggs,  go  over  the  embankment. 
With  eggs  at  sixty-five  cents  a  dozen 
this  was  really  a  very  shocking  tale. 

'Prudence  Jane,'  said  Aunt  Annie, 
who  had  private  sources  of  informa- 
tion, 'you  know  well  enough  that  no 
truck  went  over  the  embankment. 
Whatever  do  you  mean  by  telling  such 
an  outrageous  fib?' 

Prudence  Jane  looked  across  the 
supper  table  at  her  aunt  out  of  two 
round  candid  eyes. 

'That  was  n't  a  fib;  that  was  just  a 
story,'  she  explained. 

'Well,  it  wasn't  true;  and  stories 
that  are  n't  true  are  very  wicked,'  said 
Aunt  Annie  with  decision. 

'Are  all  the  stories  in  books  true?' 


S44 


POSSESSING   PRUDENCE 


inquired  Prudence  Jane,  the  picture  of 
innocence  behind  her  bowl  of  bread  and 
milk. 

'No,'  Aunt  Annie  was  forced  to  ad- 
mit, 'but  stories  written  in  books  are 
different.  The  writers  don't  mean  for 
us  to  believe  them.' 

'Do  they  say  so  in  the  books?'  went 
on  Prudence  Jane  relentlessly. 

*  Of  course  not,'  said  Aunt  Annie,  'we 
know  their  stories  are  n't  true,  so  they 
don't  deceive  us.' 

'But  you  always  know  my  stories 
are  n't  true  too,'  objected  Prudence 
Jane,  'so  I  don't  deceive  you  either.' 

'Prudence  Jane,'  said  Aunt  Annie, 
'I  shan't  argue  with  you.  You  are  a 
very  naughty  little  girl.  I  sometimes 
think  that  you  don't  belong  to  us  at 
all;  you're  so  different  from  your  bro- 
thers.' 

This  was  true.  All  the  other  little 
Pipers  had  been  simple,  virtuous  chil- 
dren, with  imaginations  under  perfect 
control  — '  a  remarkable  family '  every- 
body had  said,  until  the  Pipers  became 
quite  complacent  about  themselves. 
This  was  why  Prudence  Jane  seemed 
like  such  a  judgment  upon  them.  They 
had  waited  long  and  patiently,  as  Aunt 
Annie  put  it,  for  Providence  to  see  fit 
to  send  them  a  dear  little  girl  to  inherit 
her  grandmothers'  names  —  and  they 
received  Prudence  Jane.  Had  she  ap- 
peared at  an  earlier  date,  or  had  there 
been  another  girl  in  the  family,  she 
might  have  escaped  either  the  Pru- 
dence or  the  Jane.  But  for  fifteen  years 
little  masculine  Pipers  had  arrived  in 
the  household  with  unbroken  regular- 
ity, and  been  named,  one  by  one,  after 
all  the  available  grandfathers  and  un- 
cles. For  the  last  one,  indeed,  there  had 
not  been  even  a  cousin  left,  and  he  had 
been  christened  by  common  consent 
Peter  Piper.  And  still  the  grandmo- 
thers waited. 

From  the  moment,  therefore,  when 
bluff  old  Doctor  Jones  looked  in  upon 


a  parlor  full  of  aunts,  and  announced 
that  it  was  'a  girl  at  last,  by  Jove,' 
there  had  been  no  choice  left  for  Pru- 
dence Jane.  The  only  point  discussed 
in  the  solemn  family  conclave  was  as 
to  whether  she  should  not  be  Jane  Pru- 
dence. 

'Oh,  for  mercy's  sake,  call  the  poor 
little  kid  Jurisprudence,  and  be  done 
with  it,'  said  a  flippant  uncle  -  -  and 
that  had  settled  it.  Prudence  Jane  was 
duly  entered  at  the  end  of  the  list  in  the 
middle  of  the  Family  Bible,  and  her 
career  began. 

Through  eight  years  she  was  just  un- 
mitigated Prudence  Jane,  -  -  not  a  syl- 
lable of  it  could  ever  be  omitted  lest  one 
grandmother  or  the  other  be  slighted,  - 
and  then  suddenly  one  day  she  decided 
that  it  was  a  combination  no  longer  to 
be  borne.  She  hated  her  name  with  all 
her  little  soul;  therefore  she  would  dis- 
card it  and  take  another.  This  sounded 
simple,  but  there  were,  in  fact,  several 
complications.  The  most  important  was 
Aunt  Annie.  Never  a  really  progressive 
spirit,  in  this  matter  of  names  Aunt 
Annie  showed  herself  to  be  an  out- 
and-out  stand-patter. 

'You  wish  that  you  had  been  called 
Gwendolin?'  she  echoed  in  horror,  as 
she  combed  out  the  pale  yellow  hair  at 
bed- time.  'Why,  Prudence  Jane,  I'm 
ashamed  of  you.  Gwendolin  is  a  very 
silly  name  indeed,  and  you  have  two 
such  noble  ones.  I  only  hope  that  you 
will  grow  up  to  be  like  the  beautiful 
grandmammas  who  gave  them  to  you ' 
—  which  was  a  truly  lovely  little  bit  of 
optimism  on  Aunt  Annie's  part. 

II 

Prudence  Jane  did  not  consult  Aunt 
Annie  further.  That  very  night,  how- 
ever, staring  up  into  the  darkness  from 
her  little  white  bed,  she  decided  upon  a 
new  combination.  And  when  the  Rev- 
erend Mr.  Sanders  came  up  to  her  the 


POSSESSING  PRUDENCE 


345 


next  day  after  Sunday  School,  and  in- 
quired kindly  what  little  girl  this  was, 
Prudence  Jane  was  quite  prepared  to 
tell  him,  with  the  transparent  look  that 
so  frightened  dear  old  Grandma  Piper, 
that  it  was  Imogen  Rose. 

She  fully  meant  to  inform  her  family 
of  this  interesting  change  as  soon  as  she 
got  home  from  Sunday  School,  but 
when  she  tiptoed  into  the  parlor  Aunt 
Annie,  in  all  the  majesty  of  her  plum- 
colored  satin,  was  sitting  in  a  straight- 
backed  chair  reading  The  Christian 
Word  and  Work,  and  looked  unrecep- 
tive  to  new  ideas.  So  Prudence  Jane 
tiptoed  out  again,  to  await  a  more  favo- 
rable moment.  Unfortunately,  before 
that  moment  arrived  she  had  a  falling- 
out  with  her  brother  Peter.  This  was  a 
mistake,  for  it  was  the  part  of  prudence 
always  to  make  an  ally  of  Peter  Piper. 
He  had  discovered  Prudence  Jane  flat 
on  the  floor  in  a  corner  of  the  library, 
scratching  her  name  out  of  the  Family 
Bible  with  an  ink  eraser. 

'Did  the  minister  tell  you  to  write 
Imogen  in  ? '  he  inquired  blandly,  as  he 
stood  in  the  doorway  with  his  hands  in 
his  corduroys. 

'None  of  your  business,'  retorted 
Prudence  Jane,  closing  the  Bible  with 
a  bang  and  sitting  down  upon  it. 

The  result  was  that  Peter  Piper, 
from  whom  nothing  was  ever  hid- 
den, went  off"  and  told  Aunt  Annie  all 
about  Imogen  Rose  and  the  minister. 
Whereupon  Aunt  Annie,  with  her  usual 
limited  point  of  view,  had  pronounced 
it  a  very  monstrous  fib  indeed,  and  had 
sent  Prudence  Jane  instantly  into  the 
corner. 

'A  lie's  an  abomination  unto  the 
Lord  three  hundred  and  ninety-eight, 
a  lie's  an  abomination  unto  the  Lord 
three  hundred  and  ninety-nine,  a  lie's 
an  abomination  unto  the  Lord  four 
hundred,'  finished  Prudence  Jane  at  a 
canter,  and  whisked  around  from  her 
corner. 


Aunt  Annie  beckoned  with  solemn 
finger. 

*  To-morrow,    Prudence   Jane,'    she 
said,  looking  across  the  sewing-table, 
*  I  am  going  to  take  you  to  see  the  min- 
ister and  you  must  tell  him  yourself 
what  your  real  name  is,  and  what  a 
dreadful  story  you  have  told  him.    I 
shall  ask  him  what  he  thinks  should  be 
done  with  a  little  girl  who  cannot  speak 
the  truth.  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what 
he  will  say.    But  we  can't  deceive  a 
minister.    They   always   know   when 
they  hear  a  fib.' 

'Do  they?'  asked  Prudence  Jane, 
openly  interested,  her  round  eyes  fast- 
ened upon  her  aunt. 

*  Always,'  replied  Aunt  Annie  rashly. 
'Then  why  do  I  have  to  go  and  tell 

him?'  asked  Prudence  Jane. 

'Prudence  Jane,'  said  Aunt  Annie, 
'you  are  a  very  saucy  little  girl,  and 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  is  going 
to  become  of  you.' 

Prudence  Jane  walked  slowly  out  of 
the  room.  She  was  considering  what 
Aunt  Annie  had  said  about  ministers, 
and  she  wondered  if  it  were  true.  As 
she  went  tripping  down  the  stairs  she 
decided  to  put  the  Reverend  Mr.  San- 
ders to  a  test  the  very  next  time  she 
met  him.  And  that  was  why  it  was  so 
surprising,  when  she  peeked  through 
the  hall  window  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
to  behold  him  diligently  wiping  his  feet 
on  the  door-mat. 

'How  do  you  do,'  said  Prudence  Jane 
politely,  as  she  opened  the  door. 

'Why,  good  afternoon,  Imogen,'  said 
the  minister,  shaking  hands  cordially. 

Prudence  Jane  made  the  little  knix 
that  she  had  learned  at  German  school. 
It  was  always  the  finishing  touch  to 
Prudence  Jane.  The  Reverend  Mr. 
Sanders  looked  down  upon  it  with  a 
most  friendly  smile. 

'Is  your  aunt  at  home?'  he  asked, 
placing  his  hat  on  the  table  and  fol- 
lowing Prudence  Jane  into  the  parlor. 


346 


POSSESSING  PRUDENCE 


'Yes,'  she  said  with  simple  candor. 
A  fib  of  that  sort  was  quite  beneath 
Prudence  Jane. 

Then  she  sat  down  on  a  velvet  sofa, 
spread  out  her  little  blue  skirt,  folded 
her  hands  in  her  lap  and  crossed  her 
ankle-ties.  She  had  never  in  her  life 
looked  so  much  like  little  Bertie.  The 
Reverend  Mr.  Sanders,  regarding  her 
from  an  opposite  chair,  waited  for  her 
to  open  her  lips  and  say,  '  Speak,  Lord, 
for  thy  servant  heareth.'  Instead,  this 
is  what  she  said: — 

'Is  Eliza  Anna  Bomination  your 
grandmother?' 

'I  beg  pardon/  said  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Sanders. 

'  Is  she  dead  and  gone  to  heaven,  and 
that 's  why  you  say  *  *  unto  the  Lord  "  ? ' 
continued  Prudence  Jane. 

'I  wonder,  Imogen,'  he  said,  'if  you 
would  mind  beginning  over  again.' 

'I  say,  is  Eliza  Anna  Bomination 
your  grandmother? '  repeated  Prudence 
Jane.  'Aunt  Annie  says  she's  writ- 
ten down  in  the  middle  of  your  Bible 
where  all  people's  relations  are,  and 
she  sounded  like  a  grandmother;  they 
always  have  such  horrid  names.' 

The  minister  looked  across  at  the  vel- 
vet sofa  with  eyes  that  entirely  contra- 
dicted the  gravity  of  his  face. 

'No,'  he  said,  'I'm  sorry,  but  she 
is  n't.  I  wish  she  were.  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  jolly  grandmother.' 

'Is  she  an  aunt?'  pursued  his  small 
interlocutor. 

'I'm  afraid  that  she's  not  even  re- 
lated by  marriage,'  he  replied. 

'Is  n't  she  written  down  in  the  mid- 
dle of  your  Bible  at  all? '  said  Prudence 
Jane. 

The  minister  shook  his  head. 

'No,'  he  said,  'I'm  afraid  not.' 

'Then  Aunt  Annie  told  a  whopper,' 
announced  Prudence  Jane  with  satis- 
faction. 

'We  should  not  malign  the  absent,' 
said  the  Reverend  Mr.  Sanders.  'And 


that  being  the  case,  suppose  you  go  up 
at  this  point,  Imogen,  and  tell  your 
Aunt  Annie  that  I  am  here.' 

Prudence  Jane  wondered  what  'ma- 
ligning the  absent'  was.  She  distrusted 
gentlemen  who  made  cryptic  remarks 
of  this  sort.  It  was  a  way  her  brother 
Horace  had.  She  saw  that  the  moment 
had  now  arrived  to  test  Aunt  Annie's 
theory  about  ministers  and  fibs. 

'She  can't  come  down,'  she  replied. 

'Can't  come  down?'  repeated  the 
minister. 

'No,'  said  Prudence  Jane,  looking  at 
him  out  of  the  depths  of  her  forget-me- 
not  eyes,  '  she 's  washed  her  hair.' 

'  Oh,'  said  the  Reverend  Mr.  Sanders, 
in  the  tone  of  one  who  finds  the  conver- 
sation getting  definitely  beyond  him. 

At  this  moment  an  apparition  with 
a  round  face  and  a  pair  of  corduroy 
shoulders  suddenly  darkened  the  open 
window. 

'A  lie  is  an  a-frora-i-na-tion  un-to  the 
Lord,'  it  sang  and,  catching  sight  of  the 
clerical  back,  vanished  hastily. 

'Interesting  chorus,'  observed  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Sanders. 

Prudence  Jane  paid  no  heed  to  this 
interruption. 

'It's  hanging  down  her  back  now,' 
she  pursued,  launching  upon  the  details 
with  her  usual  aplomb.  '  It  comes  clear 
down  to  here.'  And  standing  up,  she 
indicated  a  point  halfway  between  her 
ankle- ties  and  the  bottom  of  her  ridicu- 
lous skirt. 

The  minister  gazed  fascinated.  Pru- 
dence Jane  sat  down  again. 

'She  washed  it  with  Packer's  Tar 
Soap,'  she  said,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
victim. 

She  was  quite  unable  to  make  out 
whether  Aunt  Annie  was  right  about 
ministers  or  not.  The  Reverend  Mr. 
Sanders  looked  like  the  Sphinx. 

'She  gave  a  piece  to  a  gentleman 
once,'  went  on  Prudence  Jane,  warm- 
ing to  her  work.  'He  wasn't  a  very 


POSSESSING  PRUDENCE 


347 


nice  gentleman.  He  was  a  —  a  — '  she 
hesitated  a  moment  over  a  fitting  cli- 
max, —  'a  —  a  Piskerpalyan,'  she  fin- 
ished. 

*  Mercy! '  said  the  Reverend  Mr.  San- 
ders, finding  his  voice  at  last.  'And 
what,  may  I  ask,  are  you?' 

Prudence  Jane  looked  faintly  sur- 
prised. 

'I,'  she  said,  with  pride  and  compo- 
sure, 'am  an  Orthy  Dox  Congo  Gation- 
ist.' 

'Yes,'  said  the  Reverend  Mr.  San- 
ders, 'so  I  suspected  from  the  first.' 

And  now  what  did  he  mean  by  that, 
thought  Prudence  Jane  to  herself.  She 
could  no  longer  see  his  face.  He  had 
turned  abruptly  in  his  chair  and  was 
watching  something  through  the  aper- 
ture in  the  portieres. 

Prudence  Jane  heard  the  thump  of 
a  pair  of  shoes  plodding  up  the  stairs 
and  along  the  upper  hall.  She  knew 
that  it  was  Peter  Piper  going  to  find 
Aunt  Annie.  There  was  a  stir  in  the 
room  overhead,  then  the  muffled  sound 
of  a  rocking-chair  suddenly  abandon- 
ed, followed  by  the  swish  of  skirts 
coming  along  the  passage  and  down 
the  stairs. 

Prudence  Jane  sat  with  parted  lips 
on  the  edge  of  the  sofa. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Sanders  looked 
decidedly  nervous,  but  he  rose  and  pre- 
sented a  bold  front  to  whatever  might 
be  coming  to  him  through  those  por- 
tieres. In  another  moment  they  were 
pushed  hastily  aside,  and  Aunt  Annie, 
crowned  with  a  quite  faultless  coiffure, 
hurried  into  the  room. 

'Why,  Mr.  Sanders,'  she  said,  'I  did 
not  know  until  this  minute  that  you 
were  here.' 

Then  her  eye  fell  upon  her  niece. 
Prudence  Jane  was  now  standing  in 
front  of  the  sofa,  tracing  the  pattern  of 


the  carpet  with  the  toe  of  an  ankle- 
tie. 

'Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  Mr. 
Sanders  was  waiting?'  demanded  Aunt 
Annie  sternly. 

Prudence  Jane  continued  to  gaze  at 
the  carpet. 

'Mr.  Sanders,'  said  Aunt  Annie,  who 
never  postponed  a  disagreeable  duty, 
'we  have  a  little  girl  here  who  cannot 
speak  the  truth,  and  we  are  going  to 
ask  you  to  tell  us  what  becomes  of  peo- 
ple who  tell  wrong  stories.' 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Sanders  looked 
ill  at  ease. 

'Come  here,'  continued  Aunt  Annie, 
holding  out  her  hand  toward  the  velvet 
sofa. 

Prudence  Jane  moved  reluctantly 
across  the  room. 

'And  now,'  went  on  the  voice  of  the 
accuser,  'she  has  even  deceived  her 
minister,  and  she  has  come  to  make 
her  little  confession.  Tell  Mr.  Sanders,' 
directed  Aunt  Annie, '  the  truth  about 
that  wicked  fib.' 

'Which  one?'  inquired  Prudence 
Jane  meekly. 

'You  know  very  well  which,'  an- 
swered her  exasperated  aunt,  'the  last 
one.' 

Prudence  Jane  lifted  her  blue  eyes 
from  the  carpet  and  looked  straight  at 
the  unfortunate  Mr.  Sanders. 

'She  did  n't  give  any  of  it  to  the  Pis- 
kerpalyan,'  she  said. 

Then  she  turned  and  walked  dis- 
creetly through  the  portieres.  She  felt 
that  it  was  no  moment  to  stay  and 
learn  what  became  of  little  girls  who 
told  whoppers. 

'Did  n't  give  who  what?'  she  could 
hear  Aunt  Annie  saying  vaguely  on  the 
other  side  of  the  curtains.  But  Prud- 
ence Jane  decided  to  let  her  minister 
explain. 


EUGENICS  AND   COMMON  SENSE 


BY   H.   FIELDING-HALL 


THERE  is  nothing,  I  think,  that  brings 
home  to  one  more  conclusively  the  uni- 
ty of  life,  and  therefore  the  unity  of 
knowledge  of  that  life,  than  the  attempt 
to  study  any  particular  subject  by  it- 
self and  confine  yourself  to  it  alone. 
You  find  very  soon  that  you  cannot  do 
so.  No  aspect  of  life  can  be  separated 
from  the  rest  and  understood  even  in 
any  small  degree  without  some  know- 
ledge of  the  rest  of  life.  No  part  of  life 
stands  alone.  Every  phenomenon  of 
life  is  the  result,  not  of  one  or  two  caus- 
es alone,  but  of  the  interaction  of  in- 
numerable causes.  To  get  near  the  un- 
derstanding of  only  one  item  you  must 
be  able  to  estimate  more  or  less  truly 
all  the  forces  that  make  life,  and  the  ob- 
jective of  life.  As  with  the  eddy  of  a 
river,  to  estimate  it  you  must  know, 
not  merely  the  eddy  but  much  also  of 
the  river,  its  volume  and  its  speed,  the 
density  of  its  waters,  the  configuration 
of  its  banks  and  its  general  direction. 
The  observation  of  the  eddy  only  would 
lead  you  into  the  wildest  fallacies. 

When  I  began  over  twenty  years  ago 
to  study  crime  and  its  cause  this  fact 
soon  became  impressed  upon  me.  To 
study  crime  alone  would  lead  me  no- 
where. Crime  was  but  an  eddy  in  life's 
current,  and  to  know  the  eddy  I  must 
know  much  of  the  current.  I  must  un- 
derstand something  of  life,  of  that  hu- 
manity in  which  crime  is  but  a  defect, 
not  necessarily  of  the  criminal.  I  must 
do  my  best  to  master  many  aspects  of 
that  life. 

348 


And  among  the  first  of  the  studies 
which  I  found  it  necessary  to  pursue 
was  that  which  is  called  heredity.  I 
must  learn  all  I  could  about  heredity, 
because  at  that  time  many  scientific 
men  declared  that  all  crime  was  hered- 
itary, inevitably  bequeathed  from  fa- 
ther to  son  and  therefore  incurable  and 
hopeless. 

Now,  my  own  experience  and  obser- 
vation told  me  just  the  opposite;  I  was 
unable  to  find  in  life  one  single  instance 
where  I  could  confidently  say  that  a 
tendency  to  crime  was  inherited.  Ev- 
ery case  I  investigated  showed  me  the 
reverse,  —  that  it  was  not  hereditary. 
Whatever  might  be  inherited,  it  was 
not  a  tendency  to  crime.  I  therefore 
read  and  reread  Lombroso  and  the 
writers  of  his  school  with  great  care  and 
constant  application  to  facts  as  I  found 
them.  And  very  soon  I  discovered  the 
underlying  fallacies,  not  of  their  facts 
but,  even  where  their  facts  were  true, 
of  their  reasoning  from  those  facts. 
Lombroso  and  his  school  had  studied 
only  the  eddy  and  ignored  the  stream; 
they  had  observed  and  measured  the 
criminal  when  made,  and  neither  nor- 
mal human  nature  nor  the  criminal  be- 
fore he  was  made.  They  found  certain 
stigmata  on  criminals;  they  inferred  a 
connection  between  these  and  crime; 
they  ignored  the  fact  that  the  stigmata 
occur  on  the  non-criminal.  I  think 
that,  in  Europe  at  least,  this  hereditary 
theory  of  crime  is  dead. 

Now  this  method  of  arguing  from  a 
few  facts  gained  in  a  very  narrow  field 
is  a  very  common  cause  of  error. 


EUGENICS  AND  COMMON  SENSE 


349 


But  my  interest  in  heredity  had  been 
awakened  and  has  never  since  died.  It 
is  a  subject  I  am  never  weary  of.  It  is 
true  that,  being  neither  a  biologist  nor 
a  doctor,  I  cannot  make  discoveries  of 
my  own,  but  I  try  to  keep  abreast  of 
all  discoveries  that  are  made,  and  to 
bring  them  to  the  touchstone  of  life. 
I  do  not  dispute  facts,  but  I  examine 
most  carefully  the  exact  value  of  those 
facts.  I  collate  them  with  facts  of  life 
arrived  at  in  quite  other  ways  than  by 
biology,  and  I  examine  all  reasoning 
based  on  those  facts. 

Thus  this  new  *  science '  of  Eugenics 
has  no  more  interested  student  than 
myself.  I  am  aware  that  there  must  be 
something  in  heredity,  I  have  no  idea 
what  it  is;  I  am  very  desirous  to  learn; 
but  on  the  other  hand  I  will  never  al- 
low my  wish  for  knowledge  to  lead  me 
into  accepting  what  is  not  absolutely 
proved  to  be  true.  I  would  never  con- 
done a  general  inference  from  a  re- 
stricted observation,  and  I  would  bring 
in  every  fact  I  have  learned  of  other 
sides  of  life  to  correct  biology.  For  in- 
stance, if  biology  asserts  that  it  has  es- 
tablished a  theory  to  which  sociology 
emphatically  denies  any  truth  in  ob- 
served human  nature,  I  would  prefer 
the  latter  till  the  two  could  be  recon- 
ciled. Because  life  is  the  stream  and 
biology  only  an  eddy. 


ii 

Let  us  turn  then  to  Eugenics  as  at 
present  taught  and  see  what  truth  we 
can  find  in  it.  I  shall  quote  some  of  its 
first  principles  from  a  leading  ^Eugenic 
textbook  and  make  some  remarks  on 
them,  and  then  I  shall  give  you  some 
facts  from  life.  Within  an  article  it  is 
impossible  to  do  more  than  this,  but  I 
think  it  will  suffice. 

To  begin  with,  is  there  such  a  thing 
as  heredity  ?  A  father  has  blue  eyes  and 
so  has  his  son.  Is  there  a  special  energy 


or  force  that  did  this?  Suppose  his  son 
has  brown  eyes  -  -  did  heredity  stop 
acting?  Was  it,  so  to  speak,  turned  off? 
That  is  absurd.  The  forces  which 
caused  the  boy's  eyes  in  one  case  to  be 
like  the  father's  and  in  the  next  case 
unlike,  were  the  same.  No  one  doubts 
that.  No  new  force  or  energy  had  been 
introduced. 

Heredity  therefore  is  not  a  thing  in 
itself.  It  has  no  existence  in  fact;  it  de- 
notes no  constant  actual  living  force. 
It  is  simply  a  noun  derived  from  the  ad- 
jective hereditary.  Hereditary  means 
handed  down  from  parent  to  child,  — 
simply  that  and  nothing  more.  An  es- 
tate is  hereditary.  The  brown  eyes 
were  as  truly  hereditary  as  the  blue, 
no  more,  no  less.  As  all  life  proceeds 
from  life,  all  life  in  every  detail  is  hered- 
itary. Try  to  realize  and  be  certain 
of  this;  it  will  prevent  you  from  fall- 
ing into  errors.  It  is  commonly  said, 
for  instance,  that  certain  qualities  are 
hereditary  and  others  are  not.  For  in- 
stance, a  genius  suddenly  appearing  of 
commonplace  progenitors  is  said  not 
to  be  hereditary.  But  a  genius  is  born, 
so  he  must  be  hereditary  in  the  true 
sense;  genius  is  not  acquired. 

Thus  in  common-  usage  the  word 
heredity  is  abused  and  twisted  into 
meaning  something  it  does  not  mean, 
namely,  a  tendency  in  children  to  re- 
produce the  more  or  less  unusual  qual- 
ities of  parents.  It  is  assumed  that 
there  is  such  a  general  tendency.  But 
it  has  never  been  proved. 

So  much  for  the  word;  now  let  us 
take  some  of  the  arguments.  'Man  is 
an  organism  —  an  animal ;  and  the  laws 
of  improvement  of  corn  and  of  race- 
horses hold  true  for  him  also.'  That  is 
the  first  assertion;  what  truth  is  there 
in  it?  Let  us  consider.  Man's  body  has 
developed  in  many  thousands  of  years 
from  being  an  animal,  and  in  many  ten 
thousands  of  years  from  being  a  plant; 
does  that  prove  that  he  is  still  nothing 


350 


EUGENICS  AND  COMMON  SENSE 


but  a  plant  or  an  animal,  that  in  his 
evolution  he  has  not  added  very  much 
to  what  went  before,  quite  enough  to 
upset  any  theories  formed  from  what 
plants  and  animals  do?  Do  the  higher 
qualities  of  brain  and  emotion  count 
for  nothing  at  all?  There  seems  no 
objection  to  Eugenists  classing  them- 
selves with  cabbages  and  dogs  and 
cats,  but  does  the  rest  of  the  world 
accept  this  for  itself?  Are  you  con- 
tent to  be  described  and  treated  as  a 
beast,  and  a  beast  only?  Each  reader 
will  answer  that  for  himself  no  doubt, 
and  I  need  not  elaborate  the  point.  It 
is  the  cheerful  and  veracious  founda- 
tion of  Eugenics. 

Let  us  continue.  The  Eugenist  takes 
man  purely  as  a  plant  or  as  an  animal; 
he  wants  to  breed  him  just  as  animals 
are  bred,  so  let  us  consider  how  plants 
and  animals  are  bred  and  what  the  re- 
sult has  been.  He  says:  *  Surely  the  hu- 
man product  is  superior  to  poultry/  — 
the  very  foundation  of  his  whole  argu- 
ment is  that  it  is  not;  however,  let  us 
go  on,  —  'and  as  we  may  now  predict 
with  precision  the  characters  of  the  off- 
spring of  a  particular  pair  of  pedigreed 
poultry  so  it  may  be  some  time  with 
man.' 

The  writer  here,  and  he  subsequent- 
ly elaborates  the  point,  wants  the  read- 
er to  believe  that  scientific  precision 
has  been  reached  in  breeding  plants 
and  animals,  that  no  exceptions  exist 
to  their  laws,  and  that  consequently 
no  such  failures  in  breeding  mankind 
could  occur  under  the  Eugenist  system 
as  occur  at  present. 

But  this  statement  is  entirely  untrue. 
There  is  no  such  certainty.  Even  as  re- 
gards purely  physical  traits  it  is  untrue, 
and  it  must  be  remembered  that  scien- 
tific breeding  has  been  concerned  only 
with  these,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else. 
There  are  an  enormous  number  of  fail- 
ures. If,  for  instance,  you  mate  the 
winner  of  the  Derby  with  the  winner  of 


the  Oaks,  shall  you  obtain  colts  and 
fillies  which  will  unfailingly  inherit  the 
speed  of  their  parents?  Look  at  the 
stud-book  for  answer.  Even  in  plants, 
where  success  is  more  general,  the  num- 
ber of  failures  is  enormous  compared  to 
the  successes.  The  rule  is  not  absolute 
or  nearly  so.  The  successes  of  Bur- 
bank  cannot  compare  with  his  failures, 
and  mendelism  has  many  exceptions. 

Still,  let  us  go  on.  Let  us  assume 
with  the  Eugenists/  that  we  really  are 
no  different  from  cabbages  and  roses, 
or  horses  and  dogs,  —  that  every  rule 
which  applies  to  them  applies  to  us,  — 
and  let  us  see  what  the  scientific  breed- 
ing of  plants  and  animals  has  effected. 
What  has  been  the  result? 

Well,  the  result  has  been  astonish- 
ing. The  simple  little  wild  Persian  rose, 
for  instance,  has  been  improved  into 
the  gorgeous  blooms  of  our  gardens; 
the  small,  rather  sour  apple  has  become 
the  Albemarle  Pippin;  the  wild  dog  has 
become  the  great  Dane,  the  mastiff, 
the  bull- dog,  the  pug;  and  the  barb 
mixed  with  the  Frisian  horse  has  be- 
come the  thoroughbred.  In  size,  in 
beauty,  in  variety,  in  qualities  useful 
to  mankind,  plants  and  animals  have 
been  improved  out  of  recognition. 

That  is  quite  true.  But  what  of  the 
other  qualities?  What,  for  instance,  of 
health  and  intelligence?  Have  these 
also  increased  pari  passu  with  the  in- 
crease in  size?  Go  to  a  nursery  gar- 
dener, to  a  racing  stable,  to  a  dog- 
fancier,  and  inquire.  You  will  learn 
this:  the  extraordinary  improvement  in 
size  and  shape  has  been  gained  at  the 
cost  of  ajl  other  qualities.  Thorough- 
bred plants  and  animals  are  very  ten- 
der, they  require  most  assiduous  atten- 
tion, they  have  to  be  nursed  like  babies. 
They  have  no  stamina,  and  they  have 
no  brains.  They  are  so  delicate  that  un- 
less they  are  continually  protected  and 
doctored  they  are  devoured  by  disease. 
A  rose-grower's  outfit  now  includes  in- 


EUGENICS  AND  COMMON  SENSE 


351 


numerable  medicines  without  which 
his  blooms  would  be  destroyed.  If  you 
abandon  a  garden  of  any  cultivated 
flowers  for  a  few  years,  the  vigorous 
and  hardy  wild  plants  will  choke  all 
your  improved  stock;  nothing  will  be 
left  save  perhaps  a  few  lucky  plants 
which  have  managed  to  evolve  as  it 
were  backwards  and  regain  some  of 
their  virility  by  abandoning  their  ac- 
quired splendor.  In  free  competition 
the  improved  plant  does  not  stand  the 
ghost  of  a  chance  with  its  unimproved 
brothers.  The  struggle  ends  irfevitably 
and  tragically. 

It  is  exactly  the  same  with  improved 
birds  and  animals.  In  open  competition 
for  a  livelihood  thoroughbred  stock 
would  be  doomed.  It  has  no  constitu- 
tion, it  cannot  get  a  living  for  itself, 
cannot  bear  exposure,  must  be  cared 
for  like  an  invalid.  Read  for  instance 
the  history  of  the  cavalry  and  mounted 
infantry  horses  in  the  Boer  War.  The 
fine-bred  stock  from  England  was  use- 
less. It  died  in  heaps.  It  was  only  hor- 
ses from  places  where  they  are  brought 
up  semi-wild,  as  in  the  Argentine  and 
Australian  runs,  that  were  of  any  use. 
Even  they  did  not  compare  with  the 
Boer  ponies. 

A  further  fact,  and  one  still  more  im- 
portant to  remark,  is  that  all  tame 
stock  is  incomparably  inferior  in  intel- 
lect to  wild  stock.  There  is  so  little 
opportunity  for  people  of  civilized  na- 
tions nowadays  to  observe  wild  ani- 
mals that  this  fact  is  often  overlooked. 
But  the  difference  is  startling.  Look  at 
a  pack  of  wild  dogs,  as  I  often  have. 
They  hunt  with  a  science  and  precision 
that  tame  fox-hounds  have  no  idea  of, 
even  when  directed  by  huntsmen  and 
whips.  A  pack  of  wild  dogs  will  mark 
down  a  stag  —  they  always  select  stags 
with  big  heads  if  possible  —  in  a  piece 
of  forest  surrounded  by  grass.  They 
will  post  sentries  at  the  exits  and  the 
rest  of  the  pack  will  go  to  the  end  and 


beat  the  jungle  through.  When  the 
stag  breaks,  the  sentries  at  the  exit 
give  tongue  and  warn  the  rest  who  im- 
mediately run  to  their  call. 

There  is  no  one  who  like  myself  has 
kept  both  wild  and  domesticated  ani- 
mals as  pets  who  has  not  noticed  that 
the  latter  are  fools  to  the  former.  It  is 
a  commonplace  of  knowledge.  Here  is 
a  story  in  illustration,  from  the  life  of 
the  elder  Dumas. 

He  had  a  dog  and  a  fox  both  chain- 
ed up  near  the  house.  One  day  he  gave 
a  bone  to  each,  putting  it  just  out  of 
reach,  to  see  what  would  happen.  Well, 
at  first,  both  acted  in  the  same  way, 
they  strained  at  the  chain.  The  fox, 
however,  soon  found  out  the  useless- 
ness  of  this  and  sat  down  to  consider. 
Then  he  got  up,  turned  round  so  as  to 
add  the  length  of  his  body  to  that  of 
the  chain,  reached  the  bone  with  his 
hind  leg,  and  having  scraped  it  within 
reach,  sat  down  to  eat  it.  But  the  dog 
not  only  could  not  think  of  this  himself, 
but  even  when  he  saw  the  fox  do  it,  he 
could  not  imitate  it. 

The  more  scientifically  bred  animals 
are,  the  less  brain  they  have.  If  you 
want  a  dog  who  will  be  an  intelligent 
and  sympathetic  companion,  which  do 
you  choose,  the  dog  bred  by  *  science* 
or  the  dog  bred  by  the  natural  selec- 
tion of  mutual  love,  the  thoroughbred 
or  the  mongrel  ?  All  experience  says  the 
latter.  Therefore,  suppose  the  Eugen- 
ists  had  their  way  and  established  a 
state,  what  would  the  inhabitants  of 
that  state  be  like  in  a  few  generations? 
They  would  be  tall,  broad,  muscular, 
beautiful,  delicate  to  a  degree,  useless 
save  for  athletic  contests  or  beauty 
shows,  always  in  the  doctor's  hands,  — 
Eugenic  doctor  of  course,  —  brainless, 
incapable  of  affection,  almost  wanting 
in  courage,  to  a  great  extent  sterile; 
and  in  the  end,  if  the  state  did  not  die 
of  inanition  first,  some  more  virile  and 
intelligent  race,  say  the  Hottentots  or 


352 


EUGENICS  AND  COMMON  SENSE 


Andamese,  would  come  and  eat  its  in- 
habitants. The  Eugenic  Utopia  would 
end  in  the  digestive  apparatus  of  a  sav- 
age. Sic  transit  gloria  Eugenics.  No- 
thing could  be  more  certain  than  that. 


in 

Now,  leaving  plants  and  animals  be- 
hind us,  let  us  come  to  man,  and  see 
what  Eugenists  have  discovered. 

They  declare  that  certain  diseases 
are  transmitted  to  children;  greater 
authorities  deny  that  disease  ever  is  or 
ever  could  be  so  transmitted.  So  much 
for  that.  They  have  found  a  few  not- 
able cases  where  a  feeble-minded  pro- 
genitor, such  as  Jukes,  produced  gener- 
ations like  himself.  They  found  a  few 
cases  where  able  and  talented  parents 
did  the  same;  they  have  in  some  cases 
traced  certains  defects  for  several  gen- 
erations. That  is  absolutely  all. 

Of  the  much  greater  number  of  cases 
where  the  quality  is  not  transmitted 
they  make  no  mention.  Let  me  there- 
fore again  repeat  what  Buckle  said  on 
such  systems  of  argument;  it  should 
never  be  forgotten:  'We  often  hear  of 
hereditary  talents,  hereditary  vices,  and 
hereditary  virtues;  but  whoever  will 
critically  examine  the  evidence  will  see 
that  we  have  no  proof  of  their  exist- 
ence. The  way  in  which  they  are  com- 
monly proved  is  in  the  highest  degree 
illogical,  the  usual  course  being  for 
writers  to  collect  instances  of  some  men- 
tal peculiarity  found  in  parent  and 
child  and  then  to  infer  that  the  peculi- 
arity was  bequeathed.  By  this  mode  of 
reasoning  we  might  demonstrate  any 
proposition,  since  in  all  large  fields  of 
inquiry  there  are  a  sufficient  number  of 
empirical  coincidences  to  make  a  plaus- 
ible case  in  favor  of  whatever  view  a 
man  chooses  to  advocate.  But  this  is 
not  the  way  in  which  truth  is  discover- 
ed; and  we  ought  to  inquire  not  only 
how  many  cases  there  are  of  heredi- 


tary talents,  and  so  forth,  but  also  how 
many  there  are  of  such  qualities  not 
being  hereditary.'  Do  the  Eugenists 
do  this? 

Arguing  as  the  Eugenists  do,  you 
could  prove  anything.  For  instance,  I 
know  families  where  the  men  for  gen- 
erations have  been  wounded  or  kill- 
ed in  action.  The  Battyes  of  Indian 
fame  are  such  a  family.  Let  us  argue 
about  this  like  the  Eugenists.  'When 
men  are  wounded  they  become  defect- 
ive; they  are  a  great  expense  to  the 
State  for  pensions  and  are  no  more 
good;  when  they  are  killed  they  can't 
fight  any  more  and  their  widows  and 
children  have  to  be  provided  for.  All 
this  is  a  great  burden  to  the  country. 
Getting  wounded  or  killed  is  undoubt- 
edly a  hereditary  taint.  Therefore  we 
should  breed  our  soldiers  from  stock 
which  has  never  had  any  one  killed  or 
wounded  among  its  predecessors,  and 
therefore  may  be  certain  not  to  get  in- 
to any  danger  should  war  break  out/ 

Again,  as  Lombroso  and  many  oth- 
ers have  shown,  genius  and  great  abili- 
ty are  usually  associated  with  disease, 
the  reason  being  that  great  men  are 
often  over-engined  for  their  physique, 
which  takes  its  revenge.  Their  diseas- 
es are  really  wounds  received  in  war- 
fare. The  Eugenists  would  eliminate 
all  disease  and  with  it  all  ability.  For 
instance  they  would  have  prevented 
Lord  Bacon  from  being  born.  Now 
whether  Bacon  did  or  did  not  write 
Shakespeare's  plays,  he  was  one  of  the 
greatest  men  we  have  ever  produced. 
He  sheds  a  lustre  on  us  yet.  We  would 
not  change  him  for  a  wilderness  of 
Eugenists.  And  what  of  the  world  ro- 
mance of  Browning  and  his  wife? 

Their  arguments  in  this  whole  mat- 
ter teem  with  fallacies.  Because  con- 
sumption often  occurred  in  generation 
after  generation  it  used  to  be  assumed 
to  be  hereditary.  We  know  now  that  it 
is  not.  What  seems  to  be  hereditary  is 


EUGENICS  AND   COMMON  SENSE 


353 


a  certain  diathesis,  which  under  unfa- 
vorable circumstances  may  result  in  a 
feeble  consumptive,  in  others  may  give 
us  a  Rhodes  or  a  Keats.  They  know 
that,  yet  they  argue  in  exactly  the  old 
way  in  other  cases. 

Thus  in  the  biological  field  no  discov- 
ery has  yet  been  made  of  any  certain 
law  of  inheritance  even  in  the  smallest 
matters  of  physique  and  appearance. 
An  athlete  not  only  does  not  always 
have  athletic  sons,  but  he  often  has 
none  at  all;  and  so  with  other  matters. 
As  to  the  greater  matters  of  intelli- 
gence and  virility,  nothing  whatever  is 
known.  And  be  it  remembered  that  the 
progress  of  mankind  is  a  progress  of  in- 
telligence, not  of  physique.  Have  Eu- 
genists  still  to  learn  this?  Apparently 
they  have.1 

And  now,  leaving  this  little  eddy 
called  biology,  let  us  go  into  the  wide 
stream  of  life,  and  see  what  is  known 
there.  Let  us  consider  the  process  by 
which  man  has  evolved  so  far,  and 
what  the  experience  and  observation  of 
thousands  of  years  have  taught  us.  Let 
us  look  at  what  the  Eugenist  is  pleased 
to  call  '  the  present  haphazard  method 
of  mating  that  obtains  even  among  cul- 
tured people.'  What  is  that  method? 
Well,  it  is  usually  called  falling  in  love. 

There  is  between  young  men  and 
maidens  a  general  mutual  attraction. 
They  like  to  look  at  each  other,  to  talk, 
to  touch  each  other.  It  is  far  stronger 
with  men  than  girls,  but  it  is  in  both. 
It  is,  however,  for  the  most  part  gen- 
eral and  vague.  Then  at  some  time  or 
other  this  general  warmth  is  concen- 
trated upon  one  object.  He  falls  in 
love  and  she  as  a  rule  returns  it.  What 
is  the  meaning  of  this  selection?  Why 

1  If  the  reader  wishes  to  read  what  perhaps 
the  greatest  living  biologist,  who  is  also  a  thinker, 
has  to  say  of  Eugenics,  I  commend  to  him  the 
address  of  Professor  William  Bateson  to  the  In- 
ternational Congress  of  Medicine  in  London.  It 
is  given  in  the  British  Medical  Gazette  for  August 
16,  1913. 

VOL.  174 -NO.  3 


does  something  within  him  pick  her 
out  unconsciously  from  all  other  wo- 
men? Why  does  she  echo  to  the  call? 
It  is  the  cry  of  Nature  wanting  child- 
ren for  her  future,  saying  to  him,  '  She 
is  thy  mate.  Only  thus  can  be  born 
such  children  as  I  desire,  strong  in  emo- 
tion, in  intelligence,  in  brain.  Such  are 
what  I  want.' 

Therefore,  to  get  her  way  Nature 
creates  a  passion  and  promises  a  hap- 
piness. 

That  is  what  the  world  knows,  has 
always  known,  and  never  can  forget. 
It  knows  that  love  is  life.  Suppose  the 
Eugenists  could  have  their  way  and 
banish  love,  who  would  care  to  live? 
What  purpose  would  life  have?  x  It 
would  have  none.  There  would  be  no 
life,  only  an  existence  wearisome  and 
dull.  The  world  feels  that  love  is  beau- 
tiful, it  sees  in  practice  that  it  is  true. 
Love  makes  the  world,  love  keeps  it,  on- 
ly to  love  shall  it  be  given  in  the  future. 
Therefore  have  poets  sung  it  and  story- 
tellers told  of  it;  therefore  do  eyes 
shine  and  cheeks  burn  for  it.  Therefore 
is  it  the  soul  of  art,  of  music,  of  litera- 
ture. Fancy  the  future  Eugenic  novel 
or  play.  Scene,  a  drawing-room,  with 
a  young  woman  in  it.  Enter  to  her  a 
young  man  led  by  a  Eugenist  doctor, 
who  says  to  her,  *  My  wise  young  lady, 
let  me  introduce  to  you  Mr.  Dash.  He 
has  been  carefully  selected  as  your 
mate.'  And  to  him,  'Young  man,  be- 
hold the  mother  of  your  future  child- 
ren.' Does  it  not  read  charmingly? 

You  see  that  the  Eugenist  omits  love. 
He  knows  nothing  about  it  or  about 
the  world.  I  never  realized  how  extra- 
ordinarily ignorant  Eugenists  were  of 
human  nature  till  I  heard  a  recent  Eu- 
genic lecture.  In  that,  among  other 
things,  the  lecturer  said  that  if  nowa- 
days there  arose  a  new  Cleopatra  she 
would  be  relegated  at  once  to  the  wards 
of  an  asylum;  and  his  audience  laugh- 
ed with  pleasure.  It  delighted  them  to 


354 


EUGENICS  AND  COMMON  SENSE 


think  how  superior  each  of  themselves 
was  to  such  a  famous  woman,  and  they 
gloated  over  it. 

Yet  I  had  other  thoughts  and  among 
them  these: — How  mediocrity  hates 
eminence!  When  the  Eugenists  seize 
Cleopatra,  what  will  Mark  Antony  be 
doing?  When  the  Eugenists  shall  have 
built  their  lethal  chamber  for  the  fee- 
ble-minded, who  should  be  its  first  in- 
habitants? 

Love  is  the  motive  power  of  the 
world.  It  is  the  purifying  and  regener- 
ating power.  Even  'degenerates'  who 
should  really  love  each  other  would 
have  more  intelligent  children  than  a 
healthy  couple  mated  without  love. 
Children  are  the  sparks  struck  out 
as  by  flint  and  steel  which  meet.  The 
stronger  their  momentum  when  they 
meet,  the  greater  and  brighter  the  flash. 
All  the  world  save  the  Eugenists  knows 
that. 

Love  is  the  one  thing  which  makes 
life  worth  living.  It  has  its  reward. 
And  if  you  neglect  or  sin  against  it  the 
punishment  is  sure.  Nemesis  comes 
slowly  but  it  comes  surely. 

Though  the  mills  of  God  grind  slowly 
Yet  they  grind  exceeding  small. 

Whenever  an  individual  or  a  class  or  a 


nation  has  sinned  against  love,  has  it 
not  paid?  Has  it  not  paid  the  utmost 
penalty  of  death?  No  lesson  is  more 
certainly  written  on  the  page  of  history 
than  is  this. 

Whenever  an  individual  has  married 
without  love,  his  children,  if  he  have 
any,  are  useless.  When  a  class  has  de- 
nied love  and  instituted  marriage  for 
money,  for  position,  for  family,  it  has 
decayed  and  disappeared.  Whenever 
by  its  marriage  customs  a  people  has 
sinned  against  love,  how  great  has  been 
the  penalty!  Look  at  the  decadence  of 
India  since  the  mating  of  children  with- 
out love  was  introduced  by  religion. 
India  once  led  the  world.  It  does  not 
so  lead  now.  And  why?  Principally 
for  that  reason. 

Remember  what  was  written  in  the 
Kural  thousands  of  years  ago:  'That 
only  lives  which  is  instinct  with  love. 
That  which  has  not  love  is  but  a  rotten 
carcass  covered  with  skin.  And  from 
putridity  what  will  you  get  but  mag- 
gots?' 

So  would  the  Eugenists  have  mar- 
riage. 

This  is  often  called  the  age  of  sci- 
ence, and  truly.  We  have  Christian 
Science,  and  Eugenics.  What  next? 


PAGAN  MORALS 


BY   EMILY   JAMES   PUTNAM 


As  M.  Bergson  remarks,  it  is  very 
fatiguing  to  be  a  human  being.  If  we 
compare  ourselves  with  the  other  ani- 
mals we  see  how  hard  our  case  is.  We 
have  in  the  first  place  to  stand  upright, 
a  feat  for  which  we  are  not  yet  com- 
pletely adapted.  And  then  we  are 
obliged  to  do  more  or  less  thinking, 
however  skillfully  we  may  reduce  the 
amount.  Above  all  we  are  compelled 
by  a  number  of  constraining  influences 
to  be  to  a  certain  degree  consciously 
'good.'  Whenever  we  begin  to  think 
about  the  perplexing  question  of  good- 
ness, to  wonder  why  we  are  almost  all 
driven  more  or  less  spasmodically  to 
strive  for  it  and  to  complain  because  it 
is  so  elusive,  so  hard  to  attain  even 
with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  so  un- 
certain in  its  aims  and  claims  and  sanc- 
tions, so  troublesome  and  yet  so  indis- 
pensable, we  are  driven  back  to  the 
Greeks. 

The  man  in  the  street  is  not  likely 
to  name  as  the  foremost  attribute  of 
the  Greeks  their  moral  success,  and  yet 
he  ought  to.  They,  first  of  men,  made 
a  discovery  about  morals  which  must 
be  our  salvation  if  we  are  to  be  saved, 
and  their  interest  in  the  subject  is  ob- 
scured for  us  only  by  the  multiplicity 
of  their  claims  on  our  attention.  If, 
like  the  Hebrews,  they  had  stripped 
life  of  all  its  agrements,  if  they  had 
had  no  sense  of  beauty  or  of  humor,  no 
splendid  achievements  of  pure  litera- 
ture, of  politics,  or  of  science,  we  should 
see  them,  as  we  see  the  Hebrews,  con- 


sumed by  their  concern  for  righteous- 
ness. 

Among  people  like  the  English- 
speaking  communities  who  instinctive- 
ly avoid  whenever  possible  the  pain  and 
strain  of  thought,  a  happy  literary  for- 
mula comes  easily  to  have  the  paralyz- 
ing effect  of  a  taboo.  The  freest  minds 
are  the  source  of  the  most  compelling 
formulas,  and  they  therefore  quite 
unintentionally  rivet  new  bonds  upon 
their  contemporaries  in  the  place  of 
those  they  strike  off.  Thus  Matthew 
Arnold,  a  man  given  to  thinking  for 
himself,  provided  his  age  with  a  num- 
ber of  catchwords  which  dispensed 
those  who  used  them  from  giving  any 
further  thought  to  the  subjects  to  which 
they  apply.  I  suppose  no  one  reads 
Matthew  Arnold  to-day,  but  his  most 
striking  formulas  Have  passed  into  the 
tradition  of  English  speech  and  go 
marching  indefinitely  on.  One  of  the 
most  telling  and  most  misleading  is  his 
famous  chapter-heading,  *  Hebraism 
and  Hellenism.'  There  are  in  the  chap- 
ter itself  paragraphs  which  if  carefully 
read  go  far  to  minimize  the  antithesis 
suggested  by  the  title.  But  a  man  who 
is  writing  under  so  taking  a  caption 
can  hardly  help  being  carried  on  by 
auto-suggestion  to  the  symmetrical 
rounding  out  of  its  implications.  Thus 
Arnold  begins  by  stating  plumply  that 
'the  final  aim  of  both  Hellenism  and 
Hebraism,  as  of  all  great  spiritual  dis- 
ciplines, is  no  doubt  the  same:  man's 
perfection  or  salvation.  The  very  lan- 
guage which  they  both  of  them  use  in 
schooling  us  to  reach  this  aim  is  often 

355 


356 


PAGAN  MORALS 


identical.  Even  where  their  language 
indicates  by  variation  —  sometimes  a 
broad  variation,  often  a  but  slight  and 
subtle  variation  -  -  the  different  courses 
of  thought  which  are  uppermost  in 
each  discipline,  even  then  the  unity  of 
the  final  end  and  aim  is  still  apparent/ 
And  he  goes  on  to  explain  that  the  dif- 
ference is  mainly  one  of  temperament 
and  of  method. 

So  far  he  is  sound  and  consistent, 
though  we  may  be  permitted  to  doubt 
whether  he  puts  his  finger  on  the  pre- 
cise difference  of  method  that  consti- 
tutes the  antithesis.  But  toward  the 
end  of  his  brilliant  chapter  he  insensi- 
bly swings  back  to  the  vulgar  error  he 
elsewhere  strives  to  combat.  He  has 
forgotten  that  the  Greek  equally  with 
the  Hebrew  was  concerned  '  for  man's 
perfection  or  salvation/  And  he  com- 
mits the  historic  blunder  of  confound- 
ing the  Hellenism  of  Hellas  with  the 
so-called  Hellenism  of  the  Revival  of 
Learning.  *  The  Renascence, '  he  writes, 
'  that  great  reawakening  of  Hellenism, 
that  irresistible  return  of  humanity  to 
nature  and  to  seeing  things  as  they 
are,  which  in  art,  in  literature,  and  in 
physics,  produced  such  splendid  fruits, 
had,  like  the  anterior  Hellenism  of  the 
Pagan  world,  a  side  of  moral  weak- 
ness, and  of  relaxation  or  insensibility 
of  the  moral  fibre,  which  in  Italy 
showed  itself  with  the  most  startling 
plainness,  but  which  in  France,  Eng- 
land, and  other  countries  was  very  ap- 
parent too/ 

His  title  has  been  too  much  for  him. 
If  Hebraism  consists  largely  in  moral 
earnestness,  Hellenism  must  have  'a 
side  of  moral  weakness/  But  even  if  the 
chapter  were  the  most  complete  correc- 
tion of  the  implication  of  its  heading, 
perhaps  only  one  person  has  read  the 
chapter  for  every  thousand  who  have 
been  subjected  to  the  injurious  effect 
of  the  title.  The  total  result  has  been 
to  stereotype  the  conception  of  Hellen- 


ism formed  by  the  Lutheran  movement 
and  affirmed  by  the  anticlassical  reac- 
tion which  followed  the  French  Rev- 
olution. According  to  this  conception 
the  Greek  was  a  happy  faun,  obeying 
the  voice  of  appetite  and  burdened  by 
no  consciousness  of  sin.  If  we  recall  the 
individual  Greeks  who  are  best  known 
to  us  from  childhood,  —  -  Odysseus, 
Achilles,  (Edipus,  Solon,  Leonidas,  Per- 
icles, Socrates,  Archimedes,  —  it  is  an 
astonishing  tribute  to  the  strength  of 
formula  that  the  resultant  composite 
photograph  can  be  made  to  resemble  a 
happy  faun. 

II 

There  is  nevertheless  a  very  real  dis- 
tinction between  Hebraism  and  Hel- 
lenism in  the  field  of  morals.  It  cannot 
be  expressed  by  saying  that  the  one 
made  'better'  men  than  the  other.  It 
would  be  easy  enough  to  show  that  He- 
braism as  well  as  Hellenism  had  'a  side 
of  moral  weakness/  One  superiority  of 
the  Greek  from  our  point  of  view  was 
his  rather  extraordinary  love  of  truth. 
Homer  is  full  of  the  sacredness  of  the 
oath,  of  which  Zeus  was  guardian.  I 
know  a  little  boy  who  had  become  fami- 
liar with  the  words  and  deeds  of  the 
Homeric  heroes  and  knew  that  one  of 
the  most  perverse  of  them  had  de- 
clared with  sincerity,  'Hateful  to  me 
as  hell  is  he  who  hides  one  thing  in  his 
heart  and  tells  another/  This  boy  was 
next  introduced  to  the  stories  of  the 
Hebrews  and  listened  with  wondering 
eyes  to  the  extraordinary  tale  of  greed 
and  falsehood  which  centres  about  the 
name  of  Jacob.  He  was  waiting  for  the 
curse  of  heaven  to  fall  upon  the  traitor, 
but  when  the  narrative  went  on  to  tell 
how  Jehovah  approved  the  deed  and 
said  to  Jacob,  'Thou  shalt  spread 
abroad  to  the  west  and  to  the  east  and 
to  the  north  and  to  the  south,  and  in 
thee  and  in  thy  seed  shall  all  the  fami- 
lies of  the  earth  be  blessed,'  the  little 


PAGAN  MORALS 


357 


boy  cried  out  in  his  bewilderment,  'But 
was  n't  that  naughty  of  Jehovah?' 

A  striking  case  of  the  superior  con- 
scientiousness of  the  Greeks  in  regard 
to  truth  comes  out  in  a  story  told 
by  Herodotus.  Hipparchus,  tyrant  of 
Athens  in  the  sixth  century,  a  man 
whom  the  Greeks  themselves  would  not 
have  pointed  out  as  a  type  of  virtue, 
banished  his  friend  Onomacritus,  edi- 
tor of  the  prophecies  of  Musseus,  be- 
cause Onomacritus  foisted  into  the 
writings  of  Musaeus  a  prophecy  of  his 
own.  With  this  strict  critical  sense  of 
the  sanctity  of  documents,  which  per- 
ished with  Hellenism  and  has  come  to 
life  only  in  the  scholarly  conscience  of 
our  own  day,  we  may  compare  the  atti- 
tude of  the  Hebrew  priest  of  the  fifth 
century  before  Christ,  who,  from  the 
highest  motives,  systematically  revised, 
expurgated,  and  augmented  the  sacred 
writings  and  imposed  the  new  edition 
on  the  people  as  of  immemorial  anti- 
quity. 

Such  comparisons  between  pot  and 
kettle  are  not  however  really  fruitful. 
The  truly  instructive  contrast  between 
Hebraism  and  Hellenism  is  based  on 
the  fact  that  they  typify  most  conven- 
iently the  two  sorts  of  sanction  which 
have  in  varying  combinations  operated 
everywhere  in  the  world  to  make  men 
consciously  practice  what  they  believe 
to  be  right. 

Many  causes  of  course  operate  to 
make  men  unconsciously  choose  the 
right,  working  for  the  survival  of  the 
individual  and  of  the  group.  But  when 
a  man  gives  a  reason  for  his  moral 
.  choices  it  falls  under  one  of  two  heads. 
He  has  either  a  theory,  utilitarian, 
hedonistic,  or  transcendental,  in  ac- 
cordance with  which  he  acts;  or  he  acts 
in  obedience  to  some  law  which  he 
acknowledges  to  be  authoritative  even 
in  extreme  cases  where  it  conflicts  with 
his  reason.  Under  one  of  these  heads 
or  the  other,  the  rational  or  the  jural, 


can  be  ranged  every  reason  which  any 
one  has  ever  given  for  making  a  moral 
choice.  Perhaps  most  men  use  both 
types  in  varying  proportions;  certainly 
every  social  group  is  governed  by  both. 
Most  religions  rely  mainly  on  the  jural 
principle,  but  many  strive  to  conciliate 
law  with  reason.  And  rational  systems 
on  the  other  hand  often  tend  to  crystal- 
lize into  laws  which  exact  and  receive 
obedience  after  changing  circumstan- 
ces have  destroyed  their  rational  basis. 
The  taboo  everywhere  is  jural.  We 
may  be  able  to  see  in  certain  cases  a 
sanitary  or  economic  ground  for  a  ta- 
boo, but  it  is  not  that  ground  that 
makes  it  binding.  It  is  no  more  bind- 
ing than  other  tabooes  which  lack  that 
ground,  and  the  great  majority  of  which 
we  have  knowledge  do  lack  it.  The 
taboo,  however,  is  not  yet  morality, 
though  it  is  on  the  way  to  become  so. 
It  is  gradually  softened  into  custom; 
custom  becomes  after  a  time  self-con- 
scious and  critical;  and  thus  morality 
is  born. 

Now  it  is  evident  that  the  chief  prob- 
lem of  morality  everywhere  and  at.  all 
times  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  old  order 
is  always  changing.  In  regard  to  moral 
ideas  as  to  all  other  ideas,  the  human 
procession  straggles  along  like  an  early 
people  on  the  trek;  a  few  leaders  press 
forward  in  advance,  the  mass  do  as 
they  are  told  and  cling  to  each  other 
for  mutual  comfort  and  assurance, 
bands  of  heretics  here  and  there  fall  off 
to  find  a  better  way  or  to  settle  in  an  at- 
tractive spot,  declaring  they  will  seek 
no  further ;  and  at  the  end  of  the  column 
are  the  incompetent  and  the  lazy,  beg- 
ging to  be  left  behind  to  die. 

In  this  irregular  advance  through  an 
uncharted  land  toward  an  unknown 
goal,  the  leaders  have  always  upon  their 
shoulders  the  burden  of  their  responsi- 
bility toward  the  weaker  brethren.  The 
choice  of  the  moment  for  breaking  up 
the  last  camp  and  pressing  on  again 


358 


PAGAN  MORALS 


into  the  wilderness  becomes  in  itself 
the  nicest  of  moral  questions.  Ethics 
are  *  alike  fantastic  if  too  new  or  old.' 
All  manner  of  anomalies  and  contra- 
dictions are  born  of  the  fact  that  where 
men  long  to  find  a  set  of  laws  as  rigor- 
ous and  of  as  universal  application  as 
those  of  mathematics,  they  find  merely 
a  group  of  principles  themselves  open 
to  dispute  and  needing  at  every  turn 
the  labor  of  comprehension  and  of  ap- 
plication. In  this  situation  many  a 
good  man  has  violated  his  conscience 
to  obey  the  law,  and  many  a  good  man 
by  obeying  his  conscience  in  spite  of 
the  law  has  so  weakened  a  rule  that  was 
helpful  to  others  as  to  have  become  a 
stumbling-block.  Thus  there  are  ap- 
parently cases  in  which  it  is  wrong  to  do 
right.  'You  seem  to  think  honesty  as 
easy  as  blind-man's-buff/  says  one  of 
Stevenson's  characters.  *  I  don't.  It 's 
some  difference  of  definition.' 


in 

As  part  of  the  great  effort  not  to 
think,  the  jural  conception  of  morals, 
the  notion  that  morals  are,  like  geome- 
try or  blind-man's-buff,  amenable  to 
ascertainable  and  universally  binding 
laws,  has  been  of  unquestionable  use- 
fulness to  the  race,  but  it  has  enjoyed  a 
popularity  out  of  all  proportion  to  its 
usefulness.  Some  of  its  drawbacks  may 
most  conveniently  be  noted  in  connec- 
tion with  Hebraism,  which  is  its  fullest 
and  most  enduring  expression.  Mr. 
Dewey  and  Mr.  Tufts  remark  that  the 
Decalogue  is  the  mother  of  casuistry, 
and  that  the  habit  of  looking  to  law  for 
guidance  *  fixes  attention  not  upon  the 
positive  good  in  an  act,  nor  upon  the 
underlying  agent's  disposition  which 
forms  its  spirit,  nor  upon  the  unique 
occasion  and  context  which  form  its  at- 
mosphere, but  upon  its  literal  conform- 
ity with  Rule  A,  Class  I,  Species  1, 
sub-head  (1),  and  so  forth.  The  effect 


of  this  is  inevitably  to  narrow  the  scope 
and  lessen  the  depth  of  conduct.  It 
tempts  some  to  hunt  for  that  classifi- 
cation of  their  act  which  will  make  it 
the  most  convenient  or  profitable  for 
themselves.  With  others,  this  regard 
for  the  letter  makes  conduct  formal  and 
pedantic.  It  gives  rise  to  a  rigid  and 
hard  type  of  character  illustrated 
among  the  Pharisees  of  olden  and  the 
Puritans  of  modern  time.' 

The  drawbacks  here  dwelt  upon  are 
all  in  the  nature  of  injuries  to  the  moral 
sense  of  the  individual.  It  might  con- 
ceivably be  the  case  that  the  general 
social  welfare  would  be  so  furthered  by 
the  punctilious  observance  of  an  im- 
mutable moral  code  that  the  sacrifice 
of  the  highest  spiritual  life  of  the  indi- 
vidual would  be  worth  the  price.  In 
point  of  fact,  however,  society  suffers 
from  it  as  much  as  the  individual.  The 
prevalence  of  such  a  code  tends  to  ren- 
der society  static.  Certain  groups  have 
never  emerged  from  the  primitive  jural 
stage  of  taboo,  and  are  tied  hand  and 
foot  by  it.  Two  things  happen  when 
conduct,  in  itself  a  conservative  thing, 
is  in  close  alliance  with  religion,  which 
is  even  more  conservative  and  there- 
fore opposes  very  great  resistance  to 
modification.  In  the  first  place  the  pre- 
occupation with  law  becomes  so  great 
that  there  is  no  room  left  in  life  for 
other  considerations.  And  in  the  sec- 
ond place,  as  the  unchangeable  code  be- 
comes obsolete,  the  people  bound  by  it 
falls  out  of  sympathy  with  more  pro- 
gressive peoples  and  is  left  behind  as 
they  advance. 

The  Hebrews  suffered  in  both  these 
ways.  In  the  first  place  the  struggle  for 
life  and  the  observance  of  the  law  ex- 
hausted their  energies  and  left  them  no 
time  for  art,  for  science,  or  for  general 
literature.  The  meagreness  of  their  in- 
tellectual life  as  long  as  they  remained 
a  nation  was  not  only  a  misfortune  to 
themselves  but  has  remained  a  misfor- 


PAGAN  MORALS 


359 


tune  for  Europe,  since  the  revivals  of 
Hebraism  which  take  place  from  time 
to  time  always  include  in  their  princi- 
ples a  presumption  against  art,  science, 
and  general  literature.  It  will  be  seen, 
however,  when  we  glance  at  Hellenism, 
that  though  these  fields  of  life  are  re- 
fractory, or  at  best  irrelevant,  to  the 
§law,  they  afford,  like  every  other  field, 
the  constant  occasion  for  moral  choice 
based  on  reason,  and  were  not  con- 
ceived by  the  Greeks,  as  by  some  mod- 
erns, as  unmoral,  but  as  having  ethical 
bearings  of  the  very  highest  importance. 
In  the  second  place  the  Hebrews  were 
very  greatly  hampered  in  social  ad- 
vance by  the  static  character  of  their 
institutions.  Of  course  their  institu- 
tions were  not  actually  rigid,  or  the 
group  would  not  have  had  the  measure 
of  national  success  it  did  enjoy.  Even 
Jehovah  was  obliged  in  the  long  run  to 
alter  his  political  opinions  and  approve 
of  monarchy  after  having  long  opposed 
it.  But  the  social  and  economic  re- 
forms so  passionately  urged  by  Amos 
and  Isaiah  never  came  to  pass. 

The  jural  system  of  morals  of  the  He- 
brews rapidly  reasserted  itself  in  Chris- 
tian theory,  although  the  founder  of 
Christianity  died  in  protest  against  the 
law.  The  Church  of  Rome  affirmed  the 
principle  with  all  its  consequences  from 
the  hieratic  point  of  view,  and  the  Re- 
formation affirmed  it  from  the  docu- 
mentary point  of  view .  Modern  thought 
is  saturated  with  it.  Kant's  categorical 
imperative  is  descended  from  the  Deca- 
logue much  more  directly  than  he  would 
have  liked  to  believe.  On  the  other  hand 
it  has  become  plainer  than  ever  during 
the  last  hundred  years  that  morality  is 
a  growing  thing,  changing  with  chang- 
ing conditions,  varying  from  land  to 
land  and  from  age  to  age;  that  its  for- 
mulas are  to  be  accepted  as  provisional, 
not  permanent,  and  that  its  natural 
sanctions  are  powerful  enough  to  make 
it  persist.  'La  vertu,  sans  doute,  est  de 


tous  les  pays  et  de  tous  les  ages.  Sa 
presence  est  partout  necessaire,  le  peu- 
ple  ne  subsiste  que  par  elle.'  This  be- 
lief in  the  social  origin,  the  progressive 
character,  and  the  natural  sanction  of 
ethics  is  the  belief  of  the  Greeks.  They 
were  the  first  of  mankind  to  hold  it,  and 
the  weight  of  their  prestige  sufficed  to 
keep  it  alive  in  the  world  through  the 
centuries  when  the  jural  view  pre- 
vailed. It  is  still  far  from  triumphant. 
The  force  of  authority  is  still  over- 
whelming. We  are  just  beginning  to 
struggle  back  to  the  state  of  mind 
which  was  native  to  the  Greeks,  and, 
thanks  to  them,  was  enjoyed  even  by 
the  Romans,  a  people  astonishingly 
like  ourselves  in  their  spiritual  limita- 
tions. 

IV 

The  Greek  of  course  began  like  all 
other  men  by  practicing  the  primitive 
morality  of  custom,  and  the  primitive 
morality  of  custom  is  that  of  the  ant 
and  the  bee,  a  morality  careful  of  the 
welfare  of  the  group,  careless  of  the  sin- 
gle life.  We  are  accustomed  in  our  own 
day  to  see  it  practiced  only  under  mili- 
tary forms,  and -even  there  it  has  been 
considerably  modified  by  civil  stand- 
ards, so  that  the  world  is  astounded 
when  it  sees,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
Japanese,  the  old  psychology  of  the 
group  in  full  action  with  its  light  es- 
teem of  t1*  •»  single  life. 

Bu/  .  early  society  it  is  not  only  in 
warfare  but  throughout  life  that  the 
individual  is  subordinated  to  the  group. 
His  every  act  if  it  is  to  be  pronounced 
good  must  be  performed  in  the  custom- 
ary way,  and  his  very  opinions  are  the 
common  possession  of  his  people.  We 
who  are  feeling  in  various  ways  the  ill 
effects  of  a  long  period  of  laissez-faire 
individualism  are  naturally  returning 
or  trying  to  return  to  the  more  social 
view  of  ethics,  and  to  the  conception  of 
solidarity  as  the  chief  ethical  motive. 


360 


PAGAN  MORALS 


But  the  old  groups  are  gone  and,  living 
in  a  welter  of  cross-classification,  it  is 
hard  for  a  man  to  decide  whether  his 
allegiance  is  due  to  his  race,  his  nation, 
his  trade-union,  his  church,  or  his  social 
stratum. 

The  Greek,  on  the  other  hand,  when 
history  begins,  was  discovering  individ- 
ualism and  criticizing  custom,  not  mere- 
ly this  or  that  custom,  but  custom  in 
general  and  as  a  principle;  and  the  crit- 
icism of  custom  is  the  beginning  of  ra- 
tional ethics.  We  cannot  tell  how  early 
the  process  began.  When  Archelaus, 
the  last  of  the  Ionic  philosophers  and 
the  master  of  Socrates,  remarks  *  that 
the  just  and  the  base  exist  not  by  na- 
ture but  by  convention,'  the  terms 
have  already  a  technical  ring.  At 
about  the  same  time  Democritus,  who 
understood  his  universe  so  well,  point- 
ed out  that  '  the  institutions  of  society 
are  human  creations,  while  the  void 
and  atoms  exist  by  nature,'  a  distinc- 
tion as  inconceivable  to  the  savage  as 
to  the  bee.  When  remarks  like  this  can 
be  made  by  different  thinkers  in  dif- 
ferent connections,  the  conception  they 
involve  must  be  well  established  and 
generally  understood.  •  In  Aristotle's 
time  it  was  hoary  with  antiquity;  it 
was,  says  he,  *  a  universal  mode  of  argu- 
ing with  the  ancients,  —  namely  the 
opposition  of  nature  and  convention.' 

The  discovery,  then,  that  social  and 
political  institutions  are  made  by  man 
and  are  therefore  subject  to  alteration 
and  adaptation,  is  one  of  the  great 
achievements  of  Hellenism.  It  is  the 
first  law  of  Greek  ethics;  and  the  sec- 
ond is  of  almost  equal  importance,  for 
it  teaches  that  in  discussing  questions 
of  right  and  wrong,  the  term  '  man ' 
must  always  be  held  to  mean  *  man-in- 
society.'  The  raison  d'etre  of  the  state 
is  to  cause  its  citizens  to  live  nobly,  and 
right  conduct  is  the  subject-matter  of 
political  science.  These  two  principles 
were  never  abandoned  by  Greek  ethics 


in  general.  Of  course  the  advance  of 
individualism  brought  into  greater  pro- 
minence the  subjective  aspect  of  ethics, 
the  necessity  that  the  heart  should  be 
'right,'  the  necessity  of  faith  as  well  as 
of  works.  And  certain  schools  in  later 
days  advocated  a  measure  of  with- 
drawal from  the  world.  But  self-per- 
fection in  isolation  was  never  a  Greek 
ideal,  for  isolation  was  in  itself  im- 
moral by  definition. 

The  notion  that  the  conventional 
usages  and  sanctions  of  conduct  were 
not  based  on  nature  led,  of  course,  not 
only  to  the  searching  investigations  of 
serious  men  but  to  the  paradoxes  of  the 
Nietzsches  of  the  fifth  century  before 
Christ.  'So  entirely  astray  are  you,' 
says  Thrasymachus  to  Socrates,  'in 
your  ideas  about  the  just  and  unjust  as 
not  even  to  know  that  justice  and  the 
just  are  in  reality  another's  good;  that 
is  to  say,  the  interest  of  the  ruler  and 
stronger,  and  the  loss  of  the  subject 
and  servant;  and  injustice  the  oppo- 
site; for  the  unjust  is  lord  over  the 
truly  simple  and  just:  he  is  the  stronger, 
and  his  subjects  do  what  is  for  his  inter- 
est, and  minister  to  his  happiness,  which 
is  very  far  from  being  their  own.' 

When  the  question  was  thus  round- 
ly and  uncompromisingly  stated,  the 
Greeks  set  themselves  to  answer  it.  So 
far  from  showing  a  deficiency  of  inter- 
est in  moral  conduct,  they  may  be  said 
without  exaggeration  to  have  had  no 
important  interests  that  did  not  con- 
sciously involve  the  ethical  motive.  It 
is  held  up  as  a  defect  in  their  system  of 
classifying  sciences  that  they  had  so 
much  difficulty  in  disentangling  morals 
from  politics  that  even  Aristotle  de- 
clares that  *  politics  deals  with  right 
conduct.'  But  this  difficulty  arose  from 
one  of  their  soundest  notions,  -  -  the 
loss  of  which  from  the  world  has  been 
a  calamity,  —  the  notion,  namely,  that 
a  state  is  to  be  judged  not  by  the  num- 
ber of  its  inhabitants,  for  it  may  easily 


PAGAN  MORALS 


361 


have  too  many  inhabitants,  nor  by  its 
aggregate  wealth,  for  that  may  be  ill- 
distributed,  nor  by  its  success  in  main- 
taining order,  for  a  tyrant  can  main- 
tain order  even  more  readily  than  can 
a  self-governing  body,  but  by  the  high 
type  of  life  lived  by  its  citizens.  In 
other  words,  if  ethics  was  not  detached 
from  politics,  it  was  because  politics 
was  saturated  with  ethics.  It  is  a  com- 
monplace that  the  great  historians  of 
Greece,  Herodotus  and  Thucydides, 
different  as  they  were  in  temperament 
and  in  method,  agreed  in  this,  that  they 
were  profoundly  struck  by  the  moral 
aspect  of  political  acts.  The  speeches 
in  Thucydides  are  full  of  the  theory  of 
international  ethics.  There  is  plenty 
of  Macchiavellianism  in  them,  which 
produces  its  full  psychological  effect. 
When  the  Athenians  in  Sicily  were 
trying  to  secure  active  support  from 
Camarina,  their  envoy  laid  down  the 
maxim  that  'to  a  tyrant  or  to  an  im- 
perial city  nothing  is  inconsistent  that 
is  expedient.'  With  the  crime  of  Me- 
los  behind  them  and  the  flight  from 
Syracuse  before,  these  words  have  all 
the  grisly,  ironic  import  that  formed 
one  of  the  sources  of  interest  in  Greek 
tragedy. 

If  politics  and  ethics,  which  seem  to 
us  to  be  separate  things,  were  never  ful- 
ly dissociated  by  the  Greeks,  because 
the  body-politic  had  a  primarily  ethi- 
cal purpose,  it  followed  that  all  the 
other  sciences  and  arts,  which  were  in 
the  service  of  the  state  to  a  degree  we 
can  hardly  imagine,  were  also  followed 
with  a  consciously  ethical  aim. 

To  us,  who  instinctively  associate 
ethics  with  dogma,  it  appears  that  the 
only  safe  course  for  science  and  art  is 
to  keep  clear  altogether  of  the  ethical 
question.  We  remember  how  strong  a 
resistance  the  great  organized  custodi- 
ans of  ethics  have  presented  to  the  con- 
clusions of  natural  science,  and  how 
disagreeably  the  nonconformist  con- 


science is  affected  by  (for  instance)  the 
nude  in  art.  It  is  not  unusual  for  the 
friends  of  science  and  art,  when  discour- 
aged by  these  manifestations,  to  refer 
with  envious  yearning  to  the  freedom 
from  ethical  bias  that  surrounded  the 
work  of  Greek  artists  and  men  of  sci- 
ence. The  truth  is  of  course  that  it  was 
the  absence  of  dogma  only  that  made 
Greek  art  and  science  free;  as  for  eth- 
ics, it  was  the  postulate  of  their  activ- 
ity. But  Greek  ethics  did  not  require  of 
a  man  of  science  that  his  results  should 
square  with  preconceived  ideas;  it  re- 
quired on  the  contrary  that  he  should 
prosecute  his  task  with  patience,  integ- 
rity and  courage.  The  best  Greek 
thought  would  not  have  shuddered  at 
the  labors  of  Darwin  because  one  of 
their  by-products  might  be  the  weak- 
ening of  a  set  of  conventional  motives 
for  action;  it  would  on  the  contrary 
have  recognized  and  applauded  the 
high  qualities  of  self-devotion,  persis- 
tence, and  truthfulness  which  went  to 
form  his  method,  noting,  however,  one 
failing  which  it  would  have  declared 
immoral,  —  the  exaggerated  use  of  a 
single  set  of  faculties  which  in  the  long 
run  deadened  his  responsiveness  to  the 
stimuli  of  literature  and  art. 

The  ethical  motive  was  as  strong  in 
Greek  art  as  in  Greek  science.  Spring- 
ing from  the  religious  motive,  Greek  art 
always  retained  the  consciousness  of 
a  *  purpose,'  but  this  purpose  was  the 
simple  interpretation  of  beauty  which 
the  Greeks  held  to  be  a  divine  thing 
and  of  overwhelming  ethical  import- 
ance. 'Conscientiousness'  in  the  art- 
ist's sense  was  the  law  of  Greek  pro- 
duction. The  Parthenon  is  a  triumph 
of  character  as  well  as  of  genius,  and 
from  the  Parthenon  to  the  shards  of 
water-bottles  the  remnants  of  Greek 
craftsmanship  show  us  hardly  a  trace 
of  hasty  or  scamped  work. 

But  over  and  beyond  his  standard  as 
a  workman  there  stood  in  the  mind  of 


362 


PAGAN  MORALS 


the  Greek  artist  his  responsibility  to  the 
state.  He  was  working,  not  as  the  mod- 
ern artist  does,  for  a  little  group  of  con- 
noisseurs, but  for  a  whole  people  sensi- 
tive beyond  what  we  can  understand  to 
the  stimuli  of  art.  The  execution  of  an 
important  statue  was  to  a  Greek  city 
what  the  installation  of  a  proper  water 
supply  is  to  a  modern  city,  in  the  fact 
that  it  affected  everybody.  A  people 
thus  permeated  with  ethical  fdeas 
would  naturally  take  a  keen  interest  in 
replying  to  the  fundamental  questions 
asked  by  the  paradoxologists  of  the 
fifth  century.  Socrates  in  particular  de- 
voted his  life  to  answering  these  ques- 
tions, and  all  the  answers  ever  offered 
from  that  day  to  this  (except  those  of 
jural  systems  based  on  supernatural 
authority)  are  descended  in  one  way  or 
another  from  views  of  his.  To  the  pro- 
position that  'virtue  is  a  convention* 
he  opposed  the  proposition  that '  virtue 
is  a  science,'  with  the  corollaries  that 
virtue  can  be  taught  and  that  all  sin 
is  ignorance.  This  theory  in  various 
forms  underlay  all  subsequent  views  of 
conduct. 

Virtue  never  seemed  to  the  Greeks 
to  be  as  easy  as  blind-man's-buff.  A 
man's  successful  conduct  of  life  was 
in  their  view  as  purely  a  function  of 
his  intellectual  faculty  as  was  his  suc- 
cess at  a  game  of  chess.  He  who  can 
foresee  the  greatest  number  of  moves 
is  the  best  player.  If  a  man  could  attain 
omniscience  and  so  behold  the  re- 
lations and  effects  of  an  action  as  they 
ramify  to  infinity,  he  would  never  act 
amiss.  The  wise  man  is  accordingly  the 
good  man,  and  the  charming  goodness 
of  babes  and  sucklings  is  a  happy  acci- 
dent, but  it  is  not  virtue/  An  immense 
responsibility  was  therefore  thrown  up- 


on education,  whose  primary  aim  was 
to  be  the  moulding  of  character.  And 
the  method  of  education  was  to  be  the 
formation  of  reasoned  moral  habits  as 
a  substitute  for  the  unreasoned  unmor- 
al habits  of  primitive  man. 

The  Greeks  thus  in  a  very  short 
space  of  time  after  they  first  began  to 
consider  the  matter  systematically,  ap- 
plied to  conduct,  which  in  their  judg- 
ment was  not  'three  fourths'  but  four 
fourths  of  life,  a  psychology  which  the 
most  modern  science  can  but  corrob- 
orate. 'Consciousness,'  says  Professor 
Angell,  'occupies  a  curious  middle 
ground  between  hereditary  reflex  and 
automatic  activities  upon  the  one  hand 
and  acquired  habitual  activities  upon 
the  other.'  In  ethics  as  in  every  other 
field,  the  Greeks  saw  first  of  men  that 
the  work  of  consciousness  is  never  done. 
No  final  set  of  moral  habits  can  ever  be 
established.  Changing  conditions  make 
any  given  set  inappropriate,  and  wis- 
dom must  be  ever  occupied  with  the 
work  of  modification.  It  is  in  the  light 
of  this  conception  of  right  conduct  as 
a  science  and  the  widest  of  sciences, 
capable  of  being  perfectly  grasped  by 
omniscience  alone,  that  the  doctrine  of 
expediency  laid  down  by  the  Athenian 
envoy  in  Thucydides  would  make  the 
Greek  shudder  as  he  always  did  before 
the  spectacle  of  vfipis,  that  is  of  con- 
duct based  on  unsufficient  data.  The 
famous  'irony'  of  Greek  tragedy  con- 
sists in  the  fact  that  a  character  in  the 
play  is  acting  with  ignorance  or  with 
unwisdom.  Every  one  in  the  audience 
knows  something,  a  fact  or  a  principle, 
which  is  strongly  relevant  to  his  case 
but  of  which  he  is  himself  unaware. 
The  little  ironies  of  life  and  the  great 
ironies  of  history  have  no  other  source. 


SOME  EARLY  LETTERS  OF  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS 


EDITED   BY   CAROLINE   TICKNOR 


THERE  are,  no  doubt,  as  many  ideal- 
ists to-day  as  there  were  in  the  nota- 
ble epoch  which  produced  Brook  Farm 
and  the  Concord  School  of  Philosophy. 
But  they  are  not  idealists  of  the  old 
school. 

The  new  school  of  idealists  contains 
few  poets,  and  its  exponents  express 
themselves  in  social  service  of  splendid, 
practical  proportions.  They  are,  it  is 
true,  persons  of '  vision,'  but  their  'clear 
sight '  reveals  to  them  the  coming  man 
as  an  improved  physiological  specimen, 
rather  than  a  newly  awakened  spirit. 

The  idealism  of  which  George  Wil- 
liam Curtis  is  a  most  admirable  exam- 
ple, was  the  idealism  of  the  poet;  that 
of  to-day  is  the  idealism  of  the  philan- 
thropist. And  it  is  well  for  us  to  pause 
amid  the  strenuous  social  conditions 
which  now  prevail,  for  a  half-hour's 
consideration  of  the  more  tranquilliz- 
ing idealism  of  the  old  school. 

George  William  Curtis  was  a  true 
poet;  as  such,  he  saw  and  felt,  and  he 
expressed  himself  in  the  language  of 
poetry.  As  a  producer  of  immortal 
verse,  he  did  not  rise  to  the  first  rank, 
although  he  has  bequeathed  us  some 
poems  of  exquisite  feeling  and  work- 
manship. He  did  not  regard  poetry  as 
his  vocation,  nor  did  he  lay  claim  to 
poetic  laurels,  yet  the  imprint  of  his 
keen  poetic  sensibilities  is  stamped 
on  all  of  his  literary  work,  and  the 
poetic  strain  echoes  through  all  his 
silvery  oratory. 

Curtis    was    born    in    Providence, 


Rhode  Island,  in  1824,  and  he  early 
made  up  his  mind  to  enter  the  pro- 
fession of  letters.  It  has  been  usual 
to  ascribe  the  direction  of  his  career  to 
the  influence  of  his  juvenile  experience 
at  Brook  Farm,  where  he  dwelt  from 
1840  to  1844,  but  one  must  not  forget 
that  the  Brook  Farm  ideal  was  in  his 
mind  before  he  joined  that  Utopian 
community,  which  he  did  at  sixteen 
years  of  age. 

The  following  correspondence  with 
Mrs.  Whitman  opens  in  1845,  the  year 
after  Curtis  had  left  Brook  Farm.  At 
this  period  he  was  a  lithe,  slender 
young  man,  handsome  of  feature,  with 
blue  eyes,  wavy  brown  hair  and  a  most 
winning  smile.  His  bearing  was  one  of 
extreme  grace  and  dignity  and  his  man- 
ners were  those  of  the  natural  aristo- 
crat, who  treats  all  his  fellow  beings 
with  the  most  exquisite  consideration. 

The  literary  career  of  Curtis  began 
in  1846,  when  he  was  but  twenty-two 
years  old.  Many  bright  stars  were  just 
then  in  the  American  firmament.  Irv- 
ing, Dana,  Bryant,  and  Cooper  were  at 
the  height  of  their  powers.  Longfellow, 
Whittier,  and  Hawthorne  were  ascend- 
ing; the  tragic  career  of  Edgar  Allan 
Poe  was  nearing  its  close;  Holmes  was 
but  thirty-seven,  and  Emerson  forty- 
two. 

At  this  time  Sarah  Helen  Whitman's 
home  in  Providence  was  the  literary 
centre  about  which  revolved  the  intel- 
lectual men  and  women  of  her  day,  and 
Mrs.  Whitman  herself  was  adored  as 
the  high-priestess  of  Poetry  and  Let- 
ters in  the  distinguished  circle  of  which 

363 


364      SOME   EARLY   LETTERS  OF  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS 


she  was  the  most  conspicuous  orna- 
ment. Endowed  with  beauty,  great 
charm  of  voice  and  manner,  and  a  mag- 
netic personality,  she  drew  about  her, 
not  only  the  gifted  men  and  women  of 
her  own  city,  but  those  from  all  parts 
of  the  world;  and  Mrs.  Browning,  writ- 
ing from  Italy,  declared  that  Sarah 
Helen  Whitman  was  the  one  woman  in 
America  whom  she  most  desired  to 
meet. 

Mrs.  Whitman's  exquisite  sonnets  to 
Poe  have  been  pronounced  second  only 
to  Mrs.  Browning's  Sonnets  from  the 
Portuguese,  and  her  best  work  surely 
entitles  her  to  the  leading  place  which 
has  been  assigned  her  among  the  poet- 
esses of  New  England. 

Mrs.  Whitman  was  born  in  1803,  and 
in  1828  she  married  John  Winslow 
Whitman,  a  Boston  lawyer,  who  died 
in  1833.  Her  romantic  engagement  to 
Edgar  Allan  Poe  did  not  occur  until 
1848,  a  few  months  before  the  latter's 
death,  and  was  broken  off  on  the  eve  of 
marriage,  following  Poe's  appearance 
at  the  home  of  his  betrothed  in  a  state 
of  intoxication. 

To  the  end  of  her  life,  Mrs.  Whit- 
man remained  loyal  to  Poe  and  to  her 
genuine  affection  for  him,  and  though 
she  deplored  his  faults  and  weaknesses, 
she  looked  upon  him  as  a  great  spirit 
groping  toward  the  light,  a  man  of  bril- 
liant intellect,  splendid  imagination, 
and  marvelous  gift  of  expression.  Her- 
self a  poet,  she  thoroughly  apprecia- 
ted his  poetic  gift;  a  critic,  she  could 
measure  his  keen  insight  into  literary 
values;  a  mistress  of  English  style,  she 
recognized  in  his  creative  touch  the 
master-hand.  And  when,  after  his 
death,  Poe's  critics  and  detractors  put 
forth  their  unjust  and  bitter  denuncia- 
tions of  the  man,  it  was  Mrs.  Whitman 
who  came  forward  to  champion  him 
with  simple  dignity,  in  her  little  volume 
entitled  Edgar  Poe  and  his  Critics,  of 
which  Curtis  wrote  in  Harper's  Weekly, 


in  1860,  it  is  'the  brave  woman's  arm 
thrust  through  the  slide  to  serve  as  a 
bolt  against  the  enemy  ...  it  is  not  a 
eulogy:  it  is  a  criticism  which  is  pro- 
found by  force  of  sympathy  and  vigor- 
ous by  its  clear  comprehension.' 

At  the  time  of  her  engagement  to  Poe 
Mrs.  Whitman  was  forty-five  years  old 
and  he  thirty-nine,  but  her  freshness 
of  spirit  and  charm  of  presence  must 
have  made  her  seem  by  far  the  younger 
of  the  two.  Only  from  the  pictures 
drawn  by  friends  who  had  known  and 
studied  the  original  can  we  gather 
something  of  the  illusive  charm  and 
extraordinary  fascination  which  this 
remarkable  woman  exerted  up  to  the 
time  of  her  death,  at  seventy-five  years 
of  age.  No  one  ever  associated  the  idea 
of  age  with  her,  and  she  is  represented 
as  lying  beautiful  as  a  bride  in  death, 
her  brown  hair  scarcely  touched  with 
gray. 

Besides  having  many  suitors,  Mrs. 
Whitman  had  countless  warm  friends 
among  those  men  and  women  who 
were  the  intellectual  leaders  of  her  day, 
and  with  whom  she  carried  on  an  ex- 
tensive correspondence  in  regard  to  the 
literary,  social,  and  spiritual  move- 
ments of  the  times.  She  had  a  peculiar 
gift  of  sympathetic  appreciation,  and 
was  able  to  give  to  each  that  especial 
response  which  he,  or  she,  most  craved. 

The  following  letters,  chosen  from  a 
correspondence  which  extended  over  a 
period  of  fifteen  years,  speak  for  them- 
selves and  for  the  two  poets  whom  they 
concerned.  They  were  accompanied 
by  many  pages  of  verse  forwarded  by 
Curtis  for  Mrs.  Whitman's  criticism. 
He  was  at  this  time  twenty-one  and 
she  forty- two. 

The  first  letter,  dated  at  Concord, 
in  April,  1845,  reveals  the  writer  keen- 
ly enjoying  the  natural  beauties  about 
him,  as  well  as  the  opportunity  to  en- 
ter into  the  intellectual  life  of  Haw- 
thorne, Emerson,  and  others,  with 


SOME   EARLY   LETTERS  OF  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS      365 


whom  Curtis  delighted  to  discuss  all 
that  was  near  his  heart  concerning  the 
literary  life  which  beckoned  him  per- 
sistently, and  the  alluring  field  of  po- 
etry, which  he  at  first  believed  himself 
peculiarly  fitted  to  enter. 


ii 

CONCORD,  April  9,  1845. 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  WHITMAN, - 

May  I  say  a  few  words  about  poetry 
and  poets  to  you,  hoping  so  to  provoke 
from  you  a  closer  criticism  upon  my 
verses  than  you  have  yet  given  me.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  great  delight  to  me  to  find 
in  you  the  insight  into  the  poetical  part 
of  poetry,  which  I  find  in  so  very  few 
persons.  That  you  could  realize,  as  I 
had  so  long  done  without  sympathy, 
that  the  charm  of  a  poem  was  not  the 
tho't,  nor  the  melody,  but  a  subtle 
poetical  perception,  which  gives  the 
character  to  the  tho't,  and  which  from 
the  nature  of  things,  is  melodious,  and 
so  in  its  natural  expression  constitutes 
poetry. —  Shall  I  say  that  the  poetical 
sense  is  so  rare  among  men,  so  much 
rarer  than  the  intellectual,  that  the 
most  approved  of  the  poems  of  the 
great  masters  are  not  the  most  poeti- 
cal? that  As  You  Like  It  is  less  tho't- 
ful  but  more  purely  poetical  than 
Hamlet?  and  that  Tennyson  is  more 
truly  a  poet  than  Wordsworth? 

And  to  the  perfect  poet  belongs  this 
fineness  of  perception  and,  of  equal 
necessity,  faculty  of  expression.  The 
prose  poets  of  whom  we  hear,  are  men 
who  have  the  first  but  not  the  second, 
and  therefore  they  are  the  true  audi- 
ence of  the  poet  and  his  only  critics, 
as  men  who  have  a  delicate  apprecia- 
tion of  form  and  color  are  unworking 
painters,  and  so  constitute  the  only 
valuable  spectators  of  pictures.  They 
cannot  be  called  painters,  nor  can  the 
first  class  be  called  poets. 

Byron  had  the  faculty  but  not  the 


perception.  He  did  not  see  things 
poetically.  With  Shelley,  I  think  more 
and  more,  poetry  was  an  elegant  and 
passionate  pursuit.  He  was  too  much 
a  scholar.  This  is  seen  in  the  forms  his 
poems  took.  The  principal  ones  are 
moulded  in  the  antique  Grecian  style. 
With  Keats,  poetry  was  an  intense  life. 
It  was  a  vital,  golden  fire  that  burned 
him  up.  Wordsworth  is  a  man  of  tho't, 
who  gives  it  a  rhythmical  form. 

Milton  would  have  been  more  pure- 
ly a  poet,  if  he  had  been  a  Catholic, 
rather  than  an  ultra  Protestant.  There 
is  a  severity  in  his  poetry,  which  makes 
him  the  favorite  of  intellectual  men,  — 
but  is  a  little  too  hard  —  not  oriental 
enough  to  satisfy  poetical  men. 

In  Shakespeare  was  the  wonderful 
blending  —  the  delicate  harmony  — 
but  his  sonnets  would  have  been  cre- 
dential enough  to  his  fit  audience. 

Because  in  this  sphere  of  man  the 
intellect  rules,  therefore  that  declares 
upon  all  things.  Those  books  are  eter- 
nal, those  poets  Olympian  whom  it 
crowns.  But  it  is  a  singular  fantasy 
of  Nature,  that  the  intellect  is  always 
too  intellectual  to  rightly  estimate  the 
value  of  poetry,  which  is  the  higher  lan- 
guage of  this  sphere. 

Music,  so  imperfect  here,  foreshad- 
ows a  state  more  refined  and  delicate. 
It  is  a  womanly  accomplishment,  be- 
cause it  is  sentiment,  and  the  instinct 
declares  its  nature,  when  it  celebrates 
heaven  as  the  state  where  glorified 
souls  chant  around  the  Throne.  Poetry 
is  the  adaptation  of  music  to  an  intel- 
lectual sphere.  But  it  must  therefore 
be  revealed  thro'  souls  too  fine  to  be 
measured  justly  by  the  intellect. 

I  hope  that  you  will  guess  my  tho't 
from  these  fragmentary  hints  and  will 
answer  it  and  my  questions  as  speedily 
as  you  will.  Direct  simply  to  me, 
Concord,  Massachusetts. 

Truly  yours, 

G.  W.  CURTIS. 


366      SOME  EARLY  LETTERS  OF  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS 


CONCORD,  May  8,  18&5. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — 

I  had  attributed  your  silence  to  some 
sufficient  reason,  like  the  real  one,  and 
your  letter,  tho'  late,  was  not  unexpect- 
ed and  very  grateful.  I  am  glad  that 
you  ask  me  to  write  to  you,  for  in  this 
spring  it  seems  that  I  must  tell  all,  of 
the  singular  beauty  that  diffuses  itself 
so  widely.  .  .  . 

This  afternoon  I  paddled  out  on  Wai- 
den  Pond  —  a  beautiful  sheet  of  water 
not  far  away.  It  was  formerly  wooded 
with  heavy  pine  banks  to  the  edge,  but 
recently  the  woods  have  been  cut  from 
part  of  the  shore.  It  has  a  retired, 
virgin  beauty,  and  not  even  the  rail- 
road, which  passes  close  by  one  side, 
can  banish  its  flower  of  privacy.  It  is 
deep  and  still;  and  this  afternoon  the 
sun  toward  the  setting  threw  the  dark 
shadows  of  the  pines  upon  the  surface 
like  a  mute  anthem  to  the  spirits  of 
the  lake.  Landscapes  often  impress 
me  like  strains  of  music,  and  so  mu- 
sic gives  me  a  sense  of  sunniness  and 
gloom,  which  is  more  subtle  than  any- 
thing I  see.  The  woods  yearn  to  be 
dissolved  in  music,  when  the  wind  sings 
in  the  trees,  and  only  a  wail  lingers  be- 
cause it  may  not  be  so — or  is  it  a  wail 
because  I  cannot  understand  the  bur- 
then? The  winds  that  have  blown  so 
constantly  during  the  spring  fell  griev- 
ingly  against  my  face,  as  if  I  was  vexed 
with'them,  and  as  if  they  sighed  because 
I  was  not  of  a  nature  fine  enough  to 
be  mingled  with  their  triumph.  .  .  . 

Recently  I  have  been  reading  Mil- 
ton, much.  There  is  a  solemn  simpli- 
city in  the  Paradise  Lost.  It  is  almost 
too  severe.  The  few  classical  allusions 
dropped  in  the  course  of  the  story  are 
like  gushes  of  warm  south  moisture  in 
the  heart  of  a  steady  fresh  north  wind. 
The  poem  is  bracing  like  ocean  air.  .  .  . 

But  while  the  genius  of  Milton  has 
the  grace  of  stately  mountain  heights, 
and  the  solemn  melody  of  cathedral 


music,  it  seems  to  lack  the  delicate  aeri- 
al grace  of  folded  clouds  and  the  lines 
of  hills  in  the  dim  horizon,  and  the  low 
gushing  music  of  birds  disappearing  in 
the  sky.  His  poetry  is  fuller  of  rapt 
serene  contemplation,  than  of  subtle 
sentiment.  We  ascend  to  heaven  upon 
angel  wings,  fanning  a  majestic  mel- 
ody, but  are  not  wafted  thither  on  the 
note  of  a  thrush.  Must  not  the  organ 
tone  and  the  thrush  singing  be  blended 
in  the  tune  of  melody,  each  retaining 
its  own  character,  and  tinged  with  each 
other's?  Milton's  genius  is  hardly  sug- 
gestive enough.  He  was  a  man  made 
positive  by  his  life  and  culture.  It  fell 
to  him  as  a  statesman  to  speak  very 
decidedly,  and  the  poet  could  not  quite 
shake  off  the  tone.  I  should  hardly 
think  his  nature  was  very  rich,  but  he 
had  so  cultivated  and  adorned  himself, 
that  it  was  almost  as  good.  Do  you  re- 
member what  Keats  says  of  him? 
Sincerely  your  friend, 
G.  W.  CURTIS. 

CONCORD,  June  2, 1845. 

I  am  glad  that  you  speak  so  truly  of 
Keats.  It  is  rare  to  find  any  one  who 
has  the  just  appreciation  of  his  genius. 
It  is  of  that  nature  which  is  too  much 
condemned,  or  too  much  praised.  And 
that  because  either  one  does  not  under- 
stand him,  or  if  so,  the  prospect  which 
he  opens  is  the  most  ravishing  to  a 
poet.  There  lay  in  him  the  keenest  and 
most  delicate  perception  and  the  tru- 
est feeling.  Tho't  was  all  fused  with 
sentiment.  Poetry  was  to  him  an  ele- 
ment such  as  music  would  be  to  some 
natures.  His  blood  seemed  to  thrill, 
rather  than  flow  thro'  his  veins,  and  I 
always  picture  him  as  in  ecstasy.  But 
all  his  life  and  poetry  are  hints,  they 
are  the  rarest  tinted  leaflets  folded 
close  in  the  bud.  If  they  do  not  flower, 
there  can  be  no  regret.  The  influence 
of  such  beauty  is  true  and  deep,  because 
it  was  budded  beauty  and  not  flowered. 


SOME   EARLY   LETTERS  OF  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS      367 


How  often,  walking  in  the  woods,  I 
have  seen  a  drooping  anemone  bud 
which  revealed  a  more  delicate  grace 
than  the  fairest  flower.  It  figures  the 
intensity  of  feeling  which  closes  the 
eyes  of  a  lover  in  the  presence  of  his 
mistress;  yes,  and  the  relation  itself 
which  exists  between  them  -  -  a  hope, 
a  promise,  the  morning  red  before  the 
sunrise.  .  .  . 

The  essay  of  Shelley  to  which  you 
refer,  I  will  look  at  again.  I  read  it  some 
time  since,  and  was  not  much  pleased 
generally.  I  have  never  seen  any  prose 
upon  poetry  which  pleased  me  much. 
Sir  Philip  Sidney's  is  beautiful  to  read, 
so  is  Emerson's,  but  I  wait.  The  Poet 
is  still  an  unexpressed  mystery.  He  is 
a  phantom  when  you  would  clutch  him, 
but  a  beautiful  blessing  angel  when 
you  sit  in  the  shadow  of  his  wings. 
I  look  with  interest  for  your  article  on 
Mr.  Emerson.  It  is  much  to  be  the  con- 
temporary, how  much  to  be  the  neigh- 
bor of  a  man  whom  I  cannot  class  but 
with  Plato  and  Bacon,  and  the  other 
great  teachers.  I  feel  that  you  will 
speak  golden  words  of  him,  and  I  shall 
be  very  prompt  to  tell  you  what  I 
think  of  the  article. 

I  spoke  to  Mr.  Hawthorne.  He  says 
that  Mr.  Langley,  the  publisher,  is  the 
business  man,  that  different  prices  are 
paid  to  various  authors,  and  that  an 
engagement  should  be  made  previous- 
ly. There  has  been  some  difficulty 
about  the  payment  of  the  Democratic, 
I  believe,  but  do  not  know  precisely 
what.  Mr.  Hawthorne  says,  that  Mr. 
O'Sullivan  the  editor  is  an  honorable 
man.  He  values  the  articles. 
Your  friend, 

G.  W.  CURTIS. 


CONCORD,  June  22, 

I  have  delayed  writing  until  I  should 
have  returned  from  a  trip  to  Wachu- 
sett  mountain,  and  until  I  had  read 
your  article.  The  first  I  have  done,  the 


second  not  yet.  Knowing  that  Mr. 
Emerson  had  it,  I  spoke  to  him  of  it, 
regretting  that  I  had  not  seen  it  first, 
to  correct  some  errors  of  which  I  had 
been  advised.  He  was  very  curious  to 
know  the  author,  for  he  said  tho'  it 
was  headed  'By  a  Disciple,'  it  was  evi- 
dently written  from  a  purely  indepen- 
dent point,  and  he  seemed  to  do  such 
excellent  justice  to  it,  altho'  he  said  it 
had  the  usual  vice  of  kindness,  which 
he  says  of  all  reviews  of  himself,  that 
when  he  told  me  he  tho't  he  ought  to 
know  who  wrote  it,  I  ventured  to  tell 
him.  I  hope  I  have  not  done  wrong. 
Henry  Thoreau  also  said  it  was  not  by 
a  Disciple  in  any  ordinary  sense.  It  is 
his  copy  which  is  here,  and  he  wishes 
me  to  make  it  as  perfect  as  I  can.  This 
week  I  shall  see  it,  and  will  then  write 
you. 

I  went  to  Wachusett  with  Mr.  Haw- 
thorne and  Mr.  Bradford.  It  has  long 
lured  me  from  its  post  in  the  western 
horizon.  And  as  I  climbed  the  green 
sides,  I  felt  as  an  artist  must  feel,  who 
first  treads  the  ground  of  Italy.  .  .  . 

Monadnock  was  the  only  single  ob- 
'ject  visible  from  the  summit.  It  is  a 
rough  sharp  mountain  and  Wachusett 
is  rounded  and  delicate,  and  the  femi- 
nine character  of  the  one  was  in  beauti- 
ful contrast  with  the  masculine  of  the 
other. 

It  would  be  a  long  tale,  the  history 
of  the  beautiful  walks  we  had.  My  re- 
gret was  at  returning.  It  seemed  proper 
to  go  on  from  mountain  to  mountain 
thro'  the  summer,  until  winter  sent  me 
home  again;  and  to  return  and  find 
that  the  hill  had  relapsed  into  the  old 
mystery,  and  was  still  as  wonderful  as 
before,  was  one  of  the  best  results  of 
the  journey. 

Have  you  read  Consuelo,  George 
Sand's  novel?  I  may  say  great  novel, 
for  after  Wilhelm  Meister,  I  know  none 
superior.  It  is  long  but  it  is  a  picture 
of  no  less  genius  than  Goethe's  and 


368      SOME   EARLY   LETTERS  OF  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS 


Raphael's.   I  mean  it  leaves  the  same 
satisfaction.  .  .  . 

There  are  very  few  copies  in  the 
country.  I  read  Mr.  Emerson's,  for  he 
and  Mr.  Hawthorne  and  Miss  Fuller 
first  spoke  of  it. 

You  shall  certainly  speak  of  the 
manuscripts  whenever  you  choose, 
altho'  they  are  not  good.  If  you  hear 
any  opinion  expressed,  will  you  not  let 
me  know  it,  if  it  be  most  entire  con- 
demnation. I  am  sure  that  is  my  voca- 
tion, but  I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall 
effect  anything.  I  must  labor  very  long 
and  very  hard  before  I  can  come  even 
to  the  foot  of  a  statue.  Perhaps  after 
all  my  life  is  only  to  fill  up  some  chink 
and  the  Fates  have  granted  me  this 
versifying  talent  as  a  plum  for  con- 
tent. My  life  seems  very  aimless  be- 
cause I  pursue  my  profession  entirely 
in  secret,  while  outwardly  I  am  aban- 
doned to  the  sun  and  wind.  That  will 
be  good  for  me;  while  all  the  plants  are 
so  carefully  trained  by  the  gardeners, 
let  one  grow  in  the  clear,  open  air.  Yet 
it  is  not  without  pain  that  I  hear  those 
who  are  very  dear  to  me  grieve  that  I 
am  running  to  waste.  At  least,  if  my 
life  does  not  justify  itself,  I  am  fain  to 
hope  they  will  feel  it  was  meant  to  be 
what  it  was.  It  seems  very  bold,  but 
I  am  sure  of  it. 

I  shall  write  you  again  very  soon  if 
you  do  not  tire  of  my  long  letters. 
Your  friend, 

G.  W.  CURTIS. 

June  28,  18J.5. 

I  read  with  great  delight  your  arti- 
cle. It  is  the  best  I  have  seen  upon  Mr. 
Emerson.  I  might  say  that  it  finds 
more  of  a  system  of  philosophy  than 
I  think  he  is  conscious  of,  altho',  after 
all,  you  only  indicate  the  central  tho't 
which  animates  his  writings,  and  say 
such  good  things  of  philosophy  that 
it  loses  that  very  rigid  outline  which 
marks  it  in  the  Schools.  I  am  glad  that 


you  treat  him  as  a  prophet  rather  than 
poet.  My  feeling  about  the  latter  is 
very  strong,  and  yet  few  contempora- 
ries write  verses  which  I  love  so  much. 
I  wish  you  might  have  seen  Mr.  E. 
and  Mr.  Hawthorne  for  the  last  year, 
casually  and  at  all  times,  as  I  have 
done ;  that  I  might  know  if  you  would 
not  at  last  say,  the  wise  Emerson,  the 
poetic  Hawthorne.  I  am  going  to  show 
some  of  my  verses  to  the  latter.  I  do 
not  care  to  do  so  to  the  former.  And 
I  do  it  with  some  trembling,  as  I  did 
to  you,  for  I  feel  that  he  knows  what  is 
poetry,  and  what  is  poetical,  —  what 
is  the  power  of  the  poet  —  and  what 
the  force  of  talented  imitation. 

Your  friend, 

G.  W.  C. 

CONCORD,  August  6,  lSlf.5, 

I  returned  yesterday  from  the  Berk- 
shire hills,  and  shall  be  on  the  wing 
again  on  Friday  for  the  White  moun- 
tains. There  is  something  inspiriting 
in  the  mountain  air  which  I  have  never 
perceived  before.  I  suppose  that  one 
is  astonished  in  such  a  region  that  his 
tho'ts  do  not  at  once  expand  and  soar 
to  a  corresponding  spiritual  altitude, 
but  the  mountains  and  the  sea  are  seed 
too  large  to  ripen  their  flower  very 
speedily.  .  .  . 

I  felt  very  strongly  the  want  of  some 
sound,  corresponding  to  the  grandeur 
of  the  landscape.  That  the  ocean  gives 
you  if  you  wake  at  night  upon  the  sea 
shore,  the  low  murmur  of  the  water 
presses  a  sense  of  its  constant  presence 
upon  the  mind, —  in  the  pause  of  light 
conversation,  the  same  sound  rises  like 
a  vast  tho'tful  bass  to  which  all  tho't 
should  be  tuned,  and  in  the  rigid  si- 
lence of  the  Winter  there  is  no  silence 
there,  but  a  music  that  deepens  and 
strengthens  the  stillness.  Among  the 
hills  when  the  darkness  shuts  them 
from  the  eye,  only  the  memory  can  re- 
tain them.  Awakening  after  a  sleep  of 


SOME   EARLY   LETTERS  OF  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS      369 


years  among  them,  there  would  be  no 
presence  in  the  air  to  suggest  them, 
but  awaking  near  the  sea  the  first  con- 
sciousness would  receive  its  tone  from 
that. 

Yet  while  the  eye  could  possess  them, 
the  hills  were  very  impressive.  Man- 
tled with  green  their  strength  was  sub- 
dued to  tenderness,  so  that  the  influ- 
ence was,  in  character,  like  that  of  a 
man  of  delicate  strength  and  beauty. 
They  folded  the  valleys  with  such  gen- 
tle superiority,  as  if  the  world  beat  on 
their  outer  sides  with  heavy  waves  in 
vain.  And  the  sloping  sunset  light  was 
more  soft  and  striking  than  I  remem- 
ber to  have  seen.  The  sudden  dark 
shades  upon  the  hillsides  and  the  fairy 
green  of  the  distant  bare  slopes  turned 
to  the  West,  and  pervading  all,  a  sin- 
gular freshness  and  glow  in  the  atmo- 
sphere made  a  bath  of  beauty  wherein 
Diana  should  have  laved  and  arisen 
more  purely  human. 

G.  W.  CURTIS. 


CONCORD,  October  1, 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  — 

I  hope  your  long  silence  portends  no 
illness,  at  which  you  hinted  in  your 
last  letter  to  me,  which  I  received  just 
as  I  was  on  the  wing  for  the  White 
hills,  and  answered  only  by  a  few  songs, 
or  has  the  Autumn  which  lies  round  the 
horizon  like  a  beautifully  hued  serpent 
crushing  the  flower  of  Summer,  fasci- 
nated you  to  silence  with  its  soft,  calm 
eyes?  This  seems  the  prime  of  the  sea- 
son, for  the  trees  are  yet  full  of  leaves 
and  thickness  and  the  mass  of  various 
color  is  solid,  —  before  this  month  is 
over  the  woods  will  grow  sere  and  wan, 
and  so  the  splendid  result  of  the  year 
becomes  its  mausoleum.  .  .  . 

Yesterday  afternoon  I  sat  upon  the 
cliff,  a  lofty  pile  of  rock,  the  abrupt 
end  of  a  hill  over  the  river,  and  above  a 
wood  of  birch  and  pines,  and  there  the 
wind  blew  without  any  hindrance.  It 
VOL.  114  -NO.  3 


was  a  most  monopolizing  sound.  It 
was  not  so  much  the  inability  to  read 
or  write  or  pursue  any  peaceable  busi- 
ness of  that  sort  which  turned  me  whol- 
ly to  the  wind,  but  it  was  a  special 
character  in  its  own  tone,  which  if  I 
had  tho't  of  in  the  stillest  Summer 
evening  would  have  called  me  from 
anything  else.  The  singular  magnifi- 
cent beauty,  which  had  lain  all  the  long 
warm  months  so  quietly,  now  break- 
ing up  into  final  splendor  and  decay, 
thundered  in  my  ear  its  wail  of  death. 
The  water  rolled  and  wrestled  in  the 
river,  the  pine  trees  bent  over  the 
slight  birches,  withered  leaves  flew  high 
and  sadly  in  the  air,  and  I  the  only 
unmoved,  I  pushing  on  to  a  fuller  and 
fairer  maturity,  here  or  somewhere,  re- 
ceived upon  my  face  the  rush  of  the 
wind  and  in  my  heart  its  inward  agony. 
I  took  off  my  cap  and  it  streamed  thro* 
my  hair.  Why  could  not  I  bend  with  the 
trees  and  sing  as  they  sang?  Far  away 
in  the  North,  the  cold,  white  North, 
where  the  Winter  lies  in  wait,  lay  the 
outlines  of  mountains  against  the  gray 
horizon.  The  sound  of  their  lonely 
beauty  was  like  that  of  the  wind.  Rug- 
ged and  grim  and  dim,  and  long  after 
the  spring  sun  has  drawn  the  green 
grass  from  out  the  winter,  here  they 
will  still  be  white  with  snow. 

When  the  sun  set,  the  wind  died. 
Then  the  silence  was  more  mournful 
than  the  sound,  —  -  like  the  air  thro' 
which  a  dirge  has  just  passed,  which 
still  cherishes  the  soul  of  its  sadness. 
I  came  slowly  home  thro'  the  woods. 
The  crickets  sang  as  usual,  the  trees 
stood  steady  and  still.  Jupiter  arose 
in  the  east  —  Mars  and  Saturn  in  the 
southeast ;  and  the  earth  swung  noise- 
lessly with  them  as  if  the  stars,  so  pure 
and  cold  and  steadfast,  should  not  hear 
its  wail  or  suspect  a  grief. 

And  so  will  each  day  be,  each  more 
desperate,  till  there 'are  no  leaves  to 
sigh  and  rustle  upon  the  trees  or  fly  in 


370      SOME   EARLY   LETTERS  OF  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CUKTIS 


the  air,  and  the  waves  are  chained,  and 
the  splendor  quenched  by  the  rigid 
winter.  Yet  soft  warm  days  now  and 
then,  and  the  brief,  beautiful  Indian 
summer,  will  show  that  there  are  more 
summers  in  store.  .  .  . 

Thro'  the  summer  Mr.  Hawthorne 
had  the  'Orpheus'  —  the  smaller  long 
poem,  and  some  of  the  smaller  verses. 
It  was  most  grateful  to  me  to  hear  him 
say  what  he  did,  for  I  have  great  faith 
in  his  perception.  'The  Poet'  I  did  not 
show  him.  The  'Orpheus'  he  thinks 
may  be  corrected  and  improved  by  cor- 
rection, which  I  felt  when  you  suggest- 
ed something  of  the  same  sort  before. 
I  will  do  that  during  the  autumn  or 
winter. 

Concord  loses  very  much  to  me  in 
his  final  departure,  which  takes  place 
to-morrow,  Friday.  He  is  a  fountain 
of  deep,  still  water,  where  the  stars  may 
be  seen  at  noon. 

Mr.  Emerson  is  writing  lectures  up- 
on Plato,  Goethe,  Swedenborg,  Mon- 
taigne, and  Shakespeare. 

I  have  been  most  of  the  day  with 
Ellery  Channing,  whom  I  like  very 
much.  If  I  was  to  remain  here  thro' 
the  winter  I  should  know  him  much 
better  than  I  ever  have,  for  I  have  seen 
him  very  little,  since  I  have  lived  here. 

I  am  not  afraid  of  silence  in  my 
friends,  so  you  shall  write  only  when 
you  care  and  can. 

Your  friend, 

G.  W.  CURTIS. 


in 

The  month  of  November  finds  the 
young  poet  in  New  York,  recalling  re- 
gretfully the  pastoral  surroundings  of 
Concord,  and  endeavoring  to  adjust 
himself  to  the  whirl  and  bustle  of  the 
city  where  the  'muse'  flourishes  under 
difficulties  and  poets  pine  for  solitude. 

Some  two  months  later  he  writes 
from  the  same  place  that  he  has  been 


invited  to  join  Ellery  Channing  in  a 
trip  to  Italy,  an  unexpected  proposition 
which  may  be  looked  upon  as  a  mile- 
stone in  the  career  of  Curtis,  whose  first 
important  literary  contribution  sprang 
from  this  ideal  sojourn  in  the  old  world. 

NEW  YORK,  November  27,  '46. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — 

I  always  feel  lonely  when  I  first  come 
to  N.  Y.  for  such  constant  and  vigor- 
ous labor  outlaws  one  whose  path  lies 
elsewhere.  ...  I  grow  thin  and  pale 
here.  Everything  that  men  do  seems 
so  small.  Their  life  is  a  card-house 
built  over  the  eternal  gulf.  And  the 
priests,  the  ministers  of  the  soul,  are 
not  as  I  dreamed,  care-worn  and  wast- 
ed like  devoted  physicians  in  a  plague- 
stricken  city,  but  comfortable  and 
smiling  men, —  and  as  I  sit  in  the  warm 
church  richly  painted  and  gilded  and 
cushioned  and  the  smooth  voice  utters 
smoothly  what  the  man  believes,  for  I 
do  not  question  his  sincerity,  then  the 
history  of  men  in  the  past  and  the  dai- 
ly history  of  the  world  and  of  the  city 
where  we  are,  the  woe,  the  misery,  the 
wordless  despair  of  thousands,  rushes 
upon  my  mind,  and  by  the  unspiritual 
face  of  the  preacher,  I  see  the  thorn- 
crowned  head  of  Jesus  and  the  features 
pale  with  sorrow  for  sin,  not  with 
agony  for  suffering,  and  looking  with 
eyes  too  sad  for  tears  upon  the  silent 
audience,  imploring  the  priest  to  speak 
as  to  men  who  are  wandering  and  wait- 
ing and  looking  for  the  peace  to  which 
the  necessity  of  life  drives  them,  and 
which  is  the  crown  of  flowers  for  their 
bloody  hours.  Then  bursts  in  the  or- 
gan and  the  flowing,  gushing,  soothing 
music  lifts  me  above  the  crowd  like 
celestial  wings,  and  the  face  I  see  be- 
comes milder  and  softer,  more  beauti- 
ful as  the  melody  is  finer  and  fuller,  and 
peace,  deeper  than  sorrow,  bathes  it 
like  dew,  and  it  fades  from  my  sight  as 
the  music  swells,  as  stars  fade  in  the 


SOME   EARLY   LETTERS  OF  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS       371 


morning,  and  in  the  wavering,  dying, 
permeating  sound,  I  feel  the  soul  of 
that  heavenly  beauty.  ...  I  study 
Italian  vigorously  3  hours  a  day.  I 
read  German  and  French  about  2,  and 
just  now  Swedenborg  and  Festus  oc- 
cupy the  rest  of  my  leisure.  I  find 
Time,  the  true  'celestial  Railroad/  At 
Jno.  Dwight's  request  I  wrote  an  ac- 
count of  the  Symphony  of  Mendels- 
sohn's for  the  Harbinger.  It  will  be 
entitled  '  Music  in  New  York.'  It  is  the 
hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  write 
about  music,  for  the  best  part  of  the 
impression  is  so  evanescent  and  deli- 
cate, tho'  deep,  like  the  influence  of 
sunset  clouds:  one  wants  to  dip  his 
brush  in  them  if  he  must  paint  them.  ' 

NEW  YORK,  February  6,  1846. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,— 

What  should  surprise  me  the  other 
day  like  a  bird  flying  into  the  midst  of 
the  winter  silence,  but  a  proposition 
from  Ellery  Channing  for  us  to  accom- 
pany himself  and  George  Bradford  to 
Italy  in  May,  and  there  pass  a  year? 
I  tho't  at  once  that  I  could  not  go,  as 
a  lover  looks  coldly  upon  the  mistress 
whom  he  adores,  but  I  found  that  the 
direct  proposal  had  kindled  the  long 
dormant  spark  into  a  flame,  and  that 
sooner  or  later  it  would  elevate  me  to 
that  soft  celestial  atmosphere,  which 
spiritually  and  physically  belongs  to 
Italy.  Burrill  leans  upon  his  hand  and 
thinks  intently  about  it.  He  wants  to 
postpone,  to  study  the  language  more 
thoroughly,  to  read  the  history  of  the 
country,  until  every  stone  and  tower 
shall  tell  readily  what  it  is  and  has  been. 
But  I  seldom  think  about  things.  A 
proposition  comes  to  my  mind  and  is 
ripened  into  action  without  any  influ- 
ence wilfully  upon  my  part,  like  a  nest- 
egg  hatched  by  the  sun  and  not  by  the 
parental  warmth.  So  this  idea  of  Italy 
lies  cooking,  and  what  the  issue  will  be 
is  not  at  all  certain.  I  think  it  very 


doubtful  if  we  go  in  the  spring.  If  we 
do  not,  we  shall  lose  our  party  which  is 
so  pleasant  to  my  fancy,  but  we  shall 
gain  a  better  knowledge  of  the  language 
than  we  have  now.  If  I  went  I  should 
regard  it  as  a  preparation  for  going 
again  hereafter,  and  yet  I  feel  as  if  I 
should  be  very  unwilling  to  come  home 
again  when  once  there. 

Since  Ellery's  letter  came  I  have  been 
reading  Saddle  books  and  Italian  trav- 
el. Shelley's  letters  from  Italy  please 
me  very  much.  They  are  so  full  of 
delicate  appreciation  of  the  country 
and  all  its  influences.  He  was  so  finely 
wrought  that  it  seems  the  air  must  have 
passed  into  his  frame  and  mingled 
many  a  golden  secret  with  his  being, 
which  no  tongue  can  utter  and  no 
coarser  nature  feel.  There  was  a  spirit- 
ual voluptuousness  in  his  nature  which 
Italy  alone  could  satisfy,  and  which 
constituted  in  him  so  much  of  his  poet- 
ical feeling  and  fancy.  The  same  thing 
was  in  Keats,  but  in  him  more  fiery 
and  intense.  It  sucked  up  his  whole 
being  at  times,  so  that  its  expression 
syllabled  fire  and  passion,  as  in  the  in- 
vocation to  the  moon  in  Endymion.  In 
Shelley  it  was  less  ardent  and  never  of 
that  fierce  lavishness  which  it  was  in 
Keats.  .  .  . 

The  Muse  knows  not  these  brick 
walls,  I  have  written  scarcely  a  line 
since  I  have  been  here,  and  have  left 
the  *  Orpheus '  and  the  long  poem  I  read 
you  for  alteration  and  re-formation  in 
the  summer.  I  have  meant  to  copy 
some  portions  for  you  and  will  do  so. 

You  will  find  it  hard  to  read  this  but 
I  always  write  fast  about  Keats. 
Your  friend, 

G.  W.  C. 

N.Y.,  January  20,  '46. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — 

You  will  have  seen  from  my  last  let- 
ter that  I  did  not  sympathise  with  Miss 
Fuller's  view  of  Cromwell,  but  I  tho't 


372      SOME   EARLY   LETTERS  OF  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS 


her  review  of  Longfellow  one  of  the  best 
things  that  I  ever  saw  of  hers.  How  is 
it  that  we  differ  so  much,  for  you  say 
while  those  on  Cromwell  were  among 
her  best,  those  upon  Longfellow  were 
among  the  worst.  She  seemed  to  me  to 
give  him  with  great  tenderness  and 
consideration  and  due  appreciation  his 
just  place.  She  did  not  abruptly  say, 
*  you  are  no  poet,'  but  having  expressed 
her  views  of  poetry  and  the  poet,  meas- 
ured him  by  it.  He  failed  by  that 
[measure],  as  he  has  long  ago  by  mine 
and  by  that  of  his  best  friends,  and 
those  most  calculated  to  appreciate 
him,  one  of  whom  told  me  he  was 
sorry  for  Mr.  Longfellow,  for  he  did 
not  seem  to  understand  that  his  popu- 
larity must  so  soon  abate,  nor  had  he 
courage  and  character  enough  to  sus- 
tain the  consciousness  when  it  should 
come.  His  verses  are  pleasing  to  me, 
but  I  see  a  thousand  old  Teutons  look- 
ing thro'  his  eyes  and  giving  them  the 
light  they  have.  Very  many  seem  trans- 
lations from  the  German;  the  imagery 
and  the  circumstances  are  not  his  own, 
but  are  pleasant  to  him  from  associa- 
tion and  study.  Miss  Fuller's  criti- 
cism of  imagery  I  think  unjust.  It  is 
overflowing  another  and  drowning  him 
in  her  individuality;  but  in  the  main 
I  should  say  with  her,  that  Mr.  Long- 
fellow is  an  elegant  scholar,  a  man  of 
good  taste  and  delicate  mind,  who  is 
fluent  and  sweet,  but  writes  from  a  vein 
of  sentiment  which  is  not  sound,  and 
is  too  little  inspired  to  write  anything 
important. 

You  speak  of  Poe's  article  upon  Miss 
Barrett.  1  should  much  like  to  see  any- 
thing really  good  of  his.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  his  volume  of  poems  I  know 
nothing  of  him  save  a  tale  in  one  of  the 
reviews  a  month  ago,  which  was  only 
like  an  offensive  odor.  There  seems  to 
be  a  vein  of  something  in  him,  but  if  of 
gold  he  is  laboring  thro'  many  baser 
veins,  and  may  at  last  reach  it.  In  one 


of  the  foreign  reviews  I  found  a  recent 
article  upon  Miss  B.  It  was  on  the 
whole  just,  altho'  I  am  struck  with  the 
utter  want  of  sympathy  between  crit- 
ics and  their  prey.  This  review  dis- 
posed of  the  lady  as  a  jockey  disposes 
of  horses.  And  yet  I  love  to  have  those 
whom  I  love  pass  thro'  this  coldest  or- 
deal and  show  that  they  have  some- 
thing for  it.  If  the  diamond  in  the  head 
does  not  show  itself  to  such  critics,  at 
least  they  rejoice  in  the  brightness  of 
the  eyes.  My  love  must  be  so  beauti- 
ful that  the  blind  can  rejoice,  them- 
selves feeling  the  perfect  form. 

I  love  Shelley  so  much  and  am  so 
much  indebted  to  him  for  pleasant 
hours  that  it  seems  cruel  to  deny  him 
the  name  which  was  evidently  his  dear- 
est dream  and  hope  to  possess.  And  yet 
it  was  finely  said  to  me  once,  after  I 
had  unconsciously  perceived  the  same 
thing,  'Reading  Shelley  is  like  search- 
ing for  gold  dust  in  shining  sand.'  It  is 
perpetually  suggested  to  you  but  never 
found.  He  seems  to  want  an  infinite 
background,  his  poems  are  not  stars 
against  the  depthless  sky.  But  they 
are  bright  and  beautiful  and  if  he  is  not 
so  much  to  me  as  he  once  was,  he  is  still 
a  dove  in  'heaven's  sweetest  air.'  You 
probably  liked  Miss  Fuller's  notice  of 
him.  It  expressed  a  great  debt.  .  .  . 

I  think  we  have  no  right  to  complain 
that  the  breath  of  God  is  stayed,  in  a 
century  which  has  borne  Napoleon, 
Washington,  Swedenborg,  Goethe,  and 
Beethoven.  If  you  observe  the  pro- 
gramme of  Mr.  Emerson's  lectures,  out 
of  six  great  men  whom  he  finds  in  his- 
tory, three  are  from  his  own  century. 
I  am  reading  Chaucer  too,  arid  dashed 
thro'  the  Countess  of  Rudolstadt,  the  se- 
quel to  Consueloy  last  week.  It  is  not 
so  sunnily  beautiful  as  that,  altho'  a 
fine  work.  A  life  of  Mozart  I  found  in- 
teresting, also  some  tragedies  of  Ford's. 

So  I  drift,  and  toward  every  flower 
which  attracts  me,  I  turn  my  boat. 


SOME   EARLY   LETTERS  OF  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS       373 


Have  you  read  Margaret  ?  It  is  a  book 
of  great  and  peculiar  interest.  One  of 
the  most  original  books  I  have  met 
for  a  long  time,  altho'  it  is  very  long 
and  thick,  to  read.  And  the  character 
of  Margaret  does  not  develop  so  per- 
fectly as  I  expected  from  the  beginning. 
I  have  flooded  you  with  my  Biographia 
Literaria;  if  you  escape  undrowned  and 
have  vigor  left,  let  me  hear  from  you 
soon. 

Your  friend, 

G.  W.  C. 

NEW  YORK,  May  2,  1846. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  - 

I  hope  the  spring  brings  you  health 
as  well  as  pleasure.  Although  I  suppose 
there  must  be  an  intense  sadness  in  the 
beauty,  when  we  do  not  have  in  our- 
selves the  health  which  is  the  first  con- 
dition of  beauty.  But  I  always  think 
that  when  the  spring  comes  and  those 
whom  the  winter  has  imprisoned  can 
once  more  walk  in  the  green  fields  and 
smell  the  fresh  flowers,  fresh  and  won- 
derful always,  altho'  every  year  brings 
the  same,  they  will  then  regain  the  lost 
treasures  in  the  fragrance  all  around 
them.  A  walk  yesterday  in  the  late 
afternoon,  and  twilight,  quite  beyond 
the  city  where  I  could  hear  the  frogs 
and  the  home- fly  ing  and  twittering 
birds,  and  see  a  short  lane  stretching 
thro'  a  green  border  of  bushes  and 
grass,  and  losing  itself  against  woods 
beyond,  lifted  me  entirely  out  of  my 
winter  life,  unlocked  all  the  fountains 
of  spring  feeling,  and  gave  me  the  feel- 
ing of  surprise  and  delight,  which  every 
season  awakens. 

It  is  a  great  thing  that  Nature  al- 
ways appears  so  perfect  and  novel  to 
us.  Even  the  best  of  men  do  not  do  so. 
They  do  not  seem  to  have  an  infinite 
richness  altho'  that  may  be  because  we 
too  are  human,  and  that  we  can  never 
be,  or,  rather,  are  never  so  simply  re- 
lated to  other  human  beings.  And  yet 


as  if  to  show  the  real  superiority  of  a 
real  man,  an  artist  of  genius  shows  us 
on  his  canvas  the  landscape  that  we 
loved,  arrayed  in  a  more  subtle  and 
delicate  beauty  than  we  have  ever 
seen  upon  it,  because  his  genius  is  a 
finer  glass  than  our  common  percep- 
tions and  he  gives  us  the  representa- 
tion of  that. 

This  winter  I  have  been  more  really 
interested  in  art  than  ever  before,  and 
probably  the  longer  a  man  lives  in  the 
country,  the  finer  will  be  his  taste  and 
appreciation  of  whatever  is  good  in  art, 
because  Nature  is  the  basis  and  nurse 
of  the  grandest  art,  which  is  surely  not 
a  copy  or  imitation,  but  while  it  is 
faithful  to  the  minutest  detail  of  Na- 
ture, is  a  reproduction  of  it  thro'  the 
genius  which  sees  the  inner  meaning 
and  beauty  of  the  natural  image  and 
so  presents  it  in  a  serener  and  more 
graceful  form.  This  is  true  perhaps 
only  of  parts,  for  was  there  ever  a 
picture  which  satisfied  one  as  a  beauti- 
ful face  or  landscape  does?  I  certain- 
ly ought  not  to  say  it,  for  even  now 
I  am  writing  some  little  verses  where 
'  the  Painter  who  paints  best '  and  '  the 
sculptor  of  most  skill '  are  the  sun  and 
moon.  .  .  . 

I  shall  probably  not  write  you  from 
New  York  for  a  long  time,  as  I  shall 
go  up  the  river  to-morrow  and  pass  a 
few  days  with  the  Cranches  at  Fish- 
kill  and  soon  after  go  to  the  East.  We 
shall  probably  sail  on  the  1st  of  Au- 
gust, for  the  ship  which  sails  in  Sep- 
tember is  not  a  good  one.  Our  French 
and  Italian  quarters  are  over,  and  I 
feel  quite  at  home  in  the  speaking  of 
the  former.  Practice  will  perfect  the 
latter. 

I  shall  see  you  in  Providence  in  the 
summer,  altho'  I  feel  I  shall  not  have 
much  to  show  for  the  long  time  since 
I  saw  you  last. 

Truly  your  friend, 

G.  W.  C. 


374      SOME  EARLY   LETTERS  OF  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS 


CONCORD,  June  12,  1846. 

Shall  we  not  one  day  be  of  so  delicate 
a  perception,  that  we  can  catch  the 
secret  of  this  summer  air  which  now 
flows  by  us  so  alluringly  and  silently? 
Often  in  the  midst  of  beautiful  days 
and  places  it  seems  to  me  there  is  some 
fairy  revelry  proceeding  all  around  me, 
which  I  cannot  appreciate,  and  which 
comes  to  me  as  sadness  and  longing, 
like  the  echo  of  festal  music  saddened 
by  distance.  Often  walking  homeward 
from  the  village  in  the  moonlight,  I 
wish  for  wings  to  move  silently  and  not 
disturb  the  repose  of  the  night,  by  my 
echoing  footsteps.  To  tread  as  softly 
as  the  dew  falls,  to  speak  in  cadences 
like  the  whisper  of  leaves  and  the  gush- 
ing of  brooks,  to  feel  in  our  lives,  not 
only  the  superior  possibility,  but  the 
real  depth  and  delicacy,  which  lies 
around  us  in  Nature,  —  is  a  tho't  that 
often  haunts  me .  How  cold  we  are  when 
we  meet,  how  reserved,  how  proud. 
Even  the  warmest,  tenderest  hearts  are 
crushed  by  a  weight  of  self-conscious- 
ness. Everybody  should  be  a  messen- 
ger of  beauty  for  the  soul  that  follows, 
like  the  long-haired  beautiful  heralds 
sent  before  the  Heroes  of  Gods  of 
old,  and  yet  we  cannot  sit  gracefully, 
scarcely  comfortably,  in  our  chairs. 

The  landscape  is  so  gentle  and  beau- 
tiful here  and  I  am  so  pleasantly  situ- 
ated with  some  old  Brook  Farm  friends, 
hearty,  homely  and  quiet  people,  that 
I  am  sorry  my  summer  is  not  to  be 
passed  here.  Already  I  feel  how  sorry 
I  shall  be  when  I  must  really  say  good- 
bye and  separate  from  all  I  know,  for 
even  Burrill  will  not  go. with  me,  but 
has  the  best  reasons  for  remaining  in 
America.  It  will  be  a  crisis  in  my  life  in 
various  ways,  and  1  have  a  singular 
curiosity  about  the  influence  of  Europe 
upon  myself.  .  .  .  Association  and  art, 
and  an  indefinable  individuality  of  ex- 
ternal Nature  constitute  my  charm  for 
Italy,  and  with  a  general  reading  one 


has  all  the  material  ready.  As  the 
time  comes,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  looked 
more  closely,  almost  more  tenderly  up- 
on our  country  here,  — the  landscape  I 
mean.  Nature  is  such  a  splendid  mute 
bride,  whose  lips  we  constantly  watch 
expecting  to  see  them  overflow  with 
music,  with  melodious  explanations  of 
all  that  her  beauty  has  hinted  and 
nourished.  .  .  .  To-day  in  a  newspaper 
I  chanced  to  see  a  poem  of  Bryant's, 
an  old  one  I  think,  called  'June.'  The 
end  is  remarkably  fine,  —  you  will  re- 
member it:  speaking  of  his  grave  made 
in  June  and  of  all  that  he  would  wish 
to  have  around  it,  and  those  he  would 
wish  to  come,  he  concludes  of  himself, 

Whose  part  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 
The  circuit  of  the  Summer  hills, 
Is  —  that  his  grave  is  green. 

That  seems  to  me  very  fine.  Bryant 
interested  me  very  much  as  I  saw  him 
occasionally  in  the  winter.  I  did  not 
know  him  personally,  but  his  head  is 
so  rocky  and  strong  and  commanding. 
I  realize  more  than  ever  the  transpar- 
ent simplicity  and  sincere  beauty  of  his 
poetry.  It  is  like  buttercups  and  daisies, 
which  we  are  apt  to  disregard  and  yet 
which  give  a  deeper  beauty  to  the  land- 
scape and  are  fed  with  all  the  hues  and 
airs  of  heaven. 

I  have  read  a  good  deal  of  Browning, 
but  neither  '  Paracelsus '  nor  *  Sordel- 
lo.'  The  *  Bells  and  Pomegranates'  are 
full  of  richness  and  luxuriant  imagina- 
tion. What  says  Miss  Barrett  about 
them,  'cut  down  deep  in  the  middle,' 
*  blood  veined,'  or  something  like  it? 
I  do  not  know  any  poetry  now  which 
seems  to  show  that  a  keen,  rushing 
sense  of  life  tingles  to  the  very  finger 
tips  of  the  poet  as  this  does.  It  is  only 
too  wild,  too  salient.  .  .  .  Browning, 
as  you  will  suppose,  is  often  clumsy  and 
obscure,  but  always  real,  he  always 
holds  fast  to  his  tho't,  whether  it  is  a 
good  one  or  a  bad  one  and  never  sacri- 
fices it  to  anything.  A  poet  never 


SOME   EARLY   LETTERS  OF  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS       375 


should  do  that,  but  also  he  should 
never  be  necessitated  to  do  it.  He 
speaks  in  numbers  for  the  numbers 
come. 

Do  you  observe  how,  in  speaking  of 
men  of  genius,  we  incline  to  measure 
them  by  the  standard  of  entire  genius, 
forgetting  that  every  such  man  has  but 
a  ray,  and  makes  beautiful  only  what 
that  ray  shines  upon?  I  have  been 
very  much  amused  by  several  persons 
saying  that  Ellery  Channing  could  not 
be  a  true  poet,  because  he  went  to  Eu- 
rope and  left  his  wife  as  he  did.  They 
tho't  of  the  great  perfect  man,  whom 
we  choose  to  call  poet,  and  who  is  sup- 
posed to  fulfill  all  the  duties  of  life  as 
well  as  he  sings,  while  Ellery  is  a  sel- 
fish, indolent  person  (tho'  a  good  deal 
more  and  better)  who  certainly  does 
write  good  poetry.  It  is  a  terrible  situ- 
ation for  them.  They  have  hitherto 
perhaps  tho't  him  a  poet,  but  the  true 
poet-  -would  he  have  done  so?  Aut 
Caesar  aut  nihil.  Good  night,  I  hope  I 
have  not  wearied  you  by  so  long  a  talk, 
if  so,  you  must  take  it  by  easy  stages, 
as  we  used  to  read  Xenophon  did — the 
only  Greek  fact  I  remember.  .  .  . 

Sunday.  A  soft  genial  day,  the  flow- 
er of  June  weather  as  June  is  the  flower 
of  the  year.  By  chance  I  laid  my  hand 
upon  Whittier's  Poems,  a  book  I  al- 
ways have  by  me  on  Sundays.  .  .  .  Did 
you  know  that  Ida  Russell  is  very  inti- 
mate with  Whittier,  so  that  I  have 
sometimes  heard  that  they  were  en- 
gaged .  She  pointed  him  out  to  me  once, 
in  an  Anti-Slavery  convention.  He  is 
a  thin  man,  with  a  sad  almost  sharp 
face,  and  dark  hair.  He  moved  silently 
and  lonelily  among  the  crowd,  and 
seemed  like  a  strain  of  his  poetry  im- 
personized.  Mr.  Hawthorne  told  me 
that  he  came  to  see  him  once,  and 
he  was  much  pleased  with  his  quiet 
manner. 

I  have  written  to  ask  Mr.  H.  to  go 
to  Monadnock  mountain  with  me  this 


week,  but  I  am  afraid  his  duties,  for 
he  is  a  Custom  house  officer,  will  not 
permit. 

Here  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  paper, 
and  yet  I  could  say  a  great  deal  more. 
1  wish  we  were  sitting  together  on  some 
shady  bank  of  the  Seekonk,  and  gliding 
down  the  sunny  hours  with  conversa- 
tion as  simple  and  natural  as  its  course, 
not  so  anxious  for  tho't  as  gentle  union 
with  the  feeling  and  the  silence  of  the 
day.  The  Sabbath  feeling,  I  shall  not 
have  in  Italy;  that  will  be  one  of  the 
great  changes  or  the  great  losses.  Do 
you  remember  in  Margaret  the  descrip- 
tion of  a  Sunday  morning  in  June?  I 
shall  go  from  Concord  by  the  first  of 
July  and  be  in  Providence  a  week  or 
two  afterwards.  If  you  can,  write;  if 
not,  farewell  until  I  see  you. 
Your  friend, 

G.  W.  C. 

PROVIDENCE,  July  25, 1846. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — 

I  am  sorry  not  to  see  you  this  after- 
noon, but  as  I  could  have  remained  but 
a  few  moments  it  is  perhaps  as  well, 
but  a  warm  shake  of  the  hand  is  better 
than  this. 

Good-bye,  for  that  is  all  that  I  have 
to  say.  I  owe  you  more  than  I  can  say, 
.  .  .  Farewell  and  may  all  good  angels 
bless  you. 

Your  friend, 

GEORGE  WM.  CURTIS. 

With  the  conclusion  of  this  letter, 
the  early  phase  of  Curtis's  career  is 
closed,  and  having  passed  this  mile- 
stone, he  enters  that  wider  sphere  in 
which  his  future  activities  are  to  be  so 
successfully  employed. 

His  correspondence  with  Mrs.  Whit- 
man, which  was  later  renewed,  was 
continued  at  intervals  for  many  years. 
He  ever  turned  with  unfailing  confid- 
ence to  consult  his  early  friend  in  re- 
gard to  his  later  literary  work,  and  in 


376 


CHRIST'S  TABLE 


1860,  one  finds  him  appealing  to  her 
judgment  when  he  writes:  — 

'Tell  me  "certain  true"  whether 
Trumps  is  worth  publishing  as  a  book? ' 

Throughout  his  life,  Curtis  retained 
those  characteristics  which  are  so  clear- 
ly outlined  in  his  early  letters,  namely 
his  sentiment,  his  love  of  music  and  of 
nature,  his  worship  of  art  and  beauty, 
and  his  chivalrous  attitude  toward  all 


mankind.  His  early  promise  was  am- 
ply fulfilled,  even  though  it  failed  to 
blossom  primarily  in  the  poetic  field, 
and  he  must  ever  remain  in  the  eyes  of 
posterity,  what  his  friend  Winter  has 
pronounced  him:  - 

'The  illustrious  orator,  the  wise  and 
gentle  philosopher,  the  serene  and  deli- 
cate artist,  the  incorruptible  patriot, 
the  supreme  gentleman/ 


CHRIST'S  TABLE 

BY  MARGARET  PRESCOTT  MONTAGUE 

O  CHRIST!    O  Christ!    The  hands!    The  eager  hands, 

The  tired  hands!    The  praying  tragic  grip 

Of  fingers  on  the  rail !    The  speechless  lip 

That  moving  cries  and  cries  its  sore  demands! 

We  come,  O  Christ,  in  trooping  wistful  bands, 

With  yearning  hearts  and  thirsty  souls  to  sip; 

We  kneel,  we  wait,  we  pray,  in  fellowship 

Of  need  —  Lord  Christ !     One  glimpse  of  Promised  Lands ! 

• 

It  comes  —  the  whispered  word,  the  cup,  the  tray, 
My  Body  and  my  Blood,  the  Bread,  the  Wine. 
The  hands  receive,  the  lips  accept.     We  pray  — 
0  Christ!    We  pray!  .  .  .  Peace  and  be  still.     The  line 
Moves  on  ...  Forgive,  O!  Lord!  forgive  to-day 
The  tortured  flesh  that  faithless  craved  a  sign! 


ENGLISH  AS  HUMANE  LETTERS 


BY   FRANK   AYDELOTTE 


THE  non-academic  part  of  the  world, 
which  in  spite  of  the  growth  of  the  state 
universities  is  still  a  large  part,  takes 
great  delight  in  the  notion  of  the  col- 
lege graduate,  trained  in  the  lore  of  his- 
tory, the  mysteries  of  science,  and  the 
graces  of  poetry,  wearing  out  his  shoe- 
leather  in  a  vain  search  for  a  job.  The 
joke,  or  the  fact  behind  it,  has  made  its 
impression  on  the  trainers  of  the  col- 
lege youth,  so  that  in  every  centre  of 
learning  one  finds  eager  effort  to  make 
our  education  practical.  A  certain 
amount  of  the  same  kind  of  talk  is  to 
be  heard  in  England,  even  at  Oxford, 
but  less  of  it,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
English  education  of  the  last  few  gen- 
erations, however  remote  it  may  seem 
in  its  methods,  has  been  obviously 
practical  in  its  results.  Oxford  and 
Cambridge  men  have  ruled  brilliantly 
the  greatest  empire  in  the  world,  they 
have  given  England  one  of  the  most 
democratic  governments  and  almost  the 
cleanest  politics  on  earth,  they  have 
played  their  part  with  credit  in  busi- 
ness and  in  every  profession. 

Until  quite  recently  Oxford  educa- 
tion took  its  tone  and  character  main- 
ly from  training  of  one  kind  —  the 
course  in  the  classics  which  the  Uni- 
versity calls  Literce  Humaniores  and 
which  the  undergraduates  call '  Greats/ 
It  is  this  training  which  has  made  the 
young  Englishman  an  educated  man, 
has  given  him  efficiency  in  the  prac- 
tical world,  and  has  made  him  above 
all  else  a  gentleman.  To-day  Oxford  is 
undergoing  a  gradual  change,  the  most 
marked  feature  of  which  is  the  expan- 


sion of  the  curriculum;  but  the  school 
of  classics  still  retains  its  prestige  in 
spite  of  the  invasion  of  other  studies. 
The  reason  for  its  prestige  and  for  its 
greatness  is  apparent  in  the  nature  of 
the  course. 

The  work  of  the  course  divides 
readily  into  two  parts.  The  first,  which 
corresponds  roughly  to  our  American 
'classical  course,'  is  a  careful  study  of 
the  principal  Greek  and  Latin  poets, 
orators,  and  dramatists.  The  second 
and  more  important  part  is  a  thorough 
study  of  the  classic  historians  and  phil- 
osophers, including  both  but  laying 
stress  upon  the  one  or  the  other  as  the 
undergraduate  chooses.  The  study  of 
Greek  philosophy  includes  the  study  of 
modern  philosophy  as  well.  Taken  as  a 
whole  Literce  Humaniores  is  a  study 
not  merely  of  the  aesthetic  qualities 
of  Greek  and  Latin  literature  but  of 
Greek  and  Roman  thought,  and  as 
such  it  offers  the  undergraduate  what 
it  is  no  exaggeration  to  call  the  key  to 
modern  civilization. 

Probably  no  training  in  modern  lit- 
erature can  be  made  to  equal  this  in 
intellectual  value.  However  that  may 
be,  any  very  extensive  study  of  the 
classics  is  apparently  impossible  in 
America.  The  tide  has  been  flowing 
in  the  direction  of  the  moderns,  and 
while  it  may  turn  back  again,  in  all 
likelihood  it  will  not  soon.  English  lit- 
erature is  for  us  what  the  classics  were 
to  our  grandfathers  in  this  country  and 
in  England,  and  as  perhaps  the  great- 
est modern  literature,  it  has,  aside  from 
the  question  of  language,  one  obvious 

377 


378 


ENGLISH  AS  HUMANE  LETTERS 


advantage  over  the  classics  as  a  means 
of  popular  education :  it  is  permeated 
with  the  modern  spirit,  it  is  a  record  of 
modern  thought,  it  deals  directly  with 
the  intellectual  problems  and  the  con- 
ditions which  face  us,  with  the  world  as 
it  has  been  refashioned  by  Christianity 
and  modern  science.  The  popularity  of 
the  study  of  English  may  be  due  part- 
ly to  coeducation,  but  it  is  also  due 
partly  to  this  fact. 

The  popularity  of  the  study  of  Eng- 
lish, however,  need  not  blind  us  to  the 
very  unsatisfactory  nature  of  its  re- 
sults. Whatever  good  things  it  may  do 
for  our  undergraduates  it  does  not 
teach  them  to  think,  does  not  offer 
them  any  severe  intellectual  discipline; 
it  is  not  a  go'od  course  for  the  man  to 
take  who  wants  to  develop  that  power 
of  sane,  keen  thinking  which  is  the  dis- 
tinguishing mark  of  a  liberal  education. 

This  fact  is  even  more  apparent  in 
the  case  of  the  students  who  give  their 
attention  mainly  to  belles-lettres,  to  the 
appreciation  of  literature,  than  in  those 
who  confine  themselves  to  philology  or 
literary  history.  The  popular  outcry 
against  linguistics  and  source-hunting 
does  not  go  to  the  root  of  the  matter. 
Among  English  professors  and  English 
students  alike  are  many  able  men  who 
have  sought  in  philology  and  in  the 
history  of  literature  something  solid, 
something  of  real  intellectual  value, 
something  'to  bite  on,'  which  they 
could  not  find  in  courses  in  literary 
'appreciation.'  And  for  that  point  of 
view  there  is  this  justification,  that 
most  of  the  graduates  from  our  literary 
courses  who  are  comparatively  free 
from  philology,  and  are  not  at  all  ab- 
sorbed in  the  minutiae  of  literary  history, 
are  lamentably  deficient  in  power  of 
thought,  in  the  ability  to  understand 
literature — woefully  lacking  in  real 
literary  interests.  Literary  power  is 
power  to  think  and  power  to  feel  in 
the  sense  in  which  feeling  becomes  il- 


lumination and  yields  a  result  similar 
to  the  result  of  thought.  This  illumi- 
nation our  training  in  English  litera- 
ture seems  somehow  not  to  give. 

There  are  of  course  many  shining  ex- 
ceptions to  what  is  here  said,  but  the 
above  is  on  the  whole  a  fair  statement 
of  the  fact,  and  it  is  a  fact  to  be  very  seri- 
ously considered.  Since  we  have  in  this 
country  no  immediate  prospect  of  a  re- 
turn to  the  classics  as  the  vehicle  of 
general  literary  education,  and  since 
English  literature  is  daily  becoming  a 
more  and  more  popular  subject,  the 
question  of  all  questions  for  us  is  how 
to  make  of  it  a  liberal  study.  The  ques- 
tion is  not  pedagogical  in  the  sense  in 
which  that  word  is  usually  understood; 
it  is  really  literary:  what  are  the  more 
humane  and  what  the  less  humane  as- 
pects of  English  letters? 

The  obvious  answer,  if  my  analysis 
of  the  reasons  for  the  effectiveness  of 
the  Oxford  course  in  the  classics  is 
sound,  is  to  make  our  study  of  English 
literature  a  study  of  English  thought. 
When  we  treat  English  authors  as  mere 
entertainers  whose  business  it  is  to  pro- 
vide elegant  amusement  for  our  idle 
hours,  we  are  guilty  of  a  misconception 
as  to  the  meaning  of  literature  which  is 
denounced  specifically  or  implicitly  by 
every  great  critic  in  our  language,  and 
which  is  certain  to  prevent  all  or  al- 
most all  the  possible  good  results  of  our 
study.  The  answer  is  to  get  entirely 
away  from  that  theory  of  literature 
and  to  realize  that  the  poets  and  novel- 
ists and  essayists  are  men  who  are  try- 
ing to  unify  and  explain  life  to  us,  and 
to  give  us  the  zest  for  it  which  their 
divine  vision  has  brought  to  them.  We 
must  face  literature  squarely,  recog- 
nize in  it  a  record  of  the  meaning  of  our 
civilization,  and,  without  confusing  it 
for  a  moment  with  history  or  philoso- 
phy, give  full  weight  to  its  historical 
and  social  and  philosophical  bearings. 
Finally,  in  order  to  give  our  students 


ENGLISH  AS  HUMANE  LETTERS 


379 


any  love  of  literature  which  will  be 
more  serious  than  an  idle  flirtation,  we 
must  make  plain  to  them  that  their 
first  business  is  not  to  '  appreciate '  but 
to  understand. 

It  may  seem  self-evident,  that  the 
value  of  the  work  of  any  great  man  of 
letters  lies  in  the  record  of  what  may 
be  called,  in  the  wide  sense  explained 
above,  his  thought  about  life;  and  that 
the  student  must  have  some  idea  of 
this  before  he  will  know  how  to  read 
profitably,  and  before  the  study  of  lit- 
erary history  or  of  the  technique  of  any 
literary  form  can  have  for  him  much 
meaning.  However  self-evident  such 
an  idea  may  seem,  it  is  constantly  ig- 
nored. We  go  on  teaching  the  history 
of  literature  and  the  technique  of  lit- 
erary forms  to  our  students  before  they 
have  any  elementary  notions  of  the 
significance  of  literature  itself,  which 
alone  would  make  such  study  profit- 
able. We  talk  about  the  '  style '  of  this 
author  and  that,  paying  scantiest  at- 
tention to  his  ideas,  omitting  the  sub- 
stance to  contemplate  the  form.  How- 
ever tortuous  and  super-subtle  the  lore 
of  our  subject  may  seem  from  other 
points  of  view,  in  this  sense  it  is  super- 
ficial. The  one  treatment  of  English 
literature  which  would  give  the  study 
of  it  literary  value  or  make  it  a  part  of 
a  liberal  education  is  that  treatment 
which  lays  emphasis  primarily  on  what 
English  authors  have  to  say  about  life, 
what  were  the  problems  of  life  which 
they  were  trying  to  solve,  what  to  them 
were  its  mysteries  and  its  meaning".  To 
talk  frankly  and  thoughtfully  about 
these  questions,  to  get  to  the  bottom, 
to  make  our  teaching  the  expression  of 
what  we  really  believe  about  the  deep- 
est things  of  life,  —  the  things  about 
which  the  poets  are  talking,  —  to  do 
this  most  of  us  are  either  too  lazy  or  too 
blase. 

Much  of  our  greatest  English  litera- 
ture is  read  by  the  American  under- 


graduate, if  at  all,  not  in  the  English 
department,  but  in  the  department  of 
philosophy  or  sociology  or  history  or 
theology  or  the  fine  arts.  We  have 
gradually  narrowed  the  content  of  our 
literary  courses  until  we  have  little  left 
except  descriptions  of  nature,  love 
stories,  and  lyrics.  The  habit  of  using 
books  filled  with  brief  selections  from 
a  large  number  of  authors  prevents  the 
student  from  getting  any  clear  and 
complete  notion  of  what  any  English 
man  of  letters  was  really  trying  to  say. 
The  study  of  the  development  of  lite- 
rary forms  has  crowded  out  the  study 
of  literary  thought.  We  give  years  to 
the  study  of  *  style*  in  courses  which, 
in  their  selection  of  illustrative  read- 
ing, tacitly  deny  that  definition  of  style 
which  is  always  on  our  lips.  If  the 
style  is  of  the  man,  can  we  not  perhaps 
understand  its  secret  better  by  study- 
ing the  man  himself,  by  placing  our  at- 
tention less  upon  externals  and  more 
upon  his  thought? 

Such  a  study  of  English  literature 
would  demand  much  more,  both  of  in- 
structor and  student,  than  is  usually 
demanded  at  present.  It  would  demand 
hard  and  careful  thinking,  it  would 
reach  out  into  domains  of  thought 
which  our  habit  of  rigid  departmental 
specialization  has  led  us  to  believe  we 
have  no  business  to  enter.  It  would 
involve  consideration  of  the  thought 
of  other  nations  which  has  influen- 
ced our  own  intellectual  leaders.  It 
would  mean  the  acquisition  of  some 
conception  of  that  complex  body  of 
thought  which  we  know  as  western 
civilization,  and,  in  the  case  of  our 
keenest  students,  it  would  lead  event- 
ually to  a  study  of  the  classics  as  well. 

Such  a  study  of  English  literature 
would  remove  the  reproach  of  formal- 
ism and  shallowness  which  we  deserve 
at  present  because  of  our  too  exclu- 
sive preoccupation  with  metaphysical 
falsities  about  style  and  about  the 


380 


ENGLISH  AS  HUMANE  LETTERS 


*  evolution '  of  literary  forms.  It  would 
mean  a  study  of  men  and  of  currents 
of  thought  rather  than  of  separate  lyr- 
ics and  'minor  poems,'  selected  and 
printed  in  textbooks  because  of  their 
convenience  for  separate  assignment 
and  class-discussion.  It  would  mean 
attempting  less  and  doing  it  better; 
keeping  undergraduate  study  to  a  few 
important  men"  and  a  few  influential 
movements,  instead  of  spreading  it  over 
the  whole  history  of  English  literature 
from  Beowulf  to  Bridges.  The  under- 
graduates would  be  distinctly  better  off 
if  they  heard  less  about  minor  eight- 
eenth-century poets  and  minor  Eliza- 
bethan dramatists,  and  instead  read 
more  of  Bacon  and  more  of  our  great 
nineteenth-century  thinkers  on  social 
and  religious  and  scientific  questions. 
Literature,  so  taught,  would  become  a 
more  thoughtful,  a  humaner,  a  more 
really  literary  study,  and  its  students 
would  be  in  a  position  to  apprehend 
better  the  meaning  of  the  glib-formula, 
'Literature  is  a  criticism  of  life.' 

Not  the  least  of  the  benefits  from 
such  a  change  in  attitude  would  be  a 
change  in  the  form  and  content  of  un- 
dergraduate essays.  We  should  have 
fewer  light  and  airy  descriptions,  few- 
er inane  stories,  fewer  self-conscious 
apings  of  Lamb  and  Stevenson,  and  in 


their  place  more  serious  efforts  to  say 
what  a  certain  book  or  poem  or  para- 
graph or  phrase  means  when  one  thinks 
about  it.  The  result  would  be  that 
many  problems  of  English  composition 
would  solve  themselves,  and  the  sub- 
ject (as  a  separate  study)  would  prob- 
ably disappear  from  our  universities, 
to  the  great  relief  and  advantage  of  all 
concerned.  We  should  need  all  the 
student's  writing  as  a  test  and  record 
of  his  understanding  of  what  he  read. 
Of  course  if  English  literature  were 
really  made  a  thoughtful  study  with 
the  majority,  many  of  its  votaries 
who  seek  in  it  merely  a  graceful  ac- 
complishment or  the  means  of  being 
wafted  up  to  a  degree  on  flowery  beds 
of  ease,  would  be  driven  away.  In  the 
survivors  we  might  look  for  results 
which  we  do  not  find  at  present:  an 
adequate  mastery  of  a  few  books  and 
a  few  questions,  some  real  comprehen- 
sion of  the  significance  of  literature, 
some  genuine  intellectual  interests, 
and,  above  all,  capacity  for  thought 
which,  as  it  is  the  one  result  of  educa- 
tion really  to  be  called  practical,  is  also 
the  one  literary  quality.  So  pursued, 
the  study  of  English  letters  might  be- 
come, if  not  equal  in  value  to  the  study 
of  the  Greek  and  Roman  classics,  at 
any  rate  a  more  humane  pursuit. 


A  LITTLE   MOTHER 


BY   FLORENCE   GILMORE 


I  HAD  been  on  the  train  for  hours  and 
was  very  tired.  All  morning  I  had  seen 
only  'a  level,  thinly  wooded  country, 
never  beautiful  or  picturesque.  The 
magazine  with  which  I  had  armed  my- 
self, fondly  imagining  that  it  would  be 
a  protection  against  the  tedium  of  a 
six-hour  trip,  had  proved  dull  to  a  de- 
gree that  defies  expression .  There  was 
no  one  to  talk  to,  for  the  only  other 
passengers  were  a  fat  woman  who  slept 
most  of  the  time,  and,  when  she  was 
awake,  read  a  novel  and  languidly 
munched  peanuts,  and  four  traveling 
salesmen  who  harped  on  boots  and 
shoes  and  notions  until  I  became  so 
weary  listening  to  them  that  I  firm- 
ly resolved  that,  come  what  might,  I 
would  never  again  use  any  of  the 
things  they  sold. 

At  one  o'clock,  having  finished  my 
luncheon,  I  sank  back  in  my  seat  and 
looked  out  of  the  window,  thinking  irri- 
tably how  I  must  be  bored  for  another 
hour.  The  train  was  then  standing  at 
a  country  station  exactly  like  thirty  or 
forty  others  we  had  passed  during  the 
morning.  What  looked  to  be  the  same 
stiff-legged  station-master  was  hurry- 
ing back  and  forth;  the  same  shabbily 
dressed  men  loafed  about;  the  same 
small  boys  ran  hither  and  thither  in 
every  one's  way;  the  same  young  girls 
giggled,  and  nudged  one  another,  and 
giggled  again. 

Turning  from  my  window  with  a 
long-drawn  sigh,  I  saw  that  a  little  girl 
had  got  on  the  train  and  was  taking 
the  seat  across  the  aisle  from  mine. 
What  impressed  me  most  in  that  first 


glance  was  her  quaint  primness.  Her 
hair  hung  down  her  back  in  the  neatest 
of  long  braids,  and  was  fastened  with 
the  neatest  of  small  black  bows.  Her 
stiffly  starched  gingham  dress  was 
spotless  and  her  gloves  looked  like  new. 
She  had  a  sweet,  round,  rosy  little 
face,  but  it  was  graver  than  any  other 
child's  I  have  ever  seen.  Watching 
her,  I  wondered  if  she  ever  played,  if 
she  ever  broke  her  toys  and  tore  her 
clothes  and  forgot  to  do  the  things  she 
had  been  told  but  a  moment  before, 
like  many,  many,  dear,  naughty  little 
girls  I  know. 

Interested  by  the  quaintness  of  the 
child,  I  reopened  my  magazine  and 
watched  her  from  behind  it .  As  soon  as 
she  was  seated  she  carefully  arranged 
her  belongings  on  the  seat  facing  her: 
a  satchel,  a  box,  and  a  large  apple. 
She  took  off  her  hat,  and  spying  a  news- 
paper which  I  had  thrown  aside,  asked 
me  for  it.  *  Perhaps  the  dust  would 
spoil  the  flowers,'  she  said.  *I  don't 
like  to  run  the  risk.' 

I  asked  her  a  few  questions  then. 
She  was  not  shy,  and  was  evidently  in- 
clined to  be  friendly,  for  as  soon  as  she 
had  disposed  her  belongings  to  her  sat- 
isfaction, she  crossed  the  aisle  and  sat 
beside  me. 

*I  want  to  keep  my  hat  as  nice  as 
new,  because  mamma  trimmed  it  her- 
self. Papa  and  I  think  it  is  the  beauti- 
fulest  hat  we  have  ever  seen.  We  are 
very  proud  of  it.  You  see,  mamma  is 
sick  all  the  time.  She  can't  even  sew 
except  once  in  a  great  while.  She  has 
awful  pains,  and  she  is  weak,  and  can 

381 


382 


A  LITTLE  MOTHER 


hardly  ever  get  out  of  bed,  so  papa 
and  I  are  very  good  to  her  and  take 
care  of  her  all  we  can.  She  says  we 
spoil  her,  but  she's  only  joking,  don't 
you  think  so?  It's  only  children  that 
get  spoiled,  is  n't  it?' 

I  said  that  I  believed  so;  and  after  a 
moment,  to  break  the  silence  that  fol- 
lowed, I  asked  her  if  she  had  any  bro- 
thers and  sisters.  I  felt  certain  that  she 
had  not.  She  would  have  been  less 
staid  had  she  been  accustomed  to  the 
companionship  of  other  children. 

'I  had  three  brothers,'  she  answered, 
'but  they  all  died  before  I  was  born, 
and  two  little  sisters  —  twins;  and  they 
died  when  they  were  just  one  hour  old.' 
She  looked  puzzled  after  she  had  said 
this  and  an  instant  later  she  corrected 
herself:  — 

'The  twins  really  were  n't  old  at  all; 
they  were  just  —  just  one  hour  young.'' 
And  having  settled  this  point  to  her 
satisfaction,  she  looked  into  my  face 
and  added  seriously,  'I  have  often 
thought  about  it.  I  believe  that  when 
my  brothers  and  sisters  came  they  did 
not  like  it  here,  so  God  did  n't  make 
them  stay,  but  took  them  straight  to 
heaven.' 

'And  you  liked  it,  and  did  stay,'  I 
said,  drawing  my  conclusion  from  her 
premises. 

'I?  Oh,  I  like  it  pretty  well.  Some- 
times things  are  inconvenient,  and 
they're  often  uncomfortable,  but  it 
is  n't  bad  if  you  have  people  to  be  good 
to.' 

She  lapsed  into  silence  after  this,  and 
resting  her  chin  on  her  hand  stared 
thoughtfully  through  the  window. 
Eager  to  hear  more  of  her  strange  little 
thoughts,  I  racked  my  brain  for  some- 
thing to  say,  and  at  last,  nothing  start- 
ling or  original  suggesting  itself,  I  ask- 
ed, 'Have  you  been  long  away  from 
home? ' 

'For  four  weeks.  Mamma  got  so 
sick  she  had  to  be  taken  to  a  hospital, 


and  then  papa  sent  me  to  stay  at 
grandma's.' 

'  And  of  course  she  has  been  spoiling 
you  —  after  the  manner  of  grandmo- 
thers!' I  said,  smiling. 

The  child  looked  doubtful,  and  made 
no  direct  answer.  After  a  time  she  ex- 
plained in  her  quaint,  decided  way,  — 

'  Mothers  and  grandmothers  are  dif- 
ferent. Grandmothers  give  little  girls 
cookies  and  they  don't  tell  them  to  go 
to  bed  at  half- past  seven;  but  they 
have  n't  such  good  ways  of  tucking 
people  in  bed,  and  their  kisses  are  n't 
the  same. 

*  I  did  n't  know  until  yesterday  that 
I  was  going  home  to-day,'  she  went  on 
after  a  scarcely  perceptible  pause.  'I 
had  a  hard  time  to  get  presents  for 
mamma.  I  had  made  two  daisy  chains; 
they  were  ready;  and  all  day  yesterday 
I  was  trying  to  think  of  some  other 
things  that  would  be  nice  and  could  n't 
make  her  tired.  Papa  and  I  always  try 
not  to  let  her  grow  tired,  but  she  often 
does,  anyhow.' 

She  crossed  the  aisle,  and  getting 
the  box  I  had  noticed  when  she  enter- 
ed the  car,  opened  it  and  proudly  dis- 
played two  chains  of  withered  daisies, 
a  bird's  egg  wrapped  in  cotton,  several 
picture  cards,  and  a  stiff,  new  cotton 
handkerchief  with  a  gorgeous  border. 
*A11  these  are  for  her!'  she  said.  'The 
daisies  have  faded  but  she  won't  mind 
that.  I  know,  because  once  before  I 
made  her  a  daisy  chain  and  it  withered 
before  I  got  home,  but  she  liked  it  as  it 
was.  She  really  liked  it  very  much. 
She  told  me  so,  and  even  if  she  had  n't 
I  could  have  told  from  the  way  she 
smiled.  A  big  boy  gave  me  the  bird's 
egg.  Then,  I  had  a  nickel  grandma 
gave  me  last  week,  and  for  a  long  time 
I  could  n't  decide  whether  to  buy  this 
handkerchief  or  a  pin  with  a  diamond 
in  it;  but  papa  gave  her  a  pin  on  her 
birthday  and  she 's  never  had  any  kind 
of  handkerchiefs  except  plain  white 


A  LITTLE  MOTHER 


383 


ones :  that 's  what  decided  me.  This  one 
is  very  pretty,  don't  you  think  so? ' 

I  blinked  at  the  flaming  colors  and 
murmured  something  noncommittal. 

The  child  hardly  paused  for  breath 
before  she  continued  her  quaint  chatter. 
She  loved  to  talk,  and  as  1  was  only  too 
glad  to  have  some  one  —  any  one  — 
to  listen  to,  all  went  well. 

'It  seems  a  long  time  since  I  left 
papa  and  mamma.  I  can  hardly  wait 
to  see  them.  I  was  never  away  from 
home  before.  Do  you  think  she 's  well 
enough  to  be  at  the  station  ?  She 's  been 
at  a  hospital,  you  know,  and  papa  says 
that  a  hospital's  a  place  where  they 
make  people  well.' 

I  told  her  not  to  count  on  finding  her 
mother  grown  quite  strong  in  so  short 
a  time.  , 

*  Is  n't  it  wonderful  how  things  hap- 
pen just  when  you  don't  expect  them 
to!'  she  exclaimed,  not  heeding  my 
warning  in  the  least.  'When  I  got  out 
of  bed  yesterday  morning  I  did  n't 
know  I  was  going  to  see  her  and  papa 
so  soon!  I  was  just  throwing  them  a 
kiss  from  my  window  when  grandma 
called  me.  She  had  been  crying,  and 
she  told  me  that  papa  wanted  me  at 
home.  I  suppose  it  was  because  she 
was  going  to  lose  me  that  she  cried. 
I'd  been  very  good  to  her.  But  I  did 
n't  feel  a  bit  like  crying.  I  was  glad 
all  inside  of  me.  And  by  and  by  Mrs. 
Dodge,  who  knew  mamma  when  she 
was  no  bigger  than  I  am,  she  came  to 
see  grandma  and  they  talked  and 
talked,  and  she  cried  too.  I  saw  her.  I 
think  she  must  have  caught  the  tears 
from  grandma  like  I  did  the  measles 
from  our  butcher's  little  boy/ 

As  she  chattered  my  heart  grew 
heavy.  I  understood  that  her  mother 
was  dead;  buried,  too,  no  doubt.  Poor 
motherless  child!  Poor,  poor  child! 
And  she  had  no  suspicion  of  the  truth. 
She  was  all  eagerness,  all  hope. 

When  we  reached  R we  got  off 


the  train  together,  but  the  moment  she 
caught  sight  of  her  father  she  forgot 
my  existence.  I  looked  at  him  with 
keen,  sympathetic  interest.  He  ap- 
peared to  be  almost  fifty  years  of  age. 
His  face  was  kindly  and  rather  hand- 
some. He  lifted  his  little  girl  into  his 
arms  and  almost  smothered  her  with 
kisses;  then  they  walked  away,  hand 
in  hand,  and  I  lost  sight  of  them  in  the 
crowd.  I  was  not  sorry.  I  wondered 
how  he  could  tell  her. 

Ten  minutes  later,  having  attended 
to  my  baggage,  I  passed  out  of  the  sta- 
tion and  saw  them  again.  The  father 
had  lifted  the  child  on  the  low  stone 
wall  that  runs  along  that  side  of  the 
building,  and  was  talking  to  her,  gen- 
tly and  seriously.  Her  big  eyes  were 
fastened  on  his  and  great  tears  were 
pouring  unheeded  over  her  cheeks. 
She  still  held  her  apple.  The  box  was 
tucked  under  one  arm,  but  the  lid  was 
gone  and  the  precious  daisy  chains 
were  hanging  out  of  it.  She  did  not  see 
me,  and  I  hurried  past  them. 

My  car  was  long  in  coming,  and 
feeling  restless  I  walked  a  square  or 
two  and  let  it  overtake  me.  When  I 
seated  myself  in  it  I  found  to  my  re- 
gret that  I  was  face  to  face  with  the 
father  and  child.  She  was  as  pale  as 
he  now;  her  hat  hung  uncherished  at 
the  back  of  her  neck,  and  from  time 
to  time  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  I 
have  never  seen  another  face  bespeak 
such  utter  desolation. 

Her  father  held  one  of  her  hands 
tightly  clasped  in  his,  but  for  some 
minutes  neither  of  them  spoke.  Once 
or  twice  she  did  try  to  ask  him  some- 
thing, but  although  she  opened  her 
lips,  no  sound  came. 

At  length  he  said  gently,  'You'll 
have  to  be  very  good  to  me  now,  Ruth. 
There's  no  one  else  to  take  care  of  me.' 

She  looked  up  at  him  then.  Her 
eyes  brightened  a  little  and  a  faint 
smile  spread  slowly  over  her  tear- 


ARTIIl'K    SV1MONS    AND    IMPRESSIONISM 


stained     face.       'Yes.     papa,,'    she    an 
suered.  \\ilh  a  little  motherly  air;  and 
sighed,  and  snui^led  closer  to  him. 

After  a  second  she  spoke  a.^ain.  ra- 
Iher  more  briskly,  'You'd  better  cat 
this  apple  right  a\\a\.  N  on  haxen't 
had  your  dinner,  and  it's  afternoon,  she  whispered. 


You  might  gel  sick,  if  \ou  are  n't  more 
careful.' 

lie    look    the    apple   and    obediently 
hied     to    cat     some    of    il.    and     Kulh 
\\alched    him    with   sal  isfacl  ion.     'I'm 
to  take  ftnrh  <M>od  care  of  you!' 


ARTHUR  SYMONS  AND   IMPUKSSION1S 


BY    WILBUR   MARSHALL   UKIk\N 


THB  cessation  of  Mr.  Arthur  Sy- 
mons's  writing  has  brought  poignant  ly 
to  mind  the  fact,  of  a  peculiarly  self 
contained  and  self-conscious  aesthetic 
personality.  As  a  perfected  instrument 
for  impressionism  he  was  unique,  per- 
haps, among  writers  of  English.  To 
have  used  that  instrument  is  to  have 
made  ourselves  debtors  to  his  wisdom 

-  and  still  more  at  times  to  his  divine 
folly.  x 

There  are  few  of  Symons's  readers 
who  would  willingly  have  missed  eit  her 
his  wisdom  or  unwisdom.  Tohaxe  read 
his  Cities,  especially  his  Seville  and 
.W.i.sriw.  is  lo  have  learned  the  pleas- 
ures of  broken  lights  in  the  emotions. 
to  have  traversed  the  long  road  from 
the  genius  loci  of  the  ancients  to  the 
.vr'H/jWu/.v  </r.v  plticc*  of  the  modern 
French  psychologist.  To  haxe  read  his 
/Vdj/*,  Acting  and  Music  is  to  have 
enjoyed  to  the  last  degree  that  versa- 
tility  as  well  as  refinement  of  appreci- 
ation toward  which  the  modern  spirit 
moves,  its  exacting  skepticism,  its  sad 
inconsequence  and  glorious  irrespon 
sibility.  And  finally,  to  ha\e  read  his 


poems-     is  not. that   to  have   felt    the 
temper  of  the  instrument  itself,  the  re 
sidual  moods  of  a  life  of  impressions, 
themselves  inexpressible   in   prose;    to 
have  read  his  Spiritual  Adventures  -    is 
not  that  to  have  learned  also  how  such 
an  instrument  of  impressions  is  formed  : 
the  heats  and  colds  alike,  the  exclu- 
sions as  well  as  the  ailirmations?  Side- 
lights O11   the   quest    for    beauty.    the\ 
show  forth   the   transports  of  the  ah 
straction  of  beauty  from  life,  but  also 
its  revenges. 

No  one  \\ho  has  read  Symons  at  all 
widely  will  doubt  (he  propriety  of  de- 
scribing his  niftier  as  the  abstraction  of 
beautv  from  life.  He  is  al\\a\s  con 
scious  of  himself  as  an  instrument  of 
sensation.  The  words  'abstract'  and 
'disengage*  are  constantly  on  his  lips 

AVhel  her  it  be  a  moment  of  his  ou  n  ex 
perience  or  a.  glimpse  of  na  t  u  re.  w  het  her 
the  mood  of  a  man  or  of  a  eit  \  .  in  an\ 

case  it  is  some  quintessential  soul  of 
things  that  he  will  disengage,  drop  1\\ 
drop,  from  the  passing  moments  It  is 

in    no  \\ise  different    in    his   criticism. 
Apparently  it  is.  if  ain  thin;:,  \\ilh  pie 
ference  that  he  applieshis  delicate  po\\ 
ers  to   that    form  of  experience  which. 


SVMONS   AND   IMPHKSStONISM 


as  Plait)  said,  is  thrice  removed  from 
reality.  In  Jirl,  whether  il  he  (lie  un- 
conscious eolleelive  art  of  a  city,  or 
the  conscious  sacrificial  and  individual 
art  of  a  genius,  he  finds  I  he  processes 
of  disl  ilia  (ion  a  I  least  twice  performed, 
once  by  the  action  of  life  experience, 
and  once  by  the  reconstructions  of  the 
artist.  In  these  sublimations  of  life 
he  is  at  home,  the  instinetive  sloth  of 
his  temperament  -for  there  ean  be 
no  other  word-  predisposing  him  to 
this  parasitical  relation  to  life.  In  art,  to 
use  his  own  words,  'reality  already  has 
an  atmosphere,'  and  in  the  disengag- 
ing of  the  atmosphere  from  the  thing 
he  finds  his  highest  joy. 

Symons  seeks,  and  ean  find,  an  ad- 
venture among  these  lordly  if  diaphan- 
ous mansions  of  the  soul.  Indeed  the 
possibility  of  adventure  is  extraordi- 
narily great;  his  facility  and  breadth  of 
appreciation  are  marvels  of  cultivation, 
no  less  than  of  original  endowment. 
But  one  is  impressed  with  an  equally 
extraordinary  limitation.  While  no 
eon  temporary  Knglish  critic  has  played 
the  light  of  his  temperament  over  a 
wider  range  of  arts  and  experiences, 
none,  it  is  curious  to  note,  is  so  ab- 
stracted and  monotonous  in  his  stand- 
point.  A  hatred  of  the  commonplace 
has  driven  him  far  afield,  but  by  a 
curious  paradox  he  finds,  not  *  native* 
moments,  but  always  the  predestined 
commonplaces  of  his  own  soul.  In  his 
search  for  beauty  he  has  looked  at 
life  from  every  angle;  strangeness  has 
been  sought  rather  than  refused;  there 
has  been  an  arduous  and  discreet  cult- 
ivation  of  the  continual  slight  nov- 
elty. But  as  soon  as  he  gets  these 
strangenesses  and  exotics  into  his 
hands,  they  all  take  on  the  same  color. 
Amid  all  the  variety  of  his  apprecia- 
tions there  is  a  persistent  monotony  of 
realization. 

This  curious  monotony  is  perhaps 
the  most  striking  note  of  his  verse.   I 

VOL.  114 -NO.  3 


know  of  no  two  volumes  of  poems  in 
which  the  titles  exhibit  a  wider  range  of 
subjects,  or  subjects  more  stimulating 
to  the  imagination.  I  also  know  of 
none  when1  the  imagination  is  so  cir- 
cumscribed by  a  certain  unity  of  mood. 

9f  V 

If  his  N/VAw/rY/rVf  are  indeed  but  the  out- 
line and  the  black  and  white  of  poetry, 
it  is  not  because  the  objects  and  expe- 
riences of  which  he  writes  are  them- 
selves colorless  and  without  the  vital 
suggestions  of  the  rounded  form.    As 
native  moments  they  are  full  of  color 
and  rieJi  in  the  promise  of  emotion.   It 
is  rather  because  in  passing  through  his 
soul  they  have  undergone  a  process  of 
abstraction  which  leaves  them  but  the 
achromatic  thinness  of  a  mood.   If  his 
London  Nights  are  all  pitched  to  one 
key,  so  that  to  have  read  one  is  in  a 
sense  to  have  read  them  all,  it  is  not  be- 
cause the  phantoms  that  flit  through 
those  restless  nights  are  without  vari- 
ety.   Here  also  there  is  that  arduous, 
*  Vt  always  discreet,  cultivation  of  the 
continual  slight  novelty.    It  is  rather 
that  all  are  predetermined  to  resolve 
themselves  into  one  ground  tone  - 
and  that,  too,  a  tone  singularly  like  the 
recurrent  mood  of  a  dream.    In  the 
Loom  of  Dreams,  —  so  one  of  the  poems 
of  the  collection  is  called,  -  -  there  is, 
as  he  himself  becomes  finally  aware,  a 
fatal  magic  which,  no  matter  how  va- 
ried and  many-colored  the  threads  of 
life  may  be,  always  weaves  the  same 
pattern. 

I  have  emphasized  this  curious  ef- 
fect of  monotony,  not  because  it  is  ne- 
cessarily opposed  either  to  beauty  or 
to  aesthetic  effectiveness.  In  its  way 
Symons's  verse  is  both  beautiful  and 
effective.  There  is  indeed  something 
to  be  said  for  his  own  opinion  that  a 
certain  monotony  is  essential  to  art, 
— for  his  feeling  that  the  Russian  land- 
scape as  one  approaches  Moscow,  with 
its  almost  unbearable  vast  ness  and 
monotony,  gives  rise  to  a  mood  akin 


386 


ARTHUR  SYMONS  AND  IMPRESSION 


to  that  produced  by  the  greatest  art. 
Great  beauty  is  never  afraid  of  single- 
ness of  heart;  one  of  the  secrets  of  ef- 
fectiveness is  reiteration.  Nor  have  I 
emphasized  such  monotony  as  some- 
thing undesired  and  wholly  unsought. 
That  Symons,  in  fact,  desired  it  secret- 
ly, with  a  strange  sympathetic  submis- 
sion, even  though  it  was  closely  fol- 
lowed by  the  shadows  of  ennui  and 
monomania,  one  easily  learns  from 
that  marvelous  *  impression/  An  Au- 
tumn City :  that  city  of  Aries  in  which 
the  'soul  of  autumn  made  itself  a 
body/  that  city  whose  pleasing  mono- 
tony he  contrasts  with  the  variety  of 
the  empty  sunlight  and  the  obvious  sea 
of  Marseilles.  Here  the  single  tone 
of  the  dripping  rain,  the  one  air  of 
the  cathedral  repeated  over  and  over 
again,  the  single  unchanging  odor  of 
the  place,  and  the  repetition  of  primi- 
tive peasant  faces  —  all  fuse  into  a  uni- 
ty of  mood  singularly  pleasing  to  the 
nerves. 

Neither  as  unbeautiful,  therefore, 
nor  yet  as  undesired,  does  this  mono- 
tony impress  itself  upon  us,  but  rather 
as  something  inevitable  and  inexorable. 
For  this  fundamental  sameness  of  real- 
ization, amid  the  greatest  variety  of  ap- 
preciations, is,  if  I  mistake  not,  one  of 
the  marks  of  impressionism,  of  that  at- 
titude of  mind  and  will  peculiar  to  the 
cult  of  the  aesthetic  instrument.  In 
place  of  simplicity  of  conception  there 
is  this  sameness  of  realization;  for  the 
unity  of  creative  passion,  there  is  the 
unity  of  the  relaxed  mood.  The  genus, 
it  is  true,  may  have  many  species,  the 
fundamental  mood  may  have  a  vari- 
ety of  emotional  accompaniments  and 
overtones.  It  may  have  all  the  cloying 
sweetness  of  William  Morris's  Earthly 
Paradise;  it  may  be  toned  with  the 
wistful  speculation  of  Walter  Pater's 
prose;  it  may  have  the  bitter-sweet  of 
Rossetti,  or  the  sterile,  dogged  joys  of 
Symons  himself,  —  but  in  any  case 


there  is  the  same  reiterated  undertone, 
the  sense  of  a  will  moving  about  in 
worlds  unrealized.  Dreamers  they  all 
are,  wandering  in  a  dreamless  day. 
Whether  then,  retaining  the  one  gener- 
ous belief  that  nothing  that  has  ever 
interested  the  human  mind  can  whol- 
ly lose  its  worth,  they  may  seek  to  ex- 
tract from  the  past  a  timeless  value; 
or,  once  deceived  by  the  too  facile  con- 
solations of  romance,  they  may  snatch 
enjoyment  from  the  soulless  appear- 
ances of  the  moment;  in  either  case  it 
is  the  enjoyment  of  the  mood  after  the 
dogma  about  which  it  has  formed  is 
gone,  the  sad  residuum  of  an  indeter- 
minate idealism. 


ii 

Symons's  collection  of  poems,  Lon- 
don Nights,  is  dedicated  to  Paul  Ver- 
laine;  his  Days  and  Nights  to  Walter 
Pater.  If  he  has  learned  much  of  his 
art  from  the  former,  some  of  whose 
poems  he  has  translated,  it  is  safe  to 
say  that  he  has  got  much  of  his  philo- 
sophy from  the  latter.  The  former  may 
have  taught  him  the  technical  secrets 
of  a  most  delicate  detachment  of  ap- 
pearance from  reality;  the  latter  has 
given  him  the  theory  of  that  detach- 
ment. 

To  be  sure,  Symons  practices  his  mas- 
ter's creed  with  a  difference,  his  temp- 
erament allowing  him  to  extract  from 
nature  the  essences  of  many  things 
which  Pater's  coldness  will  not  let  him 
touch.  Yet  in  both  there  is  that  same 
fastidiousness  of  taste  that  finds  na- 
ture tasteless,  and  that  will  not  allow 
them  to  take  the  raw  emotion,  'the 
big,  foolish,  dirty  thing/  just  as  it 
is.  In  both  there  is  the  same  sedate  and 
sombre  lack  of  humor,  a  necessary  con- 
sequence of  their  finding  nature  taste- 
less. In  both,  and  back  of  all,  there  is 
the  same  deep-seated  and  instinct- 
ive hatred  of  the  commonplace,  which, 


Aj>THUR  SYMONS  AND  IMPRESSIONISM 


387 


whether  c  or  acquired,  is  the 

/.  i    rpnt  ant  .f  ,  , , 

source  ot  both      1     mosophy  and  the 

practice  of  the  aesthete  and  the  impres- 
sionist. 

As  it  happens,  one  may  find  in  Pater 
a  statement  of  this  very  creed ;  a  state- 
ment not  only  exquisite  in  the  accuracy 
of  its  self-revelation,  but  also  serving 
as  the  superscription  for  almost  every- 
thing that  Symons  has  written.  'It 
is  easy,'  so  Pater  tells  us  in  his  essay 
on  Winckelmann,  *  to  indulge  the  com- 
monplace metaphysical  instinct.  But 
a  taste  for  metaphysics  may  be  one 
of  the  things  that  we  must  renounce 
if  we  mean  to  mould  our  lives  to  aes- 
thetic perfection.  Philosophy,'  he  con- 
tinues, *  serves  culture,  not  by  a  fan- 
cied gift  of  absolute  or  transcendental 
knowledge,  but  by  suggesting  ques- 
tions which  help  one  to  detect  the  pas- 
sions, the  strangenesses,  luo  v,j  rW>iS 
of  life/ 

In  these  two  articles  of  his  creed, 
-  not  only  the  denial  of  the  instinct 
for  the  real  behind  appearance,  for  this 
and  this  only  is  the  metaphysical  in- 
stinct at  bottom,  but  also  the  pervert- 
ed use  of  this  instinct  to  stimulate  the 
passions,  the  strangenesses,  the  con- 
trasts of  life,  —  the  *  perfect  aesthete ' 
stands  revealed.  With  true  insight  the 
hater  of  the  commonplace  denies  the 
metaphysical  instinct  in  all  its  forms, 
for  it  is  not  only  commonplace,  but  is 
the  most  common  of  all  things.  It  is 
the  feeling  for  the  roots  of  reality,  for 
the  solidarity  of  instinct,  of  which  the 
several  instincts  are  but  feeble  an- 
ticipations; it  is  the  primal  lust.  De- 
nial, frustration  of  this  primal  lust  is 
the  philosophy  of  impressionism.  In 
the  matter  of  the  elemental  and  com- 
mon instincts  of  life,  the  perfect 
aesthete  will,  as  Symons  confesses  in 
the  matter  of  love,  'cultivate  diverse 
imaginings,  strange  reticences,  only 


way  it  is  always  the  vulgar  final  fact  of 
realization,  in  short  the  metaphysical 
instinct,  from  which  such  an  one 
shrinks. 

With  Pater  this  vulgar  instinct  for 
the  real  back  of  appearance  is  to  be 
renounced.  With  others,  as  with  Sy- 
mons himself,  there  is  rather  a  per- 
verse and  inevitable  frustration  of  the 
instinct.  In  the  first  chapter  of  his 
Spiritual  Adventures,  entitled  'A  Pre- 
lude to  Life,'  he  not  only  confesses  an 
early  —  almost  congenital  —  hatred  of 
the  elemental  and  commonplace,  but  in 
his  'impressions'  of  his  early  self  re- 
veals a  form  of  experience  that  amounts 
almost  to  a  dissociation  of  appearance 
and  reality.  In  that  mere  chain  of  un- 
connected emotions  and  sensations,  so 
obscure  and  meaningless  at  first,  one 
finally  receives  an  impression  of  ex- 
traordinary lucidity  and  outrightness. 
One  comes  to  see  that  of  just  these 
detached,  abstracted  moments,  was 
his  life  composed.  The  singular  sensi- 
tiveness to  life's  impressions  combined 
with  an  equally  singular  impenetra- 
bility to  life's  interests,  —  this,  one 
comes  to  see,  is  not  a  pose  but  a  pre- 
possession. 

The  tales  which  make  up  the  body  of 
the  Adventures  are  studies  in  just  such 
aesthetic  dissociations.  In  Christian 
Trevalga  the  bondage  to  the  passing 
sensation  is  one  of  tones.  For  him  mu- 
sic becomes  the  only  reality.  Some- 
thing more  than  the  soul  of  humanity 
expressing  itself  in  melody;  it  is  a  real 
thing  that  may  be  hurt.  Cut  off  from 
the  vulgar  but  full  and  resonant  emo- 
tions of  humanity,  the  musician  comes 
to  find  unearthly  feelings  in  the  tones 
themselves. 

All  this,  it  is  true,  does  not  take  place 
without  a  struggle.  Trevalga  tries  to 
find  himself,  to  become  real  again  by 
falling  in  love,  and  in  this  experience 


that  the  one  vulgar  final  act  remain     for  a  time  he  again  touches  real  things, 
an  unadmitted  fact/   In  some  obscure     But  his  master  is  imperious  and,  real- 


388 


ARTHUR   SYMONS   AND   IMPRESSION' 


ity  again  receding,  the  mastery  of  ap- 
pearances passes  over  into  a  perma- 
nent hallucination. 

In  The  Death  of  Peter  Waydelin  it  is 
the  tragedy  of  the  lust  and  dominance 
of  the  eye.  An  initial  slightly  novel 
way  of  seeing  things,  an  obscure  facility 
for  abstracting  color,  light,  and  shade 
from  its  meanings,  passes  finally  into 
a  permanent  set  of  the  eye  in  which 
all  things  are  seen  with  a  monotonous 
tinge  of  green,  and  into  a  distortion  of 
the  soul  in  which  all  things  are  bathed 
in  illusion. 

In  these  two  studies  of  'art  for  art's 
sake'  there  are  indeed  striking  hints 
of  the  psychology  of  the  musician  and 
painter,  but  even  more  interesting  is 
the  philosophy  of  impressionism  that 
emerges.  *  There  had  been,  it  was  clear 
to  me,'  the  fictitious  observer  of  Way- 
delin remarks,  'some  obscure  martyr- 
dom going  on,  not  the  less  for  art's  sake 
because  it  came  out  of  the  very  neces- 
sity of  things.' 

Such  a  creed  is  apparently  inevitable 
at  some  stage  of  the  development  of  the 
artist.  The  affinity  for  impressionism 
and  unreality  is  inherent  in  the  artistic 
temperament.  In  the  diary  which  he 
kept  at  Venice,  Wagner  speaks  of  the 
magical  effect  of  the  square  of  St. 
Mark's,  *as  of  'a  wholly  distant  out- 
lived world '  admirably  fitting  his  wish 
for  solitude.  'Nothing  to  strike  one  as 
directly  real  life.  Everything  is  objec- 
tive like  a  work  of  art.'  He  speaks  of 
its  'thoroughly  theatrical  suggestion, 
through  its  absolute  uniqueness  and  its 
sea  of  utter  strangers  void  of  all  con- 
cern for  me  —  merely  distracting  one's 
fancy.'  Half-aesthetic  states  of  still  an- 
other type  are  eagerly  sought  by  the 
artist  to  prolong  the  isolation,  'the  in- 
stant made  eternity';  those  of  the 
'Absinthe-Drinker,'  who,  as  in  the 
poem  of  Symons  of  that  name,  gently 
waves  the  visible  world  away,  or  of  his 
*  Opium  Smoker'  who  is  engulfed  and 


drowned,  deliciou  .iied  with  the 

cerements  of  eter.,«^-;  Whether  as  the 
unasked  gift  of  the  moment,  or  as 
the  artificial  widening  and  deepening 
of  the  specious  present,  it  is  such  ex- 
periences, so  congenial  to  the  artistic 
temperament,  that  lead  to  the  belief 
that  'the  complete  and  perfect  artist 
is  from  all  eternity  separated  from 
reality.' 

For  many  this  is  but  a  phase  of  expe- 
rience; 'tired  of  eternal  unreality,  they 
reach  out  into  that  very  thing  that  is 
forbidden  them.'  For  others  again,  as 
for  Symons  himself,  the  contradiction 
in  the  artist's  temperament  remains 
permanent.  Thus  it  is  that  the  obscure 
martyrdom  of  the  artist  is  a  part  of 
Symons's  creed,  —  for  him  there  must 
be  no  longer  merely  the  conscious  de- 
nial of  the  metaphysical  instinct,  but 
sohic  fatal  and  inexorable  frustration 
of  the  commonplace  instinct  for  real- 
ity itself;  no  longer  merely  a  sense  of 
aesthetic  perfection,  but  a  prescience 
of  the  monotony  of  sterile  realizations. 
This  it  is  that  pervades  the  Spiritual 
Adventures,  this  is  the  burden  of  his 
critical  philosophy  of  beauty. 

In  his  Romantic  Movement,  written 
with  the  avowed  intention  of  exalt- 
ing the  work  of  Blake,  Coleridge,  and 
Shelley  as  the  final  criterion  of  poetry, 
Symons  speaks  of  Shelley  as  'an  en- 
chanter who  never  mistakes  the  images 
he  calls  up  for  realities,'  and  yet  he  im- 
mediately adds,  with  a  contradiction 
that  would  be  inexplicable  were  it  not 
involved  in  his  whole  philosophy, '  that 
Prometheus  is  a  cloudy  procession  of 
phantoms  seen  in  a  divine  hallucina- 
tion!' In  his  own  experience,  accord- 
ingly, this  contradiction  is  never  re- 
solved. Condemned  to  the  unreality  of 
existences  that  he  has  transformed  to 
mere  appearances,  he  is  yet  constantly 
aware  of  a  mystical  reality  that  has 
escaped  him  in  the  process.  He  .com- 
plains that  he  is  'too  much  possessed 


ARTHUR  SYMONS  AND   IMPRESSIONISM 


389 


by  the  apparent  and  unreal.'  He  re- 
grets the  corporeal  and  worldly  limita- 
tions that  shut  him  out  from  the  mys- 
tical. In  short  -  -  if  you  are  vouch- 
safed the  divine  hallucination,  you  will 
have  absolute  poetry;  if,  on  the  other 
hand,  as  he  confesses  in  his  own  case, 
this  be  not  attained,  you  will  have  - 
well,  impressionism!  In  any  case  - 
and  this  is  the  sum  of  the  matter  —  the 
blood  of  the  martvrs  is  the  seed  of 

v 

beauty. 

in 

Abstraction,  disengagement  of  beau- 
ty from  life  -  -  such  is  Symons's  con- 
scious goal.  An  obscure,  though  none 
the  less  real,  martyrdom  of  sense  and 
sentiment  is  its  recognized  condition. 
One  would  like  to  know  just  what 
this  beauty,  this  aesthetic  perfection  is, 
and  by  what  it*y;  -*o  be  known.  Such 
a  definition  is  not  to  be  found  in  Sy- 
mons's writings;  though  not  without 
his  standards,  he  never  defines  them 
directly.  One  finds,  it  is  true,  certain 
secondary  qualities  that  are  fairly 
constant,  —  the  strangeness  that  ro- 
manticism adds  to  beauty,  the  mono- 
tony that  accompanies  the  greatest  art. 
It  is  only  between  the  lines  that  one 
learns  to  read,  and  finally  to  formulate 
to  himself,  a  certain  obscure  ideal  of 
pure  beauty,  of  beauty  pure  and  unde- 
filed,  not  without  its  tone  of  curious 
asceticism. 

Pater  somewhere  speaks  of  a  trans- 
parent, diaphanous  type  of  soul  that 
would  value  every  single  experience  at 
its  timeless  worth,  not  caring  to  add 
to  or  abstract  from  it.  What  he  seems 
to  mean  is  that  in  such  a  soul,  each 
experience,  freed  from  its  pragmatic 
reality,  could  will  its  own  intention 
with  uninhibited  purity.  The  solidarity 
of  sense  and  instinct  being  broken  up, 
the  demands  of  the  thing,  of  our  own 
and  other  wills  being  denied,  the  abso- 
luteness of  each  experience  would  be 


purchased  by  its  unreality.  In  this 
artificial  suppression  of  all  relations 
would  lie  the  veritable  unreality  of  the 
life  that  art  thus  offers  us,  but  also  its 
supreme  beauty.  Some  such  purity 
of  appreciation,  the  result  of  the  inhi- 
bition of  thought-relations,  constitutes 
the  aesthetic  perfection. 

Purity  of  impression  has  a  well-de- 
fined meaning  for  the  impressionist  of 
ear  and  eye.  Has  purity  of  apprecia- 
tion a  similar  intent  for  the  virtuoso  of 
feeling  and  mood?  For  the  former,  as 
we  have  seen  in  Symons's  studies  of 
the  martyrs  of  these  two  senses,  it  is  in 
just  this  freedom  of  the  color  or  tone 
from  its  pragmatic  reality,  this  free- 
dom in  which  it  wills  its  own  intention 
with  uninhibited  purity,  that  beauty  is 
to  be  found.  The  light  and  color  of 
things,  so  the  impressionist  in  painting 
would  say,  are  to  be  given  in  art  as 
they  are  intrinsically  for  consciousness, 
not  as  they  are  as  instruments  of  know- 
ledge —  before  they  have  begun  to 
serve  as  means  of  knowledge,  or  after 
they  have  ceased  thus  to  function.  In 
so  far  as  they  enter  into  the  subjective 
feeling  of  the  individual,  sensations  are 
pleasant  or  unpleasant;  in  so  far  as 
they  serve  the  purposes  of  knowledge, 
they  are  true  or  false;  in  so  far  as  in 
and  for  themselves  they  are  appreciat- 
ed and  brought  to  expression,  they  are 
aesthetically  true  or  untrue,  and  there- 
fore beautiful  or  ugly. 

Not  essentially  different  is  the  ideal 
of  the  virtuoso  of  the  soul.  Here,  too, 
as  Symons  indeed  tells  us,  the  purpose 
of  art  is  to  show  man  what  he  is  to 
himself  alone,  and  his  feeling  as  it  is 
for  itself  alone.  As  in  the  case  of  the 
sensations,  art  is  to  ignore  those  spe- 
cial demands  of  pragmatic  reality, 
through  which  they  are  changed  and 
improved,  so  in  the  case  of  feelings 
and  emotions,  she  is  to  remove  all 
those  moral  purposes,  all  the  limita- 
tions which  spring  from  the  complexity 


390 


ARTHUR  SYMONS  AND  IMPRESSIONISM 


of  the  social  life,  or  from  the  rigidity 
of  individual  character,  allowing  the 
feeling  to  live  itself  out  in  individual 
purity.  A  violent  passion,  a  profound 
melancholy,  sweeps  over  the  soul.  A 
thousand  different  elements  meet  and 
interpenetrate,  without  precise  con- 
tours, without  the  least  tendency  to 
become  externalized,  to  take  the  com- 
monplace mould  of  social  habit  or  moral 
form.  This  is  the  price  of  their  origin- 
ality. Description,  as  ordinarily  under- 
stood, means  just  this :  to  give  them  this 
form  and  mould;  but  then,  instead  of 
describing  our  feelings,  we  have  really 
taken  from  them  their  unique  color 
and  aroma,  and  have  substituted  a 
juxtaposition  of  inert  states  translated 
into  social  counters.  But  beauty  is  the 
opposite  of  all  this;  not  thus,  but  ra- 
ther by  a  reversal  of  this  process,  is 
the  disengagement  of  beauty  from  life 
to  be  attained. 

Thus,  an  essential  similarity  of  in- 
tention, as  of  realization,  belongs  (pace 
the  New  Laocoon  /)  alike  to  the  im- 
pressionist of  sense  and  of  sentiment. 
They  also  share  a  common  weakness  — 
a  disregard  for  the  structural  elements 
of  reality.  It  has  been  said  of  a  Manet 
or  a  Monet,  that  in  their  passion  for  at- 
mosphere, the  mere  object  becomes  in- 
different—  'just  enough  suggestion  of 
form  to  supply  solar  reflections  and  to 
hang  saturated  vapors  upon,  sufficed 
them.'  May  it  not  also  be  said  of  a 
Symons,  that  in  his  passion  for  nu- 
ances of  experience,  the  soul  itself  be- 
comes indifferent;  that  he  seeks  just 
enough  suggestion  of  character  to  sup- 
ply the  reflections  of  passions  or  to 
serve  as  a  peg  upon  which  to  hang  de- 
tached and  vaporous  emotions?  If  it 
may  be  said  of  the  impressionists  of 
color  that,  for  the  purposes  of  their 
studies,  they  come  to  cease  to  work  ex- 
cept in  the  face  of  a  sensation,  and  lose 
the  power  of  deliberate  construction, 
may  it  not  be  said  of  these  impression- 


ists of  the  soul  that  to  them  is  finally 
very  little  more  left  than  a  power  to  vi- 
brate with  wonderful  promptness  to  any 
transient  sensation  or  emotion?  The 
very  delicacy  and  tremulous  fluency 
of  Symons's  touch  is  but  an  outward 
and  visible  sign  of  this  inner  emotion- 
alism. The  deliberate  disregard  of  all 
those  rigid  qualities,  whether  prejudice 
or  obligation,  that  constitute  the  form 
of  the  soul,  results  in  a  fluidity  of  val- 
ues which,  while  not  without  a  unique 
quality  of  beauty,  represents  an  ex- 
cessive sacrifice  to  the  ideal  of  per- 
fected appreciation. 

IV 

The  poets  of  romance  are  always 
singing  of  love;  the  realists  of  novel 
and  drama  never  cease  to  think  and 
talk  of  sex.  Both  of -^ese  we  may  call 
morbid  valuations;  yet  in  some  obscure 
way  all  the  extensions  of  the  meta- 
physical instinct  seem  to  find  their 
roots  here.  Doubtless  it  is  not  wholly 
true  that,  as  Symons  has  put  it  into 
the  mouth  of  '  Lust '  to  say,  — 

Love  was  born 

To  be  the  world's  delight  and  scorn, 
That  man  might  veil,  his  eyes  being  dim, 
My  own  infinity  in  him;  — 

doubtless  it  is  not  entirely  true  that 
all  the  refractions  of  the  infinite,  in 
morals,  in  art,  in  religion,  are  but 
*  broken  lights'  of  love.  Nevertheless 
it  must  be.  recognized  that  all  the  tragic 
possibilities  of  the  human  will  may  be 
seen  reflected  in  this  one  dark  pool. 
Certainly  the  morbid  frustration  of  the 
metaphysical  instinct,  half  deliberate 
violence,  half  obscure  martyrdom,  the 
whole  tragedy  of  abstraction  of  beauty 
from  life,  is  at  its  deepest  point  in 
the  poem  from  which  these  lines  are 
taken. 

The  possibilities  of  delight  and  scorn 
are  for  Symons  varied  indeed,  as  varied 
as  his  London  Nights,  but  the  ground 


ARTHUR  SYMONS  AND   IMPRESSIONISM 


391 


tones  resolve  themselves  into  two  ulti- 
mate moods,  both  sterile,  half-scornful 
joys  of  a  vicious  abstraction.  In  one 
mood  he  hails  the  simplicity  of  pure 
lust.  He  finds,  in  a  poem  such  as  *  Ideal- 
ism,' an  inexpressible  delight  in  the 
knowledge  that  the  woman  has  no 
soul,  no  possibilities  of  mind  or  heart, 
but  is  merely  'this  masterpiece  of 
flesh.'  Again  in  *  Liber  Amoris '  he  finds 
a  rapture  in  the  thought  of  love  sinking 
from  the  infinite  —  and  just  enough 
to  last  one  night. 

In  quite  another  mood,  however, 
and  one  almost  as  frequent,  he  seeks 
all  the  subtleties,  diverse  imaginings, 
and  strange  reticences  of  love,  'only 
that  the  one  final  vulgar  act  remain  an 
unadmitted  fact.' 

In  either  case  it  is  a  vicious  abstrac- 
tionism, turning  realities  into  appear- 
ances, a  lust  for  realization  moving 
about  in  wor/<,is  unrealized. 

To  this  sophisticated  use  of  the 
metaphysical  instinct  the  philosophy 
of  impressionism  naturally  gravitates, 
And  the  end  thereof  is  decadence. 
Frustration  of  this  instinct  for  the  real 
is  of  necessity  followed  by  perversion 
and  sterilization  of  the  emotions.  For 
all  these  emotions  which  the  artist 
seeks  to  detect,  and  in  which  he  luxu- 
riates, presuppose  the  absolute  reality 
of  their  objects.  A  passion  by  its  very 
nature  is  a  claim  to  absoluteness,  a 
projection  into  infinity.  The  tragic  is 
impossible  without  certain  fixed  pre- 
possessions or  prejudices  concerning 
the  real.  The  sentiment  'of  sublim- 
ity appears  only  where  the  absolute 
shows  itself  for  a  moment,  where  an 
elevation  above  or  descent  below  the 
milieu  of  experience  causes  it  to  show 
its  face. 

All  these  emotions,  to  be  rich  and 
full,  must  presuppose  the  structural 
elements  of  the  soul  which  the  impres- 
sionist disregards.  To  feel  them  one 
must  assume  the  rigid  prepossessions, 


the  absolutes,  on  which  they  live  and 
from  which  they  draw  their  blood.  All 
these  must  be  intensely  real.  But  it  is 
as-  a  spiritual  parasite,  clinging  to  life 
by  the  tentacles  of  make-believe,  that 
the  impressionist  and  illusionist  live, 
and  luxuriate  in  their  emotions.  Trag- 
edy, strangeness,  even  sublimity  of  a 
kind  —  all  are  there,  but  somehow  they 
are  substitutes,  unreal,  and  without 
heart,  frustrate  ghosts  of  passions  that 
are  spent. 

There  is,  in  fact,  in  Symons's  writ- 
ings, especially  in  his  poetry,  a  certain 
curious  tone,  -  -  not  unrelated  to  the 
monotony  of  which  we  have  spoken, — 
describable  only  as  a  sort  of  parasitic 
sublimity.  It  flashes  out  here  and 
there  in  his  shorter  poems,  but  it  is  felt 
most  surely  in  the  longer  ones,  such  as 
'  The  Dance  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins ' 
and  'Faust  and  Helena.'  One  need  not 
deny  the  thrill  of  these  poems  to  recog- 
nize that  it  is  specious;  one  need  not 
deny  the  sublimity  of  vices  raised  to 
the  infinite,  to  realize  that  this  very 
sublimity  is  achieved  only  by  a  morbid 
contrast  with  the  really  structural  ele- 
ments of  life.  The  sentiment  is  there, 
but  it  is  parasitic.  It  lives  only  in  the 
world  of  morbid  valuations,  only  so 
long  as  the  sentiment  of  the  absolute  is 
lent  to  images  and  ideas  that  will  not 
bear  its  weight. 

Nowhere  does  Symons  show  this  spe- 
cious, perverted  sublimity  more  com- 
pletely than  when  he  touches  religious 
emotion,  as  in  'Seward  Lackland.'  If 
his  frequent  enjoyment  of  religious  im- 
ages and  emotions  without  their  dog- 
matic core  of  belief  is  an  unpleasant 
travesty  of  religion,  this  picture  of  en- 
joyment of  the  sacrifice  of  one's  soul 
for  the  glory  of  God,  this  orgy  of  mor- 
bid valuations,  becomes  well-nigh  un- 
bearable. 

One  wishes  that  the  aesthetic  would 
leave  God  out  of  the  business;  that, 
as  Laplace  in  his  phenomenalism,  so 


392 


ARTHUR  SYMONS  AND  IMPRESSIONISM 


Symons  in  his  impressionism,  should 
say,  '  I  have  no  need  of  this  hypothe- 
sis/ But  no!  He  does  need  it,  precisely 
for  his  inverted  sublimities.  One  "al- 
most feels  that,  like  the  decadent  in  one 
of  Jokai's  novels,  he  might  easily  use  a 
night  of  debauchery  as  an  exquisite 
preparation  for  the  enjoyment  of  Gre- 
gorian tones. 

After  all,  then,  Symons  does  indulge 
the  metaphysical  instinct.  Indeed  he 
explicitly  says  that  *  poetry  and  meta- 
physics are  alike  a  disengaging,  though 
for  different  ends,  of  the  absolute  ele- 
ment in  things.'  And  if,  again,  with 
Pater  and  the  other  impressionists,  he 
holds  that  music  is  the  most  metaphys- 
ical of  the  arts,  it  is  because,  for  him  at 
least,  'it  comes  to  us  with  a  divine 
hallucination,  chills  us  a  little  with  its 
airs  from  heaven  and  elsewhere,  and 
breaks  down  for  an  instant  the  too  sol- 
id walls  of  the  world,  showing  us  the 
gulf/ 

It  is  all  a  question  of  the  end.  And 
his  end  is  to  feel  and  to  show  the 
gulf!  He  is  metaphysical  for  the  same 
reason  that  he  is  anything  else  —  for 
the  sake  of  the  sensation.  Would  he 
not,  one  is  constrained  to  ask,  ra- 
ther find  the  gulf  than  the  solid  plat- 
form of  the  world?  Is  it  not  just  the 
chill  of  the  gulf  that  he  finds  delight- 
ful, perhaps  because  of  his  very  fever 
and  restlessness? 


In  the  Prelude  to  Life  Symons  speaks 
of  his  feverish  delight  in  the  mere  see- 
ing of  London.  'I  grasped  at  all  these 
sights,*  so  the  account  runs,  'with  the 
same  futile  energy  as  a  dog  that  I  once 
saw  standing  in  an  Irish  stream,  and 
snapping  at  the  bubbles  that  ran  con- 
tinually past  him  on  the  water.  Life 
ran  past  me  continually  and  I  tried  to 
make  all  the  bubbles  my  own.'  Doubt- 
less all  this  began  with  a  mere  delight 


in  appearances,  the  sheer  joy  of  living, 
the  animal  fondness  for  sparkle  and 
movement.  But  it  ended  in  being  a 
desperately  serious,  if  futile  occupa- 
tion. It  became  a  kind  of  spiritual 
avarice.  Symons  has  indeed,  a  curious 
soul-affinity  for  the  miser,  whose  pas- 
sion he  seems  to  understand.  That 
which  is/  least  comprehensible  to  most 
men,  the  hoarding  of  the  mere  empty 
counters  of  exchange,  is  for  him  full  of 
a  real  if  perverted  poetry.  He  speaks 
of  the  respect  for  money  as  for  the 
most  serious  thing  in  the  world:  'the 
symbol  of  a  physical  necessity,'  it  is 
true,  but  'a  thing  having  no  real  ex- 
istence in  itself,  no  importance  to  the 
mind  that  refuses  to  realize  its  exist- 
ence.' Only  the  miser  really  possesses 
it  in  itself,  for  the  miser  is  the  idealist, 
the  poet  of  gold!  Symons's  spiritual 
avarice  is  greedy  of  the  poetry  of  the 
passing  moment,  the  goVden  moments 
through  which  life  passes  on  its  way. 
Nothing  that  he  has  written  has  such 
convincing  personal  reality  as  his  pic- 
ture of  Avarice  in  'The  Dance  of  the 
Seven  Deadly  Sins,'  —  that  Avarice 
which 

Hoards  the  moments  love  let  slip  .  .  . 
Embracing  all  things  that  exist, 
All  kisses  that  all  lips  have  kissed! 

Surely  we  have  here  what  the  philos- 
ophers call  the  bad  Infinite,  and  the 
sterile,  ugly  Absolute.  It  is  a  trick  a 
vicious  abstractionism  can  play  in  life, 
as  well  as  in  philosophy. 

One  of  the  romanticists  to  whom 
Symons  devotes  a  short  section,  a 
certain  Darly,  says  of  himself,  'My 
whole  life  has  been  an  abstraction  - 
such  must  be  my  work.'  It  is  not 
strange  that  Symons  finds  'every 
word '  of  the  short  letter  in  which  this 
sentence  occurs,  'a  revelation.'  It  was 
a  revelation  precisely  because  it  re- 
vealed a  truth  that  was  also  personal. 
I  am  not  sure  but  that  he  would  have 
called  his  own  life  an  extraction,  rather 


ARTHUR  SYMONS  AND  IMPRESSIONISM 


393 


than  an  abstraction,  if  one  may  be 
suffered  this  play  with  words,  —  one 
long  process  of  extracting  the  essence 
or  quintessence  of  beauty  from  life 
and  its  moments;  from  men  and  from 
cities  ;  from  music  and  from  plays  ;  from 
the  soul  and  from  the  flesh;  never, 
however,  taking  the  thing  as  it  was, 
but  rather  in  that  morbid  valuation 
in  which  one  seeks  to  render  moments 
of  sensation  and  emotion  absolute,  to 
widen  instants  to  eternities,  and  in 
which  one  finds  only  the  bare  iden- 
tities of  love,  the  sameness  of  London 
Nights,  and  finally  a  life  that  is  but 
a  dream. 

Yet  with  it  all,  this  avarice  remains 
his  one  abiding  passion.  In  'Satiety' 
he  tells  us,  — 

I  loathe  the  laggard  moments  as  they  pass 

(the  futile  energy  with  which  he 
snapped  at  the  passing  moment  has 
changed  to 


Yet  if  all  power  to  taste  the  dear  deceit 
Be  not  outworn  and  perished  utterly, 
Lend  me  some  last  illusion  e'er  I  be 
A  clod,  perhaps,  at  rest  within  a  clod. 

In  contrast  to  all  this  there  come  to 


mind  the  words  of  a  splendid  little 
spendthrift  of  life;  words  which,  al- 
though they  may  shock  us  with  their 
vulgar  freshness,  seem  almost  made  to 
throw  into  the  face  of  such  as  Mr. 
Symons :  - 

'I  don't  care  a  rap  for  remembering/ 
she  cries; '  I  care  for  you.  This  moment 
could  n't  be  better  until  the  next  mo- 
ment comes.  That's  how  it  takes  me. 
Why  should  we  hoard?  We  are  n't  go- 
ing out  presently  like  Japanese  lan- 
terns in  a  gale.  It 's  the  poor  dears  who 
do,  who  know  they  will,  who  can't 
keep  it  up,  who  need  to  clutch  at  way- 
side flowers  and  put  'em  in  little  books 
for  remembrance.  Flattened  flowers 
are  n't  for  the  likes  of  us.  Moments, 
indeed!  We  like  each  other  fresh  and 
fresh.  It  is  n't  illusion  for  us.  We,  too, 
just  love  each  other  —  the  real  identi- 
cal other  all  the  time/ 

Is  this  mere  tynavado  —  this  careless- 
ness and  extravagance?  Or  is  it  the 
fruit  of  a  discipline  that  Symons  seems 
never  to  have  known?  Perhaps  it  is 
but  that  deeper  metaphysical  instinct 
which  he  deliberately  frustrated  and 
renounced. 


MAURICE  BARRES  AND  THE  YOUTH  OF  FRANCE 


BY  RANDOLPH  S.  BOURNE 


PERHAPS  the  most  significant  expe- 
rience that  comes  to  one  who  lives  for 
a  time  in  France  is  the  vivid  personal 
realization  that  above  all  the  concrete 
manifestations  of  industry  and  religion, 
politics  and  letters,  there  is  France,  and 
that  her  thought  and  action,  politics 
and  poetry,  national  endeavor  and 
daily  life,  are  woven  together  into  an 
intimate  cultural  fabric  of  a  richness 
and  tenacity  of  which  we  have  little 
knowledge  at  home  in  our  heterogen- 
eous America. 

In  this  wondrous  city  of  Paris,  where 
art  is  the  occasion  for  continual  intel- 
lectual warfare,  and  ideas  cause  dS- 
bddes,  one  cannot  read  the  journals  or 
see  the  play,  or  even  walk  the  streets, 
yellow  with  their  flood  of  books,  with- 
out seeming  to  touch  everywhere  the 
soul  of  France.  Everything  has  its 
style,  everything  has  its  spirit  charac- 
teristically French,  and  the  nation,  as  a 
whole,  is  proudly  conscious  of  it.  And, 
more  significant  still  to  the  American 
who  watches  his  language  go  to  pieces 
under  the  strain  put  upon  it  by  the  ex- 
igencies of  the  pulsating  American  life, 
there  is  a  language  here  which  con- 
serves all  these  attitudes  and  nuances 
of  feeling,  and  may  still,  unlike  our 
modern  English,  express  both  simplic- 
ity and  ardor  with  perfect  freedom 
from  banality. 

But,  best  of  all,  one  finds  in  France 
a  true  jeunesse,  a  younger  generation, 
into  whose  hands  the  precious  fabric  of 
the  national  culture  is  given  for  conser- 

394 


vation  and  use.  In  France,  unlike  our 
Anglo-Saxondom,  youth,  like  woman 
and  democracy,  seems  to  be  taken  seri- 
ously; it  is  the  thinking  youth  who  meas- 
ure for  the  nation  the  direction  and 
force  of  the  spiritual  currents  of  the 
day,  and  stamp  upon  the  age  its  char- 
acteristic impress.  And  the  older  gen- 
eration, having  played  its  role  of  youth, 
is  not  averse  to  devoting  itself  to  dis- 
covering what  the  new  jeunes  gens 
are  thinking  and  dreaming.  By  means 
of  enquetes,  or  a  sort  of  social  intro- 
spection, the  literary  journals  keep  the 
public  informed  as  to  the  intellectual 
tendencies  of  youth,  even,  in  these  lat- 
ter days,  of  the  feminine  youth  as  well, 
and  thus  seek  to  make  on  every  side 
youth  articulate.  The  French  educa- 
tion seems  to  set  for  its  goal,  above  all 
things,  the  achievement  of  clarity  of 
thought  and  expression.  And  the  first 
result  seems  to  be  that  in  French  youth 
introspection  is  robbed  of  the  morbid 
terrors  which  so  affright  the  Anglo- 
Saxon,  destitute  as  he  is  of  the  faculty 
of  expression  and  thus  forced  to  watch 
his  own  thoughts.  Because  of  our  less 
developed  social  sense,  our  introspec- 
tions are  forcibly  kept  individual,  while 
to  the  Frenchman  it  is  always  not  what 
I  find  in  my  soul,  but  what  we  find  in 
our  soul  that  matters.  No  writing  is  so 
personal  as  the  French;  even  the  phil- 
osopher and  sociologist  will  often  take 
the  reader  along  the  personal  progress 
of  his  thought,  colored  as  it  may  be 
with  emotional  reactions.  Where  the 
English  writer  would  prefer  the  oracu- 
larly impersonal  truth,  the  Frenchman 


MAURICE  BARRES  AND  THE  YOUTH  OF  FRANCE   395 


is  not  ashamed  to  exhibit  his  *  caring' 
for  the  truth  and  effectiveness  of  his 
idea. 

This  faculty  of  social  introspection 
and  self-consciousness  of  the  French 
genius  has  luminous  results  for  those 
minds,  both  at  home  and  abroad,  who 
would  feel  the  French  soul  of  the  mo- 
ment. For  it  means  that  the  influential 
writers  of  the  age,  having  worked 
through  their  own  adjustment  of  youth, 
their  conflict  with  the  issues  of  the  day, 
leave  behind  them  the  record  of  their 
progress  for  the  eager  youth  of  the  gen- 
eration pressing  on  their  heels.  They 
portray  with  incomparable  art  their 
emotions  and  ideas,  their  weakness  as 
well  as  their  strength,  not  in  egoism, 
but  that  these  other  minds  may  find 
themselves  in  them.  And  then  in  turn 
the  writers  reflect  that  reflection  in  the 
rising  literary  youth,  thus  sensitively 
reacting  to  the  change  of  spiritual  cur- 
rent, and  keeping  their  own  thought 
ever  progressively  fresh  and  young. 


ii 

Such  has  been  the  course  of  the 
thought  of  Maurice  Barres,  acknow- 
ledged in  all  circles  as  the  most  influen- 
tial writer  of  the  day  in  France.  In  the 
progress  of  his  romances,  which  are 
half  essays,  and  his  essays  which  are 
half  romances,  is  reflected  the  trend  of 
the  French  spirit  of  the  last  twenty- 
five  years.  The  nationalism  which  is 
the  theme  of  his  delicate  works  has  be- 
come, after  many  twistings  and  turn- 
ings, the  gospel  of  the  modern  French 
youth.  And  his  books  present  the  most 
perfect  picture  we  have  of  that  evolu- 
tion. 

The  youth  of  Barres  himself  was 
spent  in  the  years  of  disenchantment 
which  followed  the  great  war,  the  war 
that  was  a  spiritual  as  well  as  a  phys- 
ical defeat.  The  almost  mystical  con- 
fidence in  the  power  of  the  French 


genius  to  triumph  over  brute  force  had 
disappeared  before  the  mailed  fist  of 
the  Prussian.  Even  the  Utopian  flame, 
the  revolutionary  enthusiasm  which 
might  have  rejuvenated  the  spirit  of  the 
people,  was  utterly  stamped  out  in  the 
ferocity  of  the  suppression  of  the  Com- 
mune. The  apathy  and  torpor  of  the 
younger  generation  in  this  atmosphere 
of  defeat  are  faithfully  pictured  in  Les 
Deradnes,  based  on  Barres's  own  days 
at  the  Lycee.  Here  he  found  an  educa- 
tion, built  upon,  the  philosophy  of  Kant 
and  his  German  followers,  as  if  France 
were  making  a  pathetic  attempt,  in  the 
same  way  in  which  the  Orientals  are 
acting  to-day  with  regard  to  the  West- 
ern world,  to  absorb  the  ideas  which 
had  made  the  strength  of  her  victor. 
But  in  these  ideas,  'les  plus  hautes  et 
les  plus  desolees,'  the  youth  of  Barres's 
day  found  no  fortification  of  soul.  The 
atmosphere  of  detached  rationalism, 
the  divorce  of  pure  reason  and  pure  sen- 
sibility, so  uncongenial  to  the  personal 
and  artistic  French  spirit,  could  only 
tear  up  the  youth  from  their  French 
soil,  without  transplanting  them  into 
the  rich  German  ground.  Such  phil- 
osophy could  only  make  those  who  ab- 
sorbed it  candidates  for  nihilism.  Ab- 
juring this,  the  thought  of  Barres  set 
itself,  almost  unconsciously,  the  task 
of  re-acclimatizing  the  French  spirit,  of 
restoring  its  faith  in  itself. 

But  the  difficulty  of  this  task  was 
aggravated  by  the  scientific  skepticism 
which  was  raging  at  the  time.  Taine 
had  been  hammering  home,  in  a  de- 
tached Anglo-Saxon  way,  the  truths 
of  scientific  determinism,  while  Renan 
had  been  questioning,  with  destructive 
irony,  the  spiritual  values  upon  which 
the  established  order  had  founded  its 
codes  and  impressed  them  upon  the 
soul  of  youth.  These  two  masters  with 
their  disciples  held  the  field  between 
them,  and  what  idealism  did  show  it- 
self among  the  literary  youth,  deso- 


396        MAURICE  BARRIES  AND  THE  YOUTH  OF  FRANCE 


lated  by  national  defeat  and  material- 
istic skepticism,  found  a  forced  refuge 
in  an  unreal  world  of  symbolistic  poet- 
ry, an  artificial  and  dilettante  world  of 
sensuality  which  was  as  foreign  to  the 
French  spirit  of  clarity  and  grace  as 
was  the  philosophy  of  Kant. 

But  Barres's  own  thought  took  a  dif- 
ferent road.  Instead  of  turning  to  a 
world  of  mystical  sensation,  like  Ver- 
laine,  Baudelaire,  and  Mallarme,  he 
turns,  like  Descartes  before  him,  to  find 
what  he  has  in  his  owji  soul  that  has 
escaped  the  wreck  of  things.  In  dilet- 
tante fashion  indeed,  and  in  somewhat 
insincere  imitation  of  the  introspective 
methods  of  the  old  Church  fathers,  he 
submits  his  reactions  to  minute  analy- 
sis, and  works  out  a  quaint  sort  of  sen- 
suous stoicism,  a  wistful,  half-mocking 
cult  of  the  individual,  the  'moi,'  the 
power  of  being  *  un  homme  libre/  a  free 
man. 

But  such  individualism  in  a  soul 
which  was  searching  for  the  French 
genius,  always  incorrigibly  social,  could 
only  be  unstable  and  ephemeral,  and  it 
is  because  Barres's  thought  felt  the 
wider  appeal  of  the  nation's  soul  that 
he  is  the  most  eagerly  read  French  writ- 
er to-day,  while  the  symbolist  contem- 
poraries of  his  youth  have  passed  like 
their  own  fleeting  sensations.  Already 
in  Le  Culte  du  Moi,  with  its  pictures  of 
his  native  Lorraine  countryside  into 
which  he  withdraws  with  his  friend  to 
meditate,  one  feels  the  suggestion  of 
the  larger  collective  life  to  which  he 
must  soon  be  sensitive.  In  a  phrase 
which  only  a  French  mind,  perhaps, 
can  understand,  he  says,  'Be  skepti- 
cal—  and  ardent!'  That  cause  which 
is  to  excite  his  ardor  is  to  be  the  life  of 
Lorraine  with  its  quiet  beauty,  its  re- 
covered peace,  its  procession  of  passing 
generations;  and  through  Lorraine,  the 
national  collectivity  of  France.  With 
that  precise  and  beautiful  social  intui- 
tion of  the  French  genius,  this  'jnoi' 


of  Barres,  unsatisfied  with  itself,  reach- 
es out  and  finds  itself  not  an  individual 
in  a  fortuitous  collection,  but  a  link  in 
a  great  chain,  a  focus  of  innumerable 
rays  of  culture,  tradition,  and  race.  He 
recognizes  that  he  'represents  a  mo- 
ment in  the  development  of  a  race,  an 
instant  in  a  long  culture,  a  gesture 
among  a  thousand  gestures,  of  a  force 
which  preceded  him  and  will  survive 
him.'  And  with  Lorraine  as  the  text,  a 
theme  which  at  once  calls  to  his  own 
mind  a  rich  treasury  of  tradition  and 
stirs  in  the  mind  of  the  French  reader 
the  feelings  of  assertion  and  revenge, 
Barres  proceeds,  after  the  insufficiency 
of  the  'cult  of  himself  has  been  es- 
tablished in  Le  Jardin  de  B6r6nice, 
and  Sur  VCEil  des  Barbares,  to  a  recon- 
struction of  French  nationalism.  In 
Au  Service  de  VAllemagne,  Les  Amities 
FrangaiseSy  La  Colline  Inspiree,  the  vir- 
tues of  his  Lorraine — the  pathos  of  its 
immemorial  labor,  the  fidelity  of  its 
soldiers  and  priests,  the  design  and 
balance  of  its  city,  Nancy,  the  sober 
order  of  its  old  society — all  give  a  text 
for  the  exposition  under  a  thousand 
forms  of  the  French  genius  in  its  purity 
and  vigor. 

in 

In  his  later  articles  and  speeches, 
this  exposition  develops  into  a  genu- 
ine philosophy  of  nationalism,  —  a  na- 
tionalism which  shall  mean  the  de- 
fense and  conservation  of  French  art 
and  ideas  and  manners  as  well  as  her 
military  reorganization  and  defense;  a 
patriotism  which  shall  define  a  French- 
man as  'one  who  has  come  to  a  con- 
sciousness of  his  own  formation,'  'who 
has  put  himself  at  the  single  point  of 
view  of  the  French  life,'  and  feels  with- 
in himself  all  the  thousand  strands  of 
the  past  and  present  which  make  him 
what  he  is.  He  preaches  a  return  of  art 
to  the  old  principles  of  clarity,  balance, 
and  design,  the  art  of  'la  continuite 


MAURICE  BARKIS  AND  THE  YOUTH  OF  FRANCE        397 


francaise,'  and  a  new  Catholicism,  re- 
cognizing the  social  meaning  of  the 
*  communion  of  saints,'  —  the  ideal  col- 
lective life  where  the  hunger  of  the 
'moi  individuel'  is  satisfied  by  the 
*moi  social.'  And  finally,  a  cult  of 
France,  symbolized  in  'la  terre  et  les 
morts,'  -  the  land  and  its  dead,  — 
with  its  worshipers  bound  together  in 
interwoven  links  of  amities,  a  conscious- 
ness of  a  common  background  of  living 
truth. 

This  is  the  nationalism  which  has 
called  the  youth  of  the  rising  genera- 
tion back  to  a  defense  of '  1'esprit  fran- 
cais,'  and  surely  traditionalism  has 
never  been  preached  in  such  seductive 
terms!  A  traditionalism  from  which 
all  the  blind,  compressing  forces  of  the 
social  groups  have  been  withdrawn,  so 
that  one  feels  only  the  nourishing  influ- 
ences of  a  rich  common  culture  in  which 
our  individual  souls  are  steeped,  and 
which  each  generation  carries  on  freely, 
consciously,  gladly,  because  of  its  im- 
mortal power  to  express  the  traits  of 
the  race's  genius,  —  this  is  a  gospel  to 
which  one  could  give  one's  self  with 
wistfulness  and  love! 

And  to  such  an  appeal,  touching  with 
a  subtle  and  delicate  style  all  the  chords 
of  the  French  soul,  Barres  would  have 
found  the  youth  of  France  responding 
en  masse  during  those  early  years  of 
the  nineties  when  his  doctrines  of  na- 
tionalism were  first  taking  shape,  if  the 
astounding  drama  of  French  thought 
had  not  provided  an  intermediate 
scene,  which,  bursting  like  a  bombshell 
upon  the  nation  in  the  Dreyfus  affair, 
showed  in  its  ugliest  forms  the  actual 
obscurantism  of  these  national  institu- 
tions of  church  and  army  and  race 
which  Barres  was  beginning  to  present 
in  his  lovely  colors  of  idealization.  The 
affaire,  'which  seemed  to  the  outside 
world  simply  a  matter  of  the  triumph 
of  individual  justice,  was  for  France  a 
colossal  combat  of  ideas,  and  as  a  result 


the  national  storehouses  of  tradition 
were  revealed  as  lodging-places  for  the 
basest  of  prejudices  and  blind  injus- 
tices, rather  than  for  the  rich  common 
culture  of  France.  While  the  recon- 
struction of  the  national  genius  had 
been  going  on  in  minds  like  that  of 
Barres,  an  international  socialism  had 
been  growing  up  by  its  side.  The  ex- 
iled Communards  had  been  filtering 
back;  industrial  development  had  made 
the  working-classes  restless;  Paris  was 
reasserting  her  position  as  the  cosmo- 
politan capital  of  Europe;  and  the  blind 
fury  with  which  the  military  and  eccle- 
siastical circles  pursued  the  unfortun- 
ate Jew  threw  all  these  new  elements 
of  internationalism  and  humanitarian- 
ism  into  one  solid  block. 

The  victory  of  the  humanitarian  par- 
ty was  so  overwhelming  that  Church 
and  Army  were  almost  as  effectually 
erased  from  the  spirit  of  France  as  had 
been  the  revolutionary  socialism  after 
the  sanguinary  reprisals  of  the  Com- 
mune. And  in  the  debacle  of  tradi- 
tional institutions,  this  new  spirit  of 
nationalism,  which  Barres  had  been 
so  carefully  constructing,  went  down. 
France  entered  upon  a  decade  of  secu- 
lar democracy,  a  golden  age  of  inter- 
nationalist and  socialist  feeling.  The 
middle-class  political  parties  leaned 
toward  socialist  action,  the  syndical- 
ist organization  of  the  workers  made 
rapid  progress,  the  peace  movement  be- 
came popular,  the  Church  was  dena- 
tionalized, the  age  of  VHumanite  seem- 
ed to  have  come.  The  new  nationalism 
had  developed  at  a  bound  into  inter- 
nationalism. 

The  great  prophets  who  emerged 
from  the  devastating  conflict  were  An- 
atole  France  and  Emile  Zola.  France, 
with  his  metaphysical  skepticism  and 
humanitarian  socialism,  seemed  to  com- 
bine that  disillusionment  and  ardor 
which  Barres  had  preached  in  his  '  cult 
of  himself.'  Zola,  on  the  other  hand, 


398 


MAURICE  BARRES  AND  THE  YOUTH  OF  FRANCE 


satisfied  the  hunger  for  realism  which 
represented  the  reaction  against  the 
dreamy  symbolism  of  the  poets  who 
went  down  too  in  the  wreck  of  tradi- 
tionalism, while  in  his  dogged  battle  for 
justice  he  struck  a  new  and  profounder 
sincerity  into  the  hearts  of  the  French 
youth.  Together,  these  two  writers 
seem  to  have  held  the  field  between 
them  for  more  than  a  decade,  express- 
ing the  wider  aspirations  of  the  time, 
and  yet,  in  the  case  at  least  of  Anatole 
France,  not  losing  the  delicate  touch 
of  irony  and  grace  which  is  perhaps 
the  finest  and  most  subtle  quality  of 
the  French  genius. 


IV 

To  the  visitor  to-day  in  France  who 
asks  what  the  younger  generation  is 
thinking  and  dreaming,  it  seems  that 
that  golden  age  has  passed.  The  reac- 
tion has  occurred,  the  nationalism  of 
Barres,  checked  by  the  affaire,  has  at 
last  asserted  itself,  and  the  youth  of 
France  find  their  spirit  called  home  to 
defend  the  national  spirit  against  the 
enemies  within  and  without.  For  sud- 
denly the  golden  age  was  struck  by  the 
electrifying  menaces  of  Germany  at 
Agadir,  and  in  a  flash  the  whole  situa- 
tion seemed  to  be  revealed.  *  While  you 
have  been  indulging,'  reaction  said,  *  in 
these  dreams  of  social  Utopias  at  home 
and  perpetual  peace  abroad,  you  have 
left  the  nation  undefended,  you  have 
weakened  her  so  that  her  hereditary 
enemy  does  not  fear  to  flout  her  in  the 
face  of  Europe.' 

The  old  feelings  began  to  be  re- 
newed, the  burden  of  Lorraine  began 
again  to  reverberate  through  the 
French  soul.  On  top  of  Agadir  came 
the  great  railway  strike  with  its  threat 
of  syndicalist  revolution.  To  the  fright- 
ened bourgeoisie,  alarmed  at  the  power 
they  had  been  giving  to  the  workers, 
the  golden  age  suddenly  revealed  itself 


as  the  criminal  idleness  of  fantastic 
reverie.  To-day,  after  four  years,  one 
finds  the  reaction  in  full  swing.  Mili- 
tary service,  which  had  seemed  a  bitter 
and  barely  tolerable  evil,  is  actually 
increased  by  one-half,  and  is  hailed  as 
the  sacrifice  which  the  youth  of  France 
must  be  prepared  to  make  for  the  na- 
tion. The  pacifist  internationalism 
now  assumes  the  guise  of  a  chimerical 
dream,  and  the  old  national  antagon- 
isms loom  again.  The  Church,  whose 
fall  was  viewed  almost  with  indiffer- 
ence, now  begins  to  seem  lovely  in  her 
desolation;  her  political  and  social  pow- 
er shattered,  the  thoughtful  youth  be- 
gin to  respond  to  her  aesthetic  appeal. 
Even  royalism,  under  the  leadership  of 
some  of  the  most  able  intellects  of  the 
day,  begins  to  raise  its  head,  and  to 
preach  a  cult  of  the  crown  as  the  sym- 
bol of  the  social  order  and  spiritual 
cohesion,  without  which  a  true  nation- 
alism is  impossible. 

In  the  numerous  symposiums  of  the 
journals,  the  'social  introspections'  of 
the  day,  one  sees  the  trend  of  these  ten- 
dencies and  the  influence  of  Barres, 
whose  position,  one  is  told,  is  almost 
without  a  parallel  since  Chateaubriand. 
Physically  and  spiritually  the  youth  of 
France  seem  to  be  setting  themselves 
to  the  defense  of  Tesprit  Francais.' 
The  hard  and  decivilizing  life  of  the 
caserne  is  accepted  for  its  long  three 
years  as  a  necessary  sacrifice  against 
the  threats  of  the  foe  to  the  east.  Po- 
litically, a  restlessness  seems  to  be  evi- 
dent, a  discontent  with  the  feebleness 
and  colorlessness  of  the  republican 
state,  and  a  curious  drawing  together 
of  the  extreme  Left  and  the  extreme 
Right,  in  an  equal  hatred,  though  from 
opposite  horizons,  of  the  smug  capital- 
ism of  the  day,  —  a  rapprochement  for 
the  founding  of  the  Great  State,  which 
shall  bind  the  nation  together  in  a  sort 
of  imperial  democracy,  ministering  to 
the  needs  of  all  the  people  and  raising 


MAURICE  BARRfcS  AND  THE  YOUTH  OF  FRANCE          399 


them  to  its  ideals  of  splendor,  honor, 
and  national  defense. 

Spiritually  one  finds  a  renaissance  of 
religious  faith,  —  mystical  and  social, 
however,  rather  than  dogmatic;  for  a 
new  prophet,  Bergson,  has  arisen  to 
justify  the  intuitional  approach  to  the 
reality  of  the  life-force,  unmediated  by 
the  cold  concepts  of  science.  Yet, 
while  he  shelters  mystical  appreciation, 
he  seems  to  glorify  the  life  of  action,  at 
whose  service  he  puts  the  intelligence. 
So  that  the  youth  of  the  day,  following 
him,  are  both  more  mystical  than  the 
realistic  followers  of  Zola  and  the  ra- 
tionalistic followers  of  Anatole  France, 
and  at  the  same  time  more  resolute  and 
active,  more  eager  for  the  combat  with 
life,  than  were  the  humanitarians  of  the 
preceding  decade.  This  taste  for  action 
finds  expression  in  the  new  popularity 
of  sports,  and  the  expressed  admiration 
which  one  finds  for  the  individualism 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon.  All  these  tenden- 
cies seem  to  mark  the  reappearance  of 
a  fusion  of  thought  and  action,  of  intel- 
ligence and  feeling,  which  is  the  charac- 
teristic charm  of  the  French  genius.  In 
the  midst  of  what  seems  like  reaction, 
this  new  spirit  is  searching  for  a  nation- 
al self-consciousness  which  shall  clearly 
see,  strongly  feel,  and  sanely  act.  In 
the  search  for  the  nationalisme  intt- 
grale  of  Barres,  the  youth  of  to-day,  one 
feels,  are  seeking  the  nourishing  qual- 
ities of  the  traditional  trait,  the  rich- 
ness of  a  common  culture  which,  has 
a  right  to  make  traditionalism  seem 
seductive  and  beautiful. 


For  this  new  cult  of  nationalism  is  a 
very  different  thing  from  what  it  would 
have  been  if  it  had  succeeded  when  first 
preached  by  Barres,  unpurified  by  the 
humanitarian  socialism  of  the  golden 
age.  The  new  national  consciousness 
is  not  a  mere  chauvinism,  but  sounds 
deeper  notes  of  genuine  social  reform 
at  home.  Social  work,  of  the  sort  that 
is  testifying  to  a  generally  awakened 
social  consciousness  in  America,  is  at- 
tracting great  numbers  of  the  youth 
of  both  sexes  in  France  to-day.  The  so- 
ciological philosophy  has  made  great 
advances  in  the  last  decade  in  France, 
and  is  influencing  an  important  young- 
er school  of  writers,  who  call  them- 
selves unanimistes.  Much  of  the  more 
youthful  writing  of  the  day  bears  wit- 
ness to  the  enthusiastic  discovery  of 
William  James,  and  of  our  divine  poet 
of  democracy,  Walt  Whitman. 

So,  if  the  French  youth  of  the  pres- 
ent day,  inspired  by  the  traditionalist 
Barres,  are  coming  to  know  their  own 
national  genius  anew,  they  are  coming 
to  a  knowledge  of  it  immensely  enrich- 
ed and  fertilized  by  the  liberation  of 
those  years  of  socialism  and  a  broad- 
ly ranging  humanism.  A  traditional- 
ism, rich  and  appealing  like  that  of 
Barres,  but  colored  by  this  new  social 
and  pragmatic  feeling,  seems  the  best 
of  guaranties  that  the  younger  genera- 
tion in  France,  no  matter  what  the 
dread  exigencies  of  national  circum- 
stance, will  not  go  very  permanently 
or  very  far  along  the  path  of  obscuran- 
tism and  reaction. 


THE  LAWYER'S  CONSCIENCE  AND  PUBLIC  SERVICE 


BY   CHARLES   A.    BOSTON 


A  WRITER  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly 
for  January,  1913,  contrasted  the  pro- 
fessional standards  of  the  lawyer  and 
the  physician,  to  the  obvious  discredit 
of  the  former.  He  expressed  surprise 
that  within  two  professions  touching 
life  upon  matters  of  equal  importance, 
—  professions  of  ancient  dignity  and 
learning,  and  inviting  to  their  service 
men  of  equal  and  rare  ability,  —  there 
should  in  the  same  community  be  so 
different  a  spirit. 

The  inside  daily  workings  of  a  pro- 
fession are  scarcely  of  sufficient  interest 
to  attract  the  attention  of  a  magazine 
reader,  or  to  merit  their  description  in 
a  magazine  article,  but  when  the  pro- 
fession is  arraigned  and  attacked,  then, 
after  the  manner  of  its  system,  it  may 
justly  be  heard  to  reply.  A  reply,  how- 
ever, calls  for  a  formulation  of  the 
charges,  and,  still  following  the  fashion 
of  the  lawyer,  in  an  endeavor  to  get  at 
the  substance  of  the  charges,  I  find 
they  can  be  summarized  as  inertia, 
technicality,  faulty  criminal  procedure, 
neglect  of  duty  to  society,  and  unjust 
methods  in  advocacy. 

But  before  I  leave  my  text  to  launch 
out  into  an  endeavor  to  state  what  a 
lawyer  really  is,  and  what  his  ideals  not 
only  should  be,  but  are,  let  me  point 
out  that  a  contrast  between  physicians 
and  lawyers  is  not  either  a  sure  or  a 
safe  way  to  detect  or  to  correct  a  law- 
yer's faults.  If  we  analyze  the  praise 
which  in  the  article  in  question  is  meted 
out  to  a  physician,  and  contrast  it 

4QQ 


with  the  depreciation  of  the  lawyer,  we 
shall  find  that  in  essence  the  physician 
is  commended  for  aiding  his  patient 
to  escape  the  penalties  imposed  by  na- 
ture, while  the  lawyer  is  condemned 
for  aiding  his  client  to  escape  the  pen- 
alties imposed  by  man;  nature's  penal- 
ties are  exact,  and  repentance  and  sub- 
sequent good  works  can  do  little  to 
mitigate  them,  and  the  physician  can 
counteract  them  only  by  aiding  his 
patient  to  avoid  them  through  others 
of  nature's  laws.  Man's  laws  and  pen- 
alties alike  are  uncertain,  but  the  law- 
yer is  condemned  for  aiding  his  client 
to  escape  their  rigor  by  appeals  to  oth- 
ers of  these  laws,  usually  characterized 
by  critics  as  technicalities. 

Physicians  utilize  their  knowledge  of 
the  habits  of  the  human  body  to  re- 
store a  disordered  organism  to  efficient 
activity;  anything  which  will  do  this 
is  available  for  their  use,  and  all  they 
need  to  do  to  push  forward  their  pro- 
fession is  to  enlarge  the  sphere  of  their 
knowledge. 

But  lawyers  can  push  forward  their 
profession  only  by  a  more  stupendous 
task,  not  of  discovery,  but  of  influence; 
having  conceived  the  existing  fault, 
they  must  first  devise  a  means  of  cor- 
recting it,  which  will  not  in  practice  do 
more  harm  than  good,  and  then  they 
must  induce  the  law-making  power  to 
accept  it. 

Lawyers  have  a  much  more  difficult 
task  as  reformers  than  physicians.  A 
single  physician  practices  upon  a  single 
individual,  and  the  success  of  his  effort 
is  the  restoration  of  his  patient.  If  we 


THE  LAWYER'S  CONSCIENCE  AND  PUBLIC  SERVICE       401 


should  apply  to  the  physician  the  duty 
measured  by  his  larger  obligation  to 
society,  conceived  in  the  same  spirit  as 
the  lawyer's  larger  duty  of  which  we 
have  read,  we  might  easily  proclaim 
that  it  is  the  physician's  duty  to  kill 
his  patient  under  certain  circumstances 
in  the  interest  of  mankind.  But  we 
readily  see  the  fallacy  of  this  argument, 
because  we  can  recognize  that  the  phy- 
sician's real  duty  to  society  is  quite 
consistent  with  his  duty  to  his  patient, 
for  his  duty  to  each  is  the  same.  So  it 
may  also  be  with  the  lawyer  in  his 
relation  to  his  client;  it  is  not  now, 
and  never  was,  his  social  duty  to  aban- 
don or  betray  his  client;  and  the  law- 
yer's duty  to  society,  such  as  it  is,  is 
in  nowise  inconsistent  with  his  being 
hired  for  his  client's  needs.  Indeed,  his- 
torically considered,  it  was  the  client's 
need,  and  nothing  else,  which  gave  rise 
to  the  brood  of  lawyers,  and  assigned 
them  a  recognized  place  in  our  judicial 
system. 

If  all  men  would  settle  their  disputes 
amicably  there  would  be  little  need  of 
civil  courts  or  judges;  and  if  all  men 
obeyed  the  laws,  no  need  of  criminal 
tribunals,  and  little  need  of  lawyers. 
But  before  lawyers  were,  as  an  actual 
historical  creation,  men  invaded  rights 
and  disobeyed  laws;  and  before  law- 
yers, and  above  them,  were  and  are 
laws.  And  lawyers  did  not  make  the 
laws,  but  they  must  obey  and  observe 
them,  and  they  must  proceed  as  the 
laws  require. 

Laws  may  be  divided  into  two  great 
classes  —  those  which  concern  rights, 
characterized  as  substantive  laws;  and 
those  which  concern  the  method  of  se- 
curing those  rights,  classed  as  remedial 
laws;  and  among  remedial  laws  fall 
those  which  regulate  the  manner  of  pro- 
cedure in  the  courts,  and  which,  more 
frequently  than  substantive  laws,  give 
rise  to  what  are  commonly  styled  the 
technicalities  of  law. 

VOL.  114  -  NO.  ? 


II 

It  is  possible,  but  not  necessarily 
true,  that  lawyers  could  reform  the 
laws  of  procedure.  It  is  too  true  that 
many  of  them  are  satisfied  with  the 
existing  defects  of  procedure,  and  merit 
the  description  inert,  but  this  is  cer- 
tainly not  true  of  the  whole  profession. 
The  truth  is,  the  profession  alone  can- 
not reform  procedure,  because  it  is 
crystallized  in  our  law,  and  legislators 
or  people,  as  the  case  may  be,  will  not 
submit  to  change.  For  instance,  taking 
pattern  by,  but  improving  upon,  the 
English  practice  of  a  single  court  with 
separate  branches  appropriate  for  dif- 
ferent sorts  of  work,  and  with  rules  of 
court,  easy  of  change,  to  regulate  and 
do  away  with  most  of  the  absurd  tech- 
nicalities of  practice,  a  vigorous  effort, 
inaugurated  by  lawyers,  was  made  a 
few  years  ago  in  New  Jersey  to  insti- 
tute a  model  single  court  with  neces- 
sary divisions,  and  with  model  and 
simple  rules;  but  when  the  necessary 
changes  in  the  state  constitution  to  ef- 
fect these  results  were  submitted  to  the 
people,  the  people  rejected  them,  large- 
ly because,  as  I  understand,  they  want- 
ed no  changes  suggested  by  lawyers. 
It  is  but  fair  to  say,  however,  that  I 
am  also  informed  that  there  was  no 
unanimity  among  the  lawyers  them- 
selves. Since  then  the  Legislature  of 
New  Jersey,  acting  on  the  initiative  of 
lawyers,  has  utilized  its  power  to  make 
a  simple  and  model  body  of  rules  which 
are  designed  primarily  to  eliminate 
much  of  the  truly  despicable  technical- 
ity of  practice.  But  this  required  legis- 
lative action,  without  which  the  law- 
yers were  quite  powerless  to  reform 
the  practice. 

For  the  United  States  courts  sitting 
in  equity,  Congress  enacted  in  1842 
that  the  Supreme  Court  should  make 
the  rules  of  practice;  and  the  result  is 
that  there  never  were  more  than  94 


402       THE  LAWYER'S  CONSCIENCE  AND  PUBLIC  SERVICE 


rules,  and  these  have  recently  been  re- 
duced to  81.  Congress  has  never,  how- 
ever, permitted  the  Court  to  make 
rules  for  practice  at  law,  but  has  en- 
acted that  the  practice  at  law  in  the 
Federal  courts  shall  follow  the  state 
practice  in  the  several  states,  thus  giv- 
ing rise  to  48  different  systems  or  sets 
of  rules  or  practice  at  law,  and  of  these 
the  New  York  Code  of  Civil  Procedure 
alone  now  contains  about  2800  sections. 
And  it  has  contained  3441  sections. 
Now  a  committee  of  the  American  Bar 
Association,  composed  exclusively  of 
lawyers,  is  urging  Congress  to  do  with 
the  practice  at  law  in  the  Federal 
courts  what  it  has  been  content  to  do 
with  the  practice  in  equity  for  a  cen- 
tury and  a  quarter,  and  let  the  courts 
make  the  rules  of  practice. 

When  the  Supreme  Court  recently 
remodeled  and  simplified  its  rules  in 
equity  it  was  to  committees  of  lawyers 
in  each  of  the  nine  Federal  circuits 
that  it  submitted  the  formulation  of 
suggestions  for  simplification  and  im- 
provement; and  in  New  York,  by  the 
grace  of  the  Legislature  of  1913,  a 
committee  of  five  lawyers  is  now  con- 
sidering a  plan  to  simplify  into  a  con- 
cise system  its  monstrous  Code  of 
Civil  Procedure.  The  lawyers,  in  fact, 
instead  of  being  inert,  are  so  far  as  I 
know  the  only  persons  who  are  really 
moving  to  introduce  practical  reforms 
of  procedure. 

Before  we  can  properly  compare 
physicians  and  lawyers,  to  the  discred- 
it of  the  latter,  we  must  first  imagine 
physicians  under  a  state  system  of 
medicine,  in  which  not  only  broad 
theories  of  general  practice,  but  also 
specific  remedies  and  regulated  doses 
are  prescribed  by  a  law-making  power 
beyond  the  control  of  the  physician, 
and  under  which  the  patient  is  himself 
clamoring  for  the  administration  of  the 
theory,  the  remedy,  and  the  dose  pre- 
scribed by  law,  and  the  physician  is 


liable  for  malpractice  if  he  makes  any 
novel  departure  and  fails. 

If  the  lawyer  should  disregard  all 
absurdity,  anachronism,  and  formal- 
ism, and  follow  his  highest  concepts 
of  ideal  justice,  he  would  be  liable  to 
encounter  the  technical  attacks  of  an 
adversary,  which,  according  to  exist- 
ing law,  the  judge  under  his  official 
oath,  must  recognize.  And,  if  judge, 
advocate,  and  adversary  should  all  ac- 
cept the  same  ideals,  their  disposition 
of  the  cause  might  be  at  variance  with 
actual  law. 

The  simple  truth  is  that  all  men  are 
not  agreed;  that  no  technicality,  no 
anachronism,  and  no  absurdity  has  its 
place  in  the  law  which  did  not  in  its 
origin  appeal  to  some  man  as  reason- 
able, or  was  not  introduced  into  the 
law  to  promote  some  one's  idea  of  jus- 
tice. It  is  not  lawyers  who  are  at  fault, 
but  the  law;  and  until  lawyers  are  given 
the  law-making  power  they  should  not 
be  blamed  for  the  faults  of  the  laws. 


in 

The  worst  charge  that  can  be  laid  at 
the  lawyer's  door,  in  respect  to  defec- 
tive laws,  whether  procedural  or  sub- 
stantive, is  that,  in  the  interest  of  his 
client,  he  takes  advantage  of  the  law 
as  it  is,  or  as  he  claims  it  is,  instead  of 
as  it  ought  to  be  in  the  opinion  of  his 
critic. 

It  is  always  a  serious  question  how 
far  a  lawyer  may  sacrifice  the  legal 
rights  of  his  client  to  his  own  sense  of 
right  and  justice;  but  as  a  possible  re- 
sult, I  suggest  that  a  lawyer  who  sacri- 
fices his  client's  actual  rights  to  his  own 
ideal  sense  of  propriety,  which  is  at  va- 
riance with  the  legal  measure  of  those 
rights,  may  be  liable  in  damages  for 
the  departure.  With  us  in  the  United 
States  it  is  not  generally  believed  that 
a  lawyer  is  bound  to  accept  a  client 
or  a  cause  (as  I  understand  an  English 


LAWYER'S  CONSCIENCE  AND  PUBLIC  SERVICE      403 


barrister,  generally  speaking,  is),  and 
to  that  extent  he  may  refrain  from 
prosecuting  or  defending  a  cause  which 
he  deems  unjust;  nor  is  he  bound  to  ad- 
vance any  illegal  proposition,  nor  to 
maintain  any  position  which  he  deems 
to  be  untenable;  but  it  is,  probably,  his 
legal  duty  to  his  client,  having  accept- 
ed his  cause  or  defense,  to  insist  upon 
every  right,  whether  procedural  or  sub- 
stantive, the  waiver  of  which  would  be 
disadvantageous  to  his  client. 

In  short  a  lawyer  is  not  the  free  agent 
that  his  critic  would  have  us  believe; 
he,  as  much  as  any  one  else,  is  the  vic- 
tim of  a  system  which  he  did  not  ori- 
ginate, and  for  which  he  is  not  solely 
responsible.  And  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
through  such  agencies  as  the  American 
Bar  Association,  the  lawyers,  as  a  pro- 
fession, are  doing  a  great  deal  toward 
a  reform  of  law,  of  procedure,  and  of 
legal  ethics.  But  as  a  profession  they 
have  no  authoritative  means  of  expres- 
sion. The  American  Bar  Association 
is  a  purely  voluntary  association;  so 
are  most,  if  not  all,  of  the  various  state 
and  county  bar  associations,  and  while 
they  may  resolve  and  may  advise,  and 
may  formulate  canons  of  legal  ethics, 
and  recommend  simplification  of  prac- 
tice, and  the  abolition  of  legal  absurdi- 
ties, they  are  really  powerless  until 
they  get  legislators  and  governors  and 
people  to  rectify  what  they  point  out; 
and  this  process  needs  time. 

With  a  proper  reform  of  procedure 
it  is  to  be  hoped  that  there  will  come, 
in  a  large  measure,  the  disappearance 
of  what  is  generally  deemed  absurd 
technicality.  And  lawyers,  who  are  not 
in  fact  inert,  are  moving  vigorously  to 
that  end.  No  lawyer  is  familiar  with 
the  practice  in  all  of  the  states,  and 
none  can  speak  for  all  of  the  states; 
but  as  in  England  many  of  the  absurdi- 
ties of  practice  were  abolished  in  1873 
upon  the  giving  to  the  High  Court  of 
Judicature  of  the  power  to  make  and 


enforce  its  own  rules,  so,  I  understand, 
they  have  largely  disappeared  in  Con- 
necticut with  the  introduction  of  the 
simplified  practice  of  1879;  and  it  is 
to  be  hoped  that  the  same  experience 
will  follow  from  the  model  rules  adopt- 
ed in  New  Jersey  in  1912,  and  by  the 
Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States 
for  equity  practice  in  1913.  And  it 
does  not  seem  too  much  to  hope  that 
a  similar  expectation  may  be  founded 
on  the  efforts  now  making  through  the 
American  Bar  Association  to  induce 
Congress  to  allow  the  Supreme  Court 
to  formulate  uniform  rules  of  practice 
at  law  for  the  Federal  courts,  and  on 
the  forthcoming  report  to  the  New 
York  Legislature  of  1915  of  the  com- 
mission for  the  simplification  of  the 
New  York  practice. 


IV 

Criminal  procedure  is  in  another 
category.  Lawyers  as  a  class  do  not 
practice  in  the  criminal  courts  except 
in  the  rural  communities,  and  the  crit- 
icism of  criminal  procedure  does  not 
arise  from  rural  trials.  It  is  from  cele- 
brated cases  in  urban  communities, 
which  receive  widespread  public  atten- 
tion, and  wide  newspaper  notoriety, 
that  we  learn  to  suspect  criminal  pro- 
cedure of  its  faults.  But  if  we  pause 
to  analyze  these  fancied  miscarriages 
of  justice,  we  shall  find  that  the  blame 
attaching  to  lawyers  or  judges  is  really 
slight.  I  have  yet  to  learn  that  any 
of  our  jails  are  empty.  And  when 
we  learn  of  the  escape  from  conviction 
of  some  celebrated  wrongdoer,  who  is 
popularly  supposed  to  be  worthy  of 
punishment,  it  is  not  the  lawyer,  but 
the  jury,  which  has  acquitted,  after 
the  prosecuting  officer  has  had  an  op- 
portunity to  present  his  case,  and  the 
judge  to  expound  the  law  impartially. 
And  when,  after  conviction,  the  ac- 
cused escapes  on  appeal,  or  secures  a 


404     THE  LAWYER'S  CONSCIENCE  AND  PUBLIC  SERVICE 


new  trial,  it  is  usually  because  the 
judges  are  administering  and  applying 
a  law  which  they  did  not  make,  but 
which  the  obligations  of  an  oath  com- 
pel them  to  enforce  impartially. 

One  of  the  most  widely  exploited 
cases  of  this  character  was  that  in  Mis- 
souri in  which  a  conviction  was  re- 
versed because  of  the  absence  of  'the' 
from  an  indictment;  an  absurdity, 
perhaps,  in  itself,  but  a  mandatory  re- 
quirement of  the  Constitution  which 
the  judges  had  no  part  in  passing,  and 
which  they  were  sworn  to  support. 
And  when  in  some  celebrated  case,  and 
after  a  long  trial,  the  jury  convicts  and 
the  court  on  appeal  confirms,  then  the 
most  vigorous  efforts  are  made,  fre- 
quently by  the  critics  of  the  courts 
themselves,  to  reverse  their  action  by 
appeal  to  the  pardoning  power. 

The  defects  of  criminal  procedure, 
such  as  they  may  be,  are,  like  the  de- 
fects of  civil  procedure,  the  faults  of 
laws  and  lawmakers,  and  not  of  judges 
or  lawyers.  A  lawyer  may  avail  himself 
of  them  for  the  advantage  of  his  client 
because  of  his  conception  of  his  duty 
to  his  client,  but  the  defects  which  al- 
low him  to  do  this  are  not  of  his  mak- 
ing. Here  again,  however,  the  ques- 
tion of  ethical  duty  arises,  whether  he 
may  or  should  avail  himself,  in  behalf 
of  his  client,  of  some  provision  of  law 
which  somebody  else,  or  even  he  him- 
self, disapproves  as  tending  to  defeat 
the  ends  of  justice. 

This  question  affords  me  the  oppor- 
tunity to  consider  what  the  lawyer  is, 
and  by  what  rules  he  should  be  gov- 
erned in  seeking  to  utilize  the  law  of 
the  land  in  the  interest  of  his  client. 

Was  the  office  of  lawyer  instituted 
for  the  protection  of  society,  as  op- 
posed to  the  individual?  Is  it  an  office, 
as  alleged,  which  society  maintains  for 
its  own  benefit,  as  distinguished  from 
the  individual  need  of  the  man  who 
hires  the  lawyer?  In  truth  and  as 


a  matter  of  fact,  no!  Whatever  may 
have  been  the  origin,  need,  or  history 
of  lawyers  in  other  systems  of  juris- 
prudence, in  ours  the  office  is  derived 
with  the  courts  directly  from  England. 
And  in  England,  whatever  may  have 
been  the  limits  which  its  incumbents 
must  not  transgress  in  fulfillment  of 
their  duties  to  society,  the  origin  and 
concept  of  the  office  related  distinctly 
to  the  needs  of  the  individual.  It  was 
to  meet  individual  needs,  and  not  the 
needs  of  society  (save  as  society  is 
composed  of  individuals) ,  that  the  office 
was  inaugurated.  Any  one  can  be  a 
student  of  laws,  and  proficient  in  his 
knowledge  of  them,  but  only  one  who 
is  duly  admitted  to  practice  by  com- 
plying with  legal  regulations  can  be- 
come or  be  a  lawyer,  in  the  official  and 
the  popular  sense.  And  there  was  a 
time,  in  England,  when  in  the  official 
sense  lawyers  did  not  exist;  they  have 
a  distinct,  traceable  origin,  in  which 
we  can  find  the  first  germs  of  their  offi- 
cial duty. 

Fundamentally  and  historically  a 
lawyer's  first  duty  is  to  his  client, 
though  he  may  not  lawfully  transgress 
certain  other  duties  in  his  miscon- 
ceived fidelity  to  his  employer;  and  the 
man  who  maintains  that  lawyers  are 
instituted  and  maintained  by  society 
for  its  own  benefit,  rather  than  for  the 
benefit  of  the  clients  who  hire  them, 
is  merely  applying  to  an  existing  insti- 
tution his  own  theories  of  what  it  ought 
to  be,  rather  than  stating  what  in  its 
origin  it  was. 

In  the  United  States  a  lawyer  now 
exercises  the  threefold  function  of  ad- 
viser, representative,  and  advocate. 
The  office  of  attorney,  in  the  English 
courts,  is  said  to  have  originated  in  a 
royal  ordinance  of  King  Edward  I, 
in  1295;  and  the  reason  for  its  creation 
is  said  to  have  been  the  hardship  to 
the  individual  defendant  of  going  per- 
sonally from  distant  parts  of  the  king- 


THE  LAWYER'S  CONSCIENCE  AND  PUBLIC  SERVICE       405 


dom  to  attend  the  King's  Court.  These 
attorneys  appear  to  have  been  at  the 
outset  agents  merely,  standingvin  the 
place  of  their  principals;  and  so  fully 
was  the  agency  idea  recognized  that 
it  is  said  that  at  one  time  an  infant  or 
an  outlaw  might  be  an  attorney.  Start- 
ing from  this  basis,  as  an  office,  the 
function  of  the  lawyer  developed  until 
now  he  must  be  of  good  moral  charac- 
ter and  learned  in  the  law,  and  must 
be  examined  for  competency,  duly  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar,  and  sworn  to  sup- 
port the  national  and  state  constitu- 
tions, and  to  administer  his  office  to 
the  best  of  his  ability. 

It  is  historical  error,  therefore,  to 
liken  a  lawyer  to  a  priest,  or  to  treat 
a  lawyer  as  if  he  were  a  development 
from  the  priesthood,  or  his  craft  a 
priestcraft,  or  his  concept  of  law  re- 
vealed truth.  Even  among  those  law- 
yers who  are  criticized  as  being  back- 
ward, inert,  or  otherwise  reprehensible 
(although  personally  honest),  the  real 
basis  of  criticism,  as  I  perceive  it,  is  a 
too  great  fidelity  to  the  interests  of  a 
client,  and  a  willingness  to  utilize  the 
law  as  it  is,  or  as  they  think,  or  claim, 
it  is,  to  the  advantage  of  a  client,  who 
employs  them,  when,  if  they  were 
merely  indifferent,  and  were  speculat- 
ing philosophically  upon  the  true  inter- 
ests of  society,  or  were  themselves  mak- 
ing law,  they  would  act  otherwise.  But 
this  relates  wholly  to  the  lawyer  as 
advocate;  and  it  eliminates  that  vast 
body  of  cases  never  coming  to  light, 
but  infinitely  greater  in  number,  in 
which  the  lawyer  is  adviser. 

Although  the  lawyer  as  advocate 
looms  large  in  the  public  mind  through 
the  usually  sensational  account  of  his 
activities  which  comes  to  public  atten- 
tion through  the  press,  and  in  urban 
communities  where  these  activities  are 
most  frequently  made  known,  they  are 
relatively  insignificant  when  numeri- 
cally considered,  For  instance,  in  my 


own  judicial  district,  comprising  the 
Borough  of  Manhattan,  in  the  city 
of  New  York,  there  are  about  12,000 
lawyers,  while  there  are  awaiting  trial 
in  the  Supreme  Court  usually  about 
13,000  cases,  an  average  of  only  two 
pending  cases  to  each  lawyer,  allowing 
for  two  lawyers  in  each  case;  but  of 
these  only  2416  cases  are  disposed  of 
by  trial  in  one  year;  so  that  the  business 
of  advocacy  can  bring  the  average  law- 
yer in  my  community  into  court  for  a 
formal  trial  only  in  one  case  in  about 
three  years.  Yet,  there  is  doubtless 
more  litigation  in  the  aggregate  in  New 
York  County  than  anywhere  else  in 
the  United  States,  though  perhaps  not 
so  much  per  lawyer.  It  will  be  seen 
therefore,  if  this  county  be  taken  as  a 
type,  that,  relatively  considered,  ad- 
vocacy is  necessarily  a  small  part  of  the 
average  lawyer's  occupation.  In  fact, 
of  course,  some  lawyers  devote  their 
attention  much  more  largely  to  advo- 
cacy and  are  in  the  courts  frequently, 
while  others  are  never  seen  there;  but 
I  am  speaking  of  the  average. 


Lawyers  as  a  body  are  not  without 
a  code  of  honor,  and  though  the  laws 
have  not  defined  this  code,  lawyers  have 
to  some  extent  done  so,  by  their  tradi- 
tions and  voluntary  acts.  One  finds  the 
same  general  outlines  of  ethical  pro- 
priety in  a  lawyer's  conduct  expressed 
in  the  regulations  of  Rome,  the  Code 
of  Christian  V  of  Denmark,  promul- 
gated in  1683,  the  practices  of  the 
French  Bar,  the  traditions  of  the  Eng- 
lish Bar,  the  oaths  in  the  German 
States,  the  oath  of  office  in  the  Swiss 
Canton  of  Geneva,  the  statutory  oath 
of  the  State  of  Washington,  the  code 
provisions  of  several  western  states, 
and  the  recently  formulated  canons  of 
ethics  of  the  American  Bar  Associa- 
tion, adopted  in  1908.  While  these  dif^ 


406       THE  LAWYER'S  CONSCIENCE  AND  PUBLIC  SERVICE 


fer  in  detail,  in  underlying  substance 
and  dominant  principle  they  are  al- 
ways much  the  same,  and  they  all  alike 
advocate  and  enjoin  a  high  ideal  of 
conduct  whose  controlling  motive  is 
altruistic.  And  yet  throughout  the  en- 
tire period  opportunity  has  been  nei- 
ther wanting  nor  neglected  for  writers 
to  point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  the  prac- 
tices of  lawyers.  I  am  convinced  that 
so  far  as  this  has  any  basis  in  the  tradi- 
tions of  the  profession  itself,  it  arises 
from  superficiality  and  misunderstand- 
ing on  the  part  of  the  critic. 

This  is  leaving  out  of  consideration 
those  black  sheep  within  the  profes- 
sion, who  disgrace  it  by  their  abuses. 
Whatever  may  be  said  of  them  they 
are  relatively  few  in  number,  and 
thrive,  so  far  as  they  do  thrive,  merely 
because  of  the  failure  of  those  inter- 
ested, or  charged  with  the  duty,  to 
utilize  the  remedies  against  them  which 
the  law  itself,  as  well  as  the  traditions 
of  the  profession,  afford.  I  am  not  dis- 
cussing those  who  abuse  their  office  by 
violating  its  recognized  obligations, 
but  only  the  profession  itself  and  its 
traditional  standards.  These  are  actu- 
ally high,  despite  what  in  ignorance 
may  be  said  to  the  contrary,  but  they 
do  not  embrace  what  some  modern  and 
enthusiastic  progressives  think  they 
do  or  should  embrace.  For  instance, 
while  lawyers  as  individuals  have  ever 
actually  been  foremost  in  public  ser- 
vice, and  notably  so  in  our  own  coun- 
try, and  while  they  are  especially  well 
equipped  for  it  through  their  know- 
ledge of  history  and  laws,  there  is  no 
tradition  of  the  profession  that  they 
are  public  servants  in  the  sense  that 
they  owe  any  duty  to  the  public  to 
bring  about  change.  Every  substantial 
change  for  the  better  seems  in  fact  to 
owe  its  permanent  formulation  to  the 
activity  of  some  legally  trained  mind, 
but  I  am  not  aware  that  it  is  recog- 
nized by  any  .tradition  of  the  profes- 


sion that  a  lawyer  as  such  owes  any 
duty  to  society  as  a  constructive  re- 
former. 

The  most  perplexing  ethical  ques- 
tions arise  out  of  his  position  as  advo- 
cate or  attorney;  in  his  position  as  ad- 
viser and  counselor  he  may  be  free  to 
counsel  or  dissuade,  according  to  the 
very  highest  or  even  the  most  quixotic 
ideals;  but  when  he  has  accepted  re- 
sponsibility as  an  attorney  represent- 
ing his  client's  rights,  or  as  an  advocate 
to  plead  his  client's  cause,  then  he  is, 
or  may  be,  pressed  between  the  upper 
and  nether  millstones  of  inclination  and 
duty. 

For  instance,  it  may  be  of  great  im- 
portance to  the  community  that  the 
truth  should  be  known  respecting  a 
disputed  fact,  and  it  may  be  that  a 
client  may  have  confided  the  truth  to 
his  lawyer;  but,  whatever  a  lawyer  may 
be  personally  inclined  to  do  in  respect 
to  the  disclosure  of  this  truth,  and 
whatever  he  may  advise  or  whatever 
course  he  may  adopt  by  way  of  inaction 
or  refusal  to  proceed  after  learning  the 
truth,  he  cannot  'by  any  legal  process 
be  compelled,  nor  will  he  be  permitted, 
if  he  desires,  to  disclose  it  in  evidence 
without  his  client's  consent.  If  it  were 
his  own  secret,  he  could  loudly  pro- 
claim it,  but  as  it  is  his  client's  secret, 
the  law  will  not  permit  him  to  disclose 
it  unless  his  client  first  waives  the  per- 
sonal privilege  accorded  to  him. 

Now,  this  is  the  law,  and  not  the 
mere  arbitrary  tradition  of  the  profes- 
sion. And  like  all  law,  it  has  its  foun- 
dation in  reason. 

And  so  sound  has  this  reason  seemed 
to  be  that  there  is  a  progressive  legis- 
lative wave  operative  in  the  United 
States,  which  in  many  states  has  now 
extended  the  rule  to  priests  and  phy- 
sicians, and  in  some  to  trained  nurses, 
while  the  height  of  absurdity  in  the 
application  of  the  principle  appears  to 
have  been  reached  when  it  was  urged 


THE  LAWYER'S  CONSCIENCE  AND  PUBLIC  SERVICE       407 


(but  happily  without  success)  in  Iowa 
that  the  same  secrecy  should  be  ob- 
served and  enforced  in  respect  to  the 
knowledge  obtained  by  a  veterinary 
surgeon  in  the  treatment  of  a  horse. 

But,  adverting  to  the  principle  itself, 
which  imposes  this  silence  on  a  law- 
yer, it  has  its  foundation  in  the  belief 
that  the  proper  administration  of  jus- 
tice requires  that  there  should  be  the 
most  complete  freedom  of  exchange  of 
confidences  between  lawyer  and  client, 
in  order  that  the  client  may  be  induced 
to  speak  the  truth  and  not  to  deceive 
his  own  lawyer;  and  it  is  assumed  that 
with  a  knowledge  of  the  truth  the  law- 
yer will  be  constrained  to  act  properly, 
and  justice  will  be  more  adequately 
served,  than  if  through  fear  of  enforced 
disclosure  the  client  should  deceive  his 
own  lawyer  and  set  him  on  the  wrong 
track. 

But  the  honorable  traditions  of  the 
profession  will  not  permit  the  lawyer, 
as  an  ethical  possibility,  to  use  his  know- 
ledge of  the  facts  actively  to  mislead. 

One  of  the  ethical  problems  which  is 
endlessly  discussed,  but  upon  which 
lawyers  appear  almost  without  excep- 
tion to  be  agreed,  is  the  duty  of  the 
lawyer  in  defending  one  accused  of 
crime,  whom  he  knows,  or  has  substan- 
tial reason  to  believe,  to  be  guilty.  In 
this  one  case  lawyers  as  a  class  appear 
to  be  arrayed  against  a  prevalent  but 
superficial  contrary  sentiment  in  the 
community;  they  acknowledge  and  as- 
sert that  such  a  defense  may  be  pro- 
perly undertaken.  But  even  here,  the 
proper  ethical  limits  of  such  a  defense 
are  well  understood. 

A  lawyer  may  not  properly  seek  to 
divert  suspicion  from  his  own  client, 
by  pointing  out  another  innocent  indi- 
vidual as  the  offender,  or  by  present- 
ing false  evidence  in  support  of  an- 
other theory;  in  each  instance  his  only 
justifiable  course  is  one  of  silence  in 
respect  to  the  actual  facts,  and  of  re- 


quiring the  opposition  to  proceed  to 
procure  a  verdict  in  strict  accordance 
with  law,  and  after  sustaining  the  bur- 
den of  proof  which  the  law  imposes 
upon  the  prosecution.  In  short,  to  act 
strictly  upon  the  defensive.  Yet  it  still 
may  be  asked  why  lawyers  justify  this 
course,  when  the  interests  of  the  com- 
munity require  conviction.  Once  again 
there  is  a  reason,  which  appeals  to  law- 
yers as  sound.  In  this  view  the  peace 
and  well-being  of  society,  which  is 
composed  of  individual  units,  depend 
upon  the  strict  administration  of  crim- 
inal law.  Its  loose  administration  has, 
in  time  past,  filled  the  world  with  un- 
speakable woe.  The  guaranty  of  due 
process  of  law,  the  writ  of  habeas  cor- 
pus, the  requirement  of  indictment  by 
a  grand  jury,  the  privilege  of  counsel 
in  criminal  causes,  and  the  right  of 
trial  by  jury,  are  all  remedies  which 
bitter  experience  in  the  past  with  the 
loose  or  wicked  administration  of  law, 
and  particularly  of  criminal  law,  has 
demanded.  The  theory  of  the  lawyer 
is  really  the  theory  of  a  constructive 
statesman,  that  the  peace  and  well- 
being  of  society,  as  demonstrated  by 
centuries  of  experience,  make  it  desir- 
able that  criminal  justice  should  be 
slow  and  careful,  in  order  to  prevent 
the  sacrifice  of  innocent  and  law-abid- 
ing men.  For,  if  the  guilty  cannot  un- 
der the  operation  of  the  system  be  dis- 
tinguished from  the  innocent,  save  by 
confession  of  his  guilt,  then,  in  order 
to  relax  the  difficulties  of  conviction, 
requirements  which  are  the  actual 
safeguards  of  the  innocent,  and  in 
reality  of  every  man  in  the  community 
who  is  liable  to  be  suspected,  are  apt 
to  be  obliterated  or  weakened.  Every 
precaution  against  wrongful  convic- 
tion of  an  innocent  man,  which  experi- 
ence has  demonstrated  to  be  desirable 
to  that  end,  is  equally  available  as  the 
right  of  a  man  who  asserts  himself  to 
be  innocent. 


408      THE  LAWYER'S  CONSCIENCE  AND  PUBLIC  SERVICE 


It  must  be  remembered  that  the 
criminal  law  is  only  a  crude  device  at 
best.  It  is  man-made  and  not  divine; 
it  is  not  accurate;  it  does  not  measure 
moral  guilt;  only  to  a  limited  extent 
does  it  allow  for  provocation  or  tempta- 
tion; it  rarely  allows  for  ignorance, 
and  never  for  training,  education,  or 
environment;  it  is  not  necessarily  tem- 
pered by  mercy;  mercy  where  allowed 
is  usually  optional  with  the  individual 
judge;  it  makes  no  allowance  for  re- 
pentance; it  is  frequently  cruel  to  the 
convict,  not  necessarily  fitting  the  pun- 
ishment to  the  crime  or  to  the  crimi- 
nal; and  it  is  always  cruel  to  his  de- 
pendents if  he  has  previously  met  his 
obligations  to  them.  And  so  consid- 
ered, real  justice  may  frequently  be  as 
well  achieved  by  the  sobering  effect 
of  a  trial  and  acquittal,  as  by  a  convic- 
tion and  punishment.  It  by  no  means 
follows  that  a  man  who  has  once  com- 
mitted murder  may  not  become  and 
be  thenceforth  a  desirable  citizen,  if 
acquitted  of  his  crime.  Our  present 
system  succeeds  to  one  much  older 
which  mercifully  recognized  a  right  of 
sanctuary  and  asylum  for  the  guilty. 
We  have  abolished  that  right,  except 
in  the  case  of  purely  political  offenders 
who  have  escaped  to  foreign  lands. 
And  the  mere  right  to  be  defended  by 
counsel  and  to  be  convicted  by  the  due 
process  of  the  law  of  the  land,  without 
personally  or  by  counsel  actively  con- 
tributing to  the  result,  is  a  meagre 
substitute,  of  which  society  itself,  and 
its  professed  friends  and  spokesmen, 
have  no  right  to  complain  until  they 
reconstruct  the  criminal  law  along 
more  accurately  just  lines,  and  impose 
upon  the  lawyer  the  duty  of  being  the 
foe,  instead  of  the  friend,  of  his  client. 

But,  in  fact,  this  consideration  of  the 
duty  of  a  lawyer  in  the  case  suggested 
is  but  an  academic  discussion,  rarely 
of  any  practical  application,  because 
in  actual  practice  the  cases  where  it 


would  apply  are  few,  after  we  have 
eliminated  those  in  which  the  lawyer 
has  rejected  a  defense  because  it  is  not 
acceptable  to  him,  or  has  advised  his 
client  to  rjlead  guilty  and  take  the  usu- 
ally lighter  consequences,  because  they 
both  know  his  guilt  and  know  that  he 
is  likely  to  be  convicted;  and  after  we 
have  eliminated  also  the  possibility 
that  although  guilty  of  some  offense, 
it  may  not  be  the  crime  charged,  and 
the  other  possibilities  that  the  lawyer 
himself  may  not  be  fully  advised,  or 
that  the  client  may  consider  himself 
guilty  when  in  truth  and  under  the  law 
he  is  not. 

In  some  cases  the  law  itself  gives 
no  recognition  to  the  plea  of  guilty, 
but  requires  a  trial  to  take  place  at 
all  events,  to  determine  the  degree  of 
guilt.  This  is  true  in  New  York  in  *e- 
spect  to  the  crime  of  murder  in  the  first 
degree. 

Nor  can  a  lawyer  always  escape  the 
defense  of  a  guilty  man.  A  situation 
may  arise  in  which  he  may  be  com- 
pelled to  defend.  It  may  be  assumed, 
for  instance,  that  if  every  counselor  at 
a  given  bar  voluntarily  rejected  the 
cause  of  an  accused  able  to  pay,  he 
might  appeal  to  the  court  to  assign 
counsel  for  his  defense,  and  that  in  such 
case,  as  well  as  in  the  more  common 
one  of  the  impoverished  accused,  it 
would  be  a  duty  to  accept  the  assign- 
ment. In  that  event  the  counsel,  though 
he  might  advise  a  plea  of  guilty,  would 
have  no  right  to  enter  it  against  the 
protest  of  his  client,  but  would  be  legal- 
ly bound  to  see  that  he  secured  a  fair 
trial,  and  that,  if  convicted,  his  convic- 
tion should  be  upon  the  evidence,  and 
in  accordance  with  law. 

So  it  may  be  seen  that  extreme 
cases  may  arise  in  which  it  is  the  legal 
duty  of  the  lawyer  to  defend  a  man 
whom  he  knows  to  be  guilty,  and  in 
which  he  has  no  option.  But  ordin- 
arily he  can  escape  such  a  predicament, 


THE  LAWYER'S  CONSCIENCE  AND  PUBLIC  SERVICE       409 


because  in  the  United  States  he  is 
ordinarily  free  to  reject  a  case  which  is 
tendered  to  him,  if  its  defense  is  dis- 
tasteful or  abhorrent  to  him. 

When  the  lawyer's  personal  interest 
alone  is  considered,  or  he  seeks  to  sub- 
vert the  law  to  secure  to  his  clients 
what  is  legally  denied  to  them,  then 
the  traditions  and  common  precepts 
of  the  profession  lay  out  for  him  a  true 
and  narrow  course.  These  traditions 
have  been  formulated  in  the  canons 
adopted  by  the  American  Bar  Associa- 
tion, as  a  purely  voluntary  statement 
of  the  more  common  precepts  of  pro- 
fessional propriety.  Space  does  not 
permit  their  full  enumeration  here,  but 
the  following  quotation  is  an  excellent 
summary :  — 

'But  above  all  a  lawyer  will  find  his 
highest  honor  in  a  deserved  reputation 
for  fidelity  to  private  trust  and  to  pub- 
lic duty,  as  an  honest  man  and  as  a 
patriotic  and  loyal  citizen.' 


VI 

Lawyers  have  always  been  and 
doubtless  always  will  be  condemned 
by  those  who  picture  to  themselves  a 
distorted  type,  examples  of  which  un- 
fortunately do  exist  and  have  existed, 
who  use  their  knowledge  of  the  law  to 
impose  upon  or  circumvent  the  inno- 
cent and  ignorant.  But  this  type  is 
as  much  condemned  by  the  profession 
itself  as  by  the  most  severe  critic;  it  is 
not  in  any  respect  representative,  and 
where  it  flourishes  it  does  so  in  spite 
of  professional  traditions,  and  because 
either  of  the  secret  manner  in  which  it 
works,  or  of  the  absence  of  efficient 
machinery  in  the  courts  to  follow  up 
and  punish  professional  misdeeds. 

Lawyers  themselves  are  also  moving 
forward  more  actively  than  ever  before 
to  weed  this  class  out  of  the  profession. 
They  come  into  it  and  stay  in  it  for 
purely  commercial  reasons,  and  there 


ought  to  be  no  substantial  difficulty 
in  disbarring  them  when  discovered. 
The  members  of  the  Association  of  the 
Bar  of  the  City  of  New  York  have 
an  active  force  of  professional  aids  at 
work  in  the  solution  of  this  problem; 
the  Committee  on  Grievances  consists 
of  volunteers  who  devote  themselves  to 
the  work  systematically  throughout  the 
year,  meeting  for  the  purpose  of  sifting 
complaints  and  taking  evidence,  on  an 
average,  more  than  one  afternoon  a 
week;  its  investigating  and  paid  pro- 
fessional force,  consisting  largely  of 
lawyers,  costs  the  Association  about 
$23,000  a  year,  every  cent  of  which  is 
contributed,  in  the  first  place,  by  law- 
yers, members  of  the  Association,  and 
only  a  small  fraction  of  which  is  re- 
turned out  of  the  county  treasury  in 
case  of  successful  prosecution.  The 
New  York  County  Lawyers'  Associa- 
tion, with  much  smaller  resources,  does 
a  similar  work.  The  first-mentioned 
committee  entertained  and  investi- 
gated, in  1912,  927  specific  complaints 
against  lawyers,  and  29  complaints 
respecting  the  manner  of  administer- 
ing justice  in  the  county;  and,  in  1913, 
819  complaints  against  lawyers,  and 
8  matters  involving  the  administra- 
tion of  justice.  This  is  a  sample  of  the 
voluntary  and  expensive  work  which 
lawyers  themselves,  in  a  single  commu- 
nity, are  doing  to  meet  the  criticisms 
which  are  leveled  against  members  of 
their  profession,  and  it  is  practical  and 
efficient  work,  and  in  that  respect 
differs  widely  from  much  ill-founded 
criticism. 

Conservatism  is  not  necessarily  an 
offense  against  society;  it  is  frequently 
the  excellent  brake  which  prevents  or 
retards  a  too  facile  descent  of  a  dan- 
gerous declivity  toward  disorganiza- 
tion and  anarchy.  The  law  represents 
order,  and  order  abhors  a  noisy  and 
ill-considered  clamor  for  change.  Sub- 
stantive law  is  fundamentally,  accorcl- 


410       THE  LAWYER'S  CONSCIENCE  AND  PUBLIC  SERVICE 


ing  as  its  source  is  traditional  or  statu- 
tory, a  formulated  expression  of  the 
habits  of  the  people  as  interpreted  by 
the  lawmakers,  or  else  an  effort  by  the 
latter  to  make  a  portioji  of  the  people 
change  their  habits  and  adopt  those 
which  appeal  favorably  to  the  legisla- 
tors; the  latter  class  of  laws  is  a  fruit- 
ful source  of  discord,  for  reasons  which 
are  psychological  and  human.  Lawyers 
as  a  body  are  unquestionably  conser- 
vative, but  from  the  ranks  of  the  pro- 
fession have  always  come  some  of  the 
most  efficient  of  reformers,  when  the 
time  was  ripe  for  their  reforms. 

The  duty  of  advocating  change  is, 
however,  not  a  professional  one.  It 
might  be  desirable  to  find  all  lawyers  in 
the  front  rank  of  progress,  but  it  is  no 
professional  duty  to  be  there,  and  as 
many  men  have  many  minds,  it  is  not 
surprising  that  there  are  differences  of 
view  among  lawyers  respecting  the  true 
direction  of  the  line  of  actual  progress. 

I  have  said  little  to  confute  the 
charge  that  advocacy  takes  from  its 
practitioner  the  rounded  view  of  his 
duty  to  the  man  who  is  not  his  client. 
Advocacy  is  one  of  the  professional 
duties  of  a*  lawyer,  although  it  is  not 
pursued  so  frequently  as  might  be 
supposed. 

Advocacy,  in  its  larger  sense,  in- 
cludes the  conduct  of  the  trial  and  the 
supervision  of  the  testimony  elicited, 
as  well  as  the  final  argument  thereon. 
It  is  an  advocate's  right,  and  may  be 
his  duty,  to  raise  a  legal  objection  to 
the  admission  of  evidence.  The  advo- 
cate who  now  observes  the  ideals  of 
his  profession  does  not  make  futile  or 
unfounded  objections,  nor  does  he  in 
argument  contend  for  unreasonable 
hypotheses.  The  average  critic  con- 
ceives some  crafty  Sergeant  Buzfuz  as 
the  typical  advocate  and  properly  con- 
demns him;  and  occasionally  one  meets 
such  a  man  in  practice;  but  when  an 
advocate  resorts  to  such  pettifoggery, 


it  should  be  obvious  to  the  court  in 
respect  to  points  of  law,  and  to  the 
jury  in  respect  to  matters  of  fact,  and 
should,  and  I  believe  does,  bring  its 
merited  reward  of  condemnation  and 
failure.  As  for  the  tenets  of  the  pro- 
fession, however,  its  canon  advocates 
candor  and  fairness  in  all  such  matters; 
and  as  for  the  opinion  of  the  profession, 
it  holds  in  greater  contempt  a  success- 
ful pettifogger  than  does  the  layman, 
who  either  patronizes  or  praises. 

From  an  intimate  acquaintance  with 
the  activities  of  the  profession,  I  am 
satisfied  that  in  its  ranks  are  the  fore- 
most of  practical  reformers  of  the  law; 
that  as  a  whole  it  is  not  inert;  that  it 
neglects  no  duty  which  it  owes  to  soci- 
ety; that  it  deprecates  unjust  methods 
of  advocacy;  that  it  is  not  responsible 
for  any  faulty  criminal  procedure,  or 
for  the  so-called  technicality  of  the  law; 
that  its  precepts  are  highly  honorable 
and  specific;  that  it  commends  to  its 
members  high  standards  of  individual 
conduct;  and  that  where  it  advocates 
or  excuses  behavior  which  appears  to 
the  casual  critic  reprehensible,  such  as 
the  defense  of  one  known  to  be  guilty, 
it  is  for  reasons  of  public  policy,  and 
with  entire  fidelity  to  the  true  interests 
of  society.  I  am  satisfied  that  the  pro- 
fession itself  cannot  be  justly  arraigned 
for  any  violation  of  duty,  or  of  any 
obligation  which  society  has  imposed 
upon  it,  or  which  it  owes  to  society. 
Where  individual  members  of  the  pro- 
fession have  done  reprehensible  things, 
it  has  been  in  violation  of  professional 
standards,  and  not  in  conformity  with 
them;  and  though  lawyers  as  a  body 
have  not  been  alert  at  all  times  and 
places  to  detect  and  punish  the  short- 
comings of  their  fellows,  even  here 
there  is  greater  activity  at  present 
than  ever  before  in  the  history  of  this 
country,  as  I  could  show  in  detail  if  I 
had  not  already  transgressed  the  rea- 
sonable limits  of  this  article. 


THE  USELESS  VIRTUES 


BY   RALPH    BARTON   PERRY 


IF  all  the  good  advice  that  has  ever 
been  given  were  to  be  brought  togeth- 
er and  compared,  it  would  probably  be 
discovered  that  every  piece  could  be 
matched  with  a  contrary  piece  given 
by  somebody  else.  The  world's  prac- 
tical wisdom  does  not  form  a  consistent 
system.  No  one  man  could  possibly 
believe  all  of  it  at  the  same  time.  For 
example,  there  is  equally  good  author- 
ity for  believing  that  woman  is  the 
tyrant  of  man,  and  for  believing  that 
she  is  his  puppet.  Victor  Hugo  tells 
us  that  'men  are  women's  playthings; 
woman  is  the  devil's';  while  another 
Frenchman,  Michelet,  tells  us  that 
*  nearly  every  folly  committed  by  wo- 
man is  born  of  the  stupidity  or  evil  in- 
fluence of  man.'  But  it  may  be  argued 
that  in  this  case  it  is  the  very  paradox 
itself  which  is  proverbial.  Take  the  less 
familiar  example  of  self-consciousness. 
There  are  the  moralists  whose  primary 
maxim  is  the  Delphic  oracle,  'Know 
thyself.'  'We  should  every  night  call 
ourselves  to  an  account,'  says  Seneca.  % 
'What  infirmity  have  I  mastered  to- 
day? What  passion  opposed?  What 
temptation  resisted?  What  virtue  ac- 
quired? Our  vices  will  abate  of  them- 
selves if  they  be  brought  every  day 
to  the  shrift.'  This  is  accounted  wise, 
and  carries  conviction  to  conscience. 
But  so  does  the  contrary  preaching  of 
Carlyle,  with  his  tirade  against  the 
'  unhealthy  state  of  self-sentience,  self- 
survey,  precursor  and  prognostic  of 
still  worse  health.' 


It  is  horrible  to  contemplate  the  vol- 
ume of  discordant  advice  that  is  poured 
from  pulpits,  platforms,  and  editorial 
columns  into  the  ears  of  that  hapless 
reprobate,  the  plain  man.  It  is  perhaps 
fortunate  that  so  little  of  it  is  followed. 
For  it  is  always  one-sided.  It  is  charac- 
teristic of  most  advice  and  exhortation 
that  it  is  only  a  part  of  the  truth.  It  is 
an  exaggeration  of  that  particular  half- 
truth  which  the  exhorter  thinks  is 
timely,  and  which  he  believes  is  going 
to  be  offset  by  contrary  influences.  It 
is  a  push  against  some  existing  over- 
tendency,  an  attempt  to  stem  some 
tide  that  is  running  too  high,  and  in  the 
hope  of  securing  that  balance  and  mod- 
eration in  which  right  conduct  always 
consists. 

This  is  my  apology  for  appearing 
with  an  exhortation  which  on  the  face 
of  it  may  appear  to  be  strained  or  even 
absurd.  For  I  propose,  in  a  sense,  to 
preach  against  efficiency  or.  success.  I  do 
so  not  because  I  do  not  see  their  im- 
portance, but  because  I  suspect  that  my 
reader  will  already  know  their  import- 
ance well  enough,  and  possibly  even 
too  well.  Or  if  he  does  not,  there  are 
many  who  can  proclaim  that  import- 
ance more  eloquently  than  I.  There 
is  something  abroad,  an  irresistible 
social  impulse,  which  is  tending  to  pro- 
mote the  useful  virtues,  to  encourage 
thrift,  initiative,  industry,  cooperation, 
civic  pride,  and  all  those  qualities  of 
mind  and  will  that  make  communi- 
ties sound  and  prosperous.  But  were  I 
to  join  the  general  praise  of  efficiency 
and  utility,  I  should  be  seeing  only 

411 " 


412 


THE  USELESS  VIRTUES 


half  the  truth.  And  I  know  that  if  I 
were  to  follow  the  line  of  less  resistance 
and  urge  what  everybody  already 
wants,  I  should  be  forfeiting  the  great- 
er opportunity  of  speaking  a  word  for 
that  half-truth  which  has  difficulty  in 
getting  a  hearing  and  needs  the  strong 
support  of  every  teacher  or  preacher. 
I  want  therefore  to  make  out  as  strong 
a  case  as  I  can  for  what  may  in  a  sense 
be  called  the  useless  virtues,  for  those 
qualities  of  mind  and  will  which  can- 
not be  measured  by  the  standard  of 
efficiency,  but  whose  very  value  is  in- 
separable from  the  fact  that  they  do  not 
immediately  contribute  to  practical 
^success. 

n 

First  of  all  it  is  necessary  that  we 
should  reflect  upon  the  meaning  of  a 
word  that  is  perpetually  in  our  mouths, 
the  word  'practical.5  It  is  not  custom- 
ary for  us  to  reflect  upon  its  meaning  at 
all.  It  is  supposed  to  express  a  finality. 
To  call  a  thing  practical  is  to  praise  it; 
to  call  it  unpractical  is  to  condemn  it. 
It  never  occurs  to  us  as  a  rule  that 
practicality  is  a  special  kind  of  value. 
If  that  did  occur  to  us,  then  of  course 
we  should  be  in  the  position  of  admit- 
ting that  there  is  at  least  one  other  kind 
of  value  from  which  it  may  be  distin- 
guished. And  this  would  be  equivalent 
to  admitting  that  when  we  call  a  thing 
practical  or  unpractical  we  have  not, 
as  is  usually  assumed,  provided  suffi- 
cient grounds  for  approving  or  reject- 
ing it. 

Let  me  select  a  homely  example 
which  will  bring  out  what  appears  to 
me  to  be  the  meaning  of  practicality. 
Suppose  a  man  to  be  driven  to  the 
roof  of  a  burning  building,  while  a 
crowd  is  gathered  below  to  offer  help 
or  suggestions.  Jones  shouts,  'Get  a 
ladder!'  or  indicates  where  one  may 
be  had,  or  gets  one  himself.  Brown 
points  out  an  adjacent  roof  by  which 


the  refugee  may  pass  to  a  place  of 
safety.  Several  Smiths  fetch  a  blanket 
and  hold  it  to  break  his  fall.  Socrates 
who  has  happened  by,  and  who  ap- 
pears to  be  less  agitated  than  the  rest, 
remarks  (largely  to  himself,  for  he  can 
find  few  to  listen  to  him),  'I  wonder 
what  the  man  really  wants.  He  ap- 
pears to  be  desperately  anxious  to  save 
his  life.  But  is  his  life  after  all  so  pro- 
digiously important  as  to  warrant  all 
this  excitement?  Has  he  good  reasons 
for  wishing  to  save  himself?  And  what 
a  poorly  organized  community  this  is, 
that  such  a  thing  should  be  allowed  to 
occur!  Why  are  buildings  not  fire- 
proof? What  carelessness  can  have 
started  the  fire?*  But  before  Socrates 
can  proceed  further  with  his  rumina- 
tions he  is  roughly  brushed  aside.  If 
he  receives  any  consideration  at  all  he 
will  be  regarded  as  a  poor  lunatic,  or 
philosopher,  or  college  professor. 

Now  which  among  these  men  is  the 
practical  man,  and  which  the  unprac- 
tical ?  I  do  not  suppose  that  there  can 
be  the  slightest  doubt  in  any  one's 
mind.  The  Joneses,  the  Browns,  and 
the  Smiths  are  the  practical  men,  and 
Socrates  (there  is  rarely  even  one  such 
in  any  crowd)  is  theoretical,  academic, 
a  creature  of  mere  intellect;  harmless 
enough  if  he  will  only  stay  at  home 
and  write  books  which  nobody  reads, 
but  very  much  in  the  way  when  there 
is  something  to  be  done. 

But  what  is  the  precise  difference  be- 
tween the  Joneses,  the  Browns,  and  the 
Smiths  on  the  one  hand,  and  Socrates 
on  the  other?  It  appears  to  me  that  it 
comes  down  to  this.  The  practical  men 
accept  circumstances  as  they  find 
them;  they  take  it  for  granted  that  the 
man  wants  to  escape  from  the  roof,  and 
they  regard  the  fire  as  an  existing  fact, 
which  is  not,  for  the  moment  at  least, 
to  be  explained,  but  to  be  acted  on. 
They  do  not  go  behind  this  concrete 
and  present  situation,  except  so  far  as 


THE   USELESS  VIRTUES 


413 


to  assume  on  the  victim's  part  the  nor- 
mal instinct  of  self-preservation.  Tak- 
ing these  things  for  granted,  without 
consciously  reflecting  upon  them  at 
all,  they  can  devote  all  their  faculties 
and  energies  to  contriving  a  remedy. 
In  so  far  as  their  minds  are  engaged  at 
all  they  will  be  bent  upon  finding  the 
means  that  will  fit  the  situation.  In 
this  way  the  problem  is  enormously 
simplified,  and  there  is  strong  likeli- 
hood of  a  prompt  and  effectual  solu- 
tion. If  the  crowd  were  made  up  en- 
tirely of  Socrateses  pondering  all  the 
whys  and  wherefores,  life  would  be 
lost  before  any  conclusions  whatsoever 
would  have  been  reached.  To  be  practi- 
cal, in  short,  is  to  confine  one's  atten- 
tion to  the  effectual  meeting  of  existing 
emergencies. 

President  Cleveland  invented  a 
phrase  which  is  an  almost  perfect  ex- 
pression of  the  attitude  of  practicality. 
There  is  nothing  profound  about  it, 
nor  does  it  possess  any  striking  literary 
merit;  but  it  never  fails  to  appeal,  and 
has  become  a  part  of  our  common 
speech,  so  thoroughly  does  it  coincide 
with  the  bias  of  common  sense.  He 
once  remarked,  as  every  one  knows,  'It 
is  a  condition,  and  not  a  theory,  that 
confronts  us.'  I  do  not  remember  what 
condition  it  was  that  confronted  us;  but 
the  practical  man  is  always  confronted 
by  a  condition.  I  shall  suggest  present- 
ly that  every  condition  does  in  truth  in- 
volve a  theory;  but  if  so,  the  practical 
man  ignores  it.  His  practicality  lies  in 
confining  himself  to  finding  an  act 
which  will  meet  the  condition.  He  has 
a  family  which  must  be  supported,  or 
an  industrial  plant  which  must  be  made 
to  pay,  or  an  examination  which  must 
be  passed,  or  a  game  which  must  be 
won,  or  an  office  to  which  he  proposes 
to  be  elected.  His  problem  is  the  com- 
paratively narrow  and  simple  problem 
of  finding  the  instrument  to  fit  the  oc- 
casion and  achieve  the  result. 


As  a  nation,  we  are  commonly  ac- 
cused by  unsympathetic  Europeans  of 
being  excessively  practical.  We  are 
supposed  to  specialize  in  practicality. 
Thus,  when  England  wants  a  railroad 
system  reorganized  she  looks  to  Amer- 
ica for  a  manager ;  and  when  Germany 
wants  to  make  a  better  record  in  the 
Olympic  games  she  sends  to  America 
for  a  trainer.  There  is  less  demand  in 
Europe  for  American  poets  and  musi- 
cal composers,  and,  I  regret  to  say,  for 
American  philosophers.  Now  we  may 
believe  that  this  reputation  is  not  de- 
served, or  we  may  glory  in  it.  But 
in  either  case  we  can  afford  at  least  to 
see  just  what  it  means.  Consider  for 
a  moment  the  verdict  of  one  of  our 
harshest  critics,  Mr.  Lowes  Dickinson 
of  Cambridge  University.  'I  am  in- 
clined to  think,'  he  says,  'that  the  real 
end  which  Americans  set  before  them- 
selves is  Acceleration.  To  be  always 
moving,  and  always  moving  faster, 
that  they  think  is  the  beatific  life;  and 
with  their  happy  detachment  from  phi- 
losophy and  speculation,  they  are  not 
troubled  by  the  question,  Whither?  If 
they  are  asked  by  Europeans,  as  they 
sometimes  are,  what  is  the  point  of  go- 
ing so  fast?  their  only  feeling  is  one  of 
genuine  astonishment.  Why,  they  re- 
ply, you  go  fast!  And  what  more  can 
be  said?' 

Now  no  doubt  this  is  a  libel  upon 
the  American  people,  and  might  justly 
be  resented.  Or  it  might  perhaps  be 
proved  that  Mr.  Dickinson's  felloyv 
countrymen  are  just  as  guilty  in  intent 
as  we  are;  that  they  want  to  move  fast, 
but,  failing  to  do  it,  try  to  make  out 
that  the  game  is  n't  worth  the  candle, 
and  that  their  rival's  victory  is  hollow 
and  fruitless,  as  a  man  who  saw  that  he 
was  losing  a  race  might  withdraw  and 
try  to  persuade  the  spectators  that  it 
was  a  very  childish  and  undignified 
proceeding  anyhow.  There  would 
doubtless  be  a  dash  of  truth  in  such  a 


414 


THE   USELESS  VIRTUES 


retort,  just  enough  to  enable  you  to  get 
the  laugh  on  the  other  fellow.  But  it 
would  be  a  shrewder  thing  to  detect 
the  truth  in  the  criticism,  learn  one's 
fault,  correct  it,  and  leave  the  critic 
himself  to  stagnate  in  his  own  com- 
placency. 

Now  Mr.  Dickinson's  criticism 
brings  out  cleverly  enough  the  mean- 
ing of  that  practicality  on  which  we 
pride  ourselves,  and  which  we  hastily 
assume  to  be  an  absolute  standard. 
Practicality  means  skill,  energy,  speed, 
quantity  of  performance,  without  re- 
ference to  the  profitableness  of  the  re- 
sult. Not  that  the  result  may  not  in 
point  of  fact  be  profitable  —  but  the 
question  is  not  raised.  The  profitable- 
ness of  the  result  is  assumed  from  the 
fact  that  everybody  is  mad  about  it. 
As  the  popular  song  puts  it,  *  every- 
body's  doing  it.'  Whatever  everybody 
is  doing  recommends  itself  without 
further  justification.  Whatever  e very- 
body 's  doing  is  'the  thing  to  do.'  A 
man  is  willing  to  wear  anything  appar- 
ently, if  his  tailor  says '  they  're  wearing 
them  that  way.'  So  we  eagerly  adopt 
the  pursuits  that  we  find  in  vogue; 
and  apply  ourselves  to  making  a  good 
showing. 

Most  people,  perhaps,  appear  to  be 
dividing  their  energies  between  three 
pursuits:  making  money,  dancing,  and 
playing  baseball,  or  watching  some  one 
else  play  it.  To  make  as  much  money 
as  possible,  to  dance  as  well  or  as  often 
as  possible,  and  to  defeat  your  oppo- 
nent in  sport,  either  personally  or  vi- 
cariously through  a  favorite  team, — 
these  tasks  absorb  the  energies  of  the 
typical  practical  man.  He  does  not 
adopt  and  follow  a  plan  of  life  by  con- 
scious reflection,  but  he  is  constantly 
in  a  current  of  life,  which  flows  now 
this  way  and  now  that,  and  sweeps  him 
along  with  it.  Or  the  practical  man  is 
like  a  man  who  finds  himself  in  a  great 
throng  of  athletes  who  are  matching 


their  skill  and  speed  and  prowess 
against  one  another.  He  goes  in  for 
this  or  that,  spurred  by  emulation,  and 
seeks  to  outstrip  his  competitors  in 
some  race  without  concerning  himself 
with  the  direction  of  the  course,  and  the 
place  in  which  he  will  find  himself  at 
the  end  of  the  race. 

There  is  a  false  proverb  which  teach- 
es us  that  whatever  is  worth  doing  is 
worth  doing  well.  I  call  it  false  because 
it  is  so  evident  that  there  are  some 
things  which  are  only  worth  doing  pro- 
vided one  is  willing  to  do  them  ill.  It 
is  a  part  of  practical  wisdom  to  know 
what  it  is  worth  while  to  exert  one's 
self  about,  and  what  may  be  done  in  a 
spirit  of  playful  carelessness.  But  there 
is  a  more  popular  maxim  which  is  so 
widely  observed  that  it  is  never  formu- 
lated —  the  maxim  that  whatever  is 
done  well  is  worth  doing.  This,  I  take 
it,  is  the  maxim  of  the  practical  man. 
Do  what  the  next  man  is  doing,  but  go 
him  one  better.  Make  a  record.  There 
is  a  whole  code  of  life  in  this  passion 
for  records.  To  make  or  hold  a  record 
means  to  excel  everybody  else  in  a  pre- 
cisely measurable  degree.  To  excel 
everybody  else  in  an  activity  in  which 
everybody  else  would  like  to  excel,  to 
hold  the  most  coveted  record,  this  would 
represent  the  supreme  practical  suc- 


cess. 


in 


We  should  now  be  sufficiently  clear 
in  our  minds  as  to  what  practicality 
means.  But  it.  is  evident  that  our  crit- 
ics in  judging  us  to  be  a  peculiarly  prac- 
tical people  mean  to  accuse  us  of  a 
fault;  and  we  shall  not  have  understood 
the  criticism  until  we  have  come  to  see 
wherein  the  fault  lies.  It  is  evident  that 
Mr.  Dickinson,  for  example,  means  to 
convey  the  idea  that  this  question, 
Whither?  which  is  said  to  trouble  us 
so  little,  is  an  important  question;  and 
that  we  are  making  a  serious  mistake 


THE  USELESS  VIRTUES 


415 


in  ignoring  it.  He  would  mean,  I  think, 
to  go  further,  and  assert  that  this  ques- 
tion, Whither?  is  the  most  important 
question.  When  we  examine  the  mat- 
ter more  narrowly,  it  appears  to  come 
to  this. 

The  very  same  instance  of  successful 
effort  may  be  glorious  or  ridiculous, 
according  as  the  result  is  itself  worth 
while  or  not.  I  remember  an  adven- 
ture of  my  own  that  is  in  point.  I  left 
Cambridge  with  a  friend  to  catch  a  six 
o'clock  boat  for  Portland,  Maine.  We 
had  been  delayed  in  starting  and  upon 
consulting  our  watches  in  the  car  we 
found  that  unless  we  adopted  extraor- 
dinary measures  we  should  miss  the 
boat.  So  we  leaped  from  the  car  and 
hailed  a  passing  cab.  We  bribed  the 
driver  to  whip  his  horse  into  a  gallop. 
As  we  approached  the  dock  we  saw  the 
boat  moving.  Jumping  from  the  cab 
with  bags  in  hand,  we  ran  down  the 
dock  and  leaped  aboard,  flushed  with 
our  triumph.  We  had  exerted  our- 
selves desperately;  we  had  been  quick- 
witted and  skillful;  and  I  suspect  that 
we  had  created  a  record.  We  had  cer- 
tainly succeeded.  But  when  our  excite- 
ment and  breathlessness  subsided  we 
discovered  that  the  boat  was  just  arriv- 
ing; and  that  it  would  not  depart  for 
several  hours.  Then  something  very  ex- 
traordinary happened  to  our  triumph. 
It  suddenly  collapsed  and  shriveled 
into  a  sorry  joke.  We  felt  ashamed 
and  ridiculous,  and  sought  to  hide  our 
diminished  heads  in  the  impersonal 
throng  of  bystanders. 

I  wonder  if  there  is  any  better  defini- 
tion of  that  most  hateful  of  predica- 
ments, which  we  describe  as  *  having 
made  a  fool  of  one's  self,'  than  to  say 
that  it  is  to  have  exerted  one's  self  for  an 
end  that  turns  out  to  be  worthless  in  the 
attainment.  Suppose  a  man  to  have  de- 
voted himself  passionately  to  the  accu- 
mulation of  riches,  to  have  spent  him- 
self, literally,  in  getting  them,  and  to 


have  prided  himself  on  his  skill  and 
efficiency,  only  to  find  that  the  riches 
do  not  amount  to  anything  when  he 
has  them ;  so  that  although  he  has  been 
so  extraordinarily  busy  in  doing,  he  has 
in  reality  done  nothing.  Such  a  man 
might  well  feel  in  the  flat  and  empty 
years  of  his  ebbing  life  that  he  had 
played  the  fool;  and  that  he  might  bet- 
ter have  been  less  busy,  if  only  he  might 
then  have  taken  a  little  time  to  think 
ahead  and  select  some  worthy  goal 
before  throwing  himself  headlong  into 
the  pursuit. 

A  moment's  thought  about  the  ends 
themselves,  looking  before  you  leap, 
curiously  inquiring  into  the  itinerary 
before  joining  the  procession,  a  little 
cool  philosophy  before  the  heat  of  ac- 
tion, disinterested  reflection,  these  are 
what  I  mean  by  the  useless  virtues  - 
the  unpractical  wisdom  of  Socrates. 
Surely  such  wisdom  has  its  place.  You 
cannot  make  life  up  out  of  it  altogether. 
Socrates  in  his  most  Socratic  moods 
will  not  make  an  effective  member  of 
the  fire  brigade.  There  are  times  for  ac- 
tion, and  when  they  come  the  man  of 
the  hour  is  he  who  has  no  doubts,  but 
only  instincts  and  habits.  Our  instincts 
and  habits,  however,  take  care  of  them- 
selves better  than  does  our  cool  reflec- 
tion. The  mood  of  practicality  is  the 
vulgar  mood ;  not  in  the  sense  of  being 
debased,  but  in  the  sense  of  being  usual 
or  typical.  For  the  individual  it  is  the 
line  of  less  resistance.  Being  usual,  it 
sets  the  standards  by  which  a  man  is 
judged  by  the  crowd.  It  is  favored  by 
that  popular  prejudice  called  common 
sense.  It  requires  no  exhortation  of 
mine  in  order  to  get  a  hearing.  There- 
fore I  urge,  doubtless  with  some  exag- 
geration, the  value  of  the  rarer  but  not 
less  indispensable  mood. 

It  would  seem  that  practical  effi- 
ciency and  disinterested  reflection 
might  then  divide  life  between  them, 
each  having  its  appropriate  season,  and 


416 


THE  USELESS  VIRTUES 


each  requiring  in  society  at  large  its 
special  organs  and  devotees.  But  since 
we  are  for  the  moment  the  partisans  of 
disinterested  reflection,  let  us  recog- 
nize a  certain  advantage  that  it  has 
over  its  rival  —  the  advantage,  name- 
ly, of  magnanimity.  I  mean  that  while 
disinterested  reflection  acknowledges 
the  merit  of  its  rival,  practical  efficien- 
cy in  its  haste  and  narrow  bent  is  likely 
to  be  blind  and  intolerant.  If  I  were 
asked,  *  What,  in  the  name  of  common 
sense,  is  philosophy?'  I  should  be  un- 
able to  answer.  There  is  no  answer. 
For  amongst  the  categories  of  common 
sense  there  is  no  provision  for  philos- 
ophy. With  a  person  wholly  dominated 
by  common  sense,  caught  and  swept 
along  in  the  tide  of  practical  endeavor, 
or  wholly  dominated  by  social  habit, 
the  philosophical  part  is  in  disuse  and 
may  be  atrophied  altogether.  But  if  I 
ask,  'What,  in  the  name  of  philosophy, 
is  common  sense?'  I  can  find  an  an- 
swer —  just  such  an  answer  perhaps  as 
we  are  now  giving.  In  short,  disinter- 
ested reflection  is  more  inclusive,  and 
more  circumspect,  than  practicality. 

But  I  have  not  even  yet  exhausted 
the  peculiar  merits  of  the  unpractical 
value  of  disinterested  reflection.  I  have 
spoken  of  its  importance  as  testing  the 
value  of  ends,  and  so  confirming  or  dis- 
crediting our  more  impetuous  practical 
endeavor.  But  there  is  another  point. 
I  refer  to  the  advantage  of  unapplied 
knowledge  as  giving  man  resource- 
fulness and  adaptability,  a  capacity  to 
meet  novel  situations.  Let  me  attempt 
to  make  my  meaning  clear. 

We  praise  science  in  these  days,  and 
most  of  us  prefer  it  to  poetry  or  philos- 
ophy, because  we  can  see  the  use  of  it. 
It  is  characteristic  of  our  practical 
standards  that  we  regard  such  men 
as  Watts,  Bell,  Morse,  and  Edison  as 
typifying  the  value  of  science.  The  in- 
ventor, the  engineer,  is  the  man  of  solid 
achievement.  Why?  Because,  again,  he 


supplies  that  for  which  the  need  is 
already  felt.  We  want  light,  commu- 
nication, and  transportation,  and  such 
men  as  these  give  us  what  we  want. 
Therefore  we  are  grateful.  Similarly, 
the  man  who  discovers  a  cure  for  can- 
cer will  be  a  hero  among  men.  There 
is  a  powerful  demand,  an  eager  long- 
ing for  that  which  he  will  have  to  give, 
and  his  reward  will  be  ready  for  him 
when  he  comes.  Now  we  need  not  dis- 
parage his  glory.  But  this  is  perfectly 
certain:  when  the  discovery  is  made,' 
it  will  be  due  to  the  store  of  physical, 
chemical,  physiological,  and  anatomi- 
cal truth  which  has  been  accumulated 
by  men  who  were  animated  mainly  by 
theoretical  motives.  These  investiga- 
tors have  devoted  themselves  to  win- 
ning knowledge  for  which  there  was 
at  the  time  no  practical  demand.  This 
means  that  they  had  to  be  sustained  by 
something  else  than  the  popular  ap- 
plause which  greets  the  man  with  the 
remedy.  Such  men  are  sustained  no 
doubt  by  the  encouragement  of  their 
fellow  investigators,  or  by  the  patron- 
age of  the  state.  But  they  rely  more 
than  the  inventor  or  engineer  upon  the 
inward  support  of  their  own  love  of 
truth,  and  upon  a  certain  just  pride  of 
the  intellect,  such  as  Kepler  felt  when 
he  wrote  in  the  Preface  to  his  Welthar- 
monik :  '  Here  I  cast  the  die,  and  write  a 
book  to  be  read,  whether  by  contem- 
poraries or  by  posterity,  ,1  care  not; 
it  can  wait  for  readers  thousands  of 
years,  seeing  that  God  himself  waited 
six  thousand  years  for  some  one  to  con- 
template his  work/ 

But  I  had  not  meant  to  be  sentimen- 
tal about  it,  or  to  claim  a  greater  hero- 
ism for  the  detached  investigator.  In- 
deed there  is  a  sense  in  which  his  con- 
duct is  less  praiseworthy,  in  so  far  as  it 
is  often  self-regarding  or  unsocial,  lack- 
ing in  that  motive  of  service  which  we 
rightly  require  of  perfect  conduct.  It 
is  sufficient  that  we  should  see  that 


THE  USELESS  VIRTUES 


417 


what  he  does  is  indispensable.  It  is 
through  his  efforts  that  man  is  put  into 
possession  of  a  stock  of  free  and  unap- 
propriated ideas  with  which  to  meet 
unexpected  and  unpredictable  emer- 
gencies, or  on  which  to  construct  new 
hypotheses.  It  is  this  possession  of  an 
ample  margin  of  knowledge  over  the 
recognized  practical  necessities,  of  in- 
tellectual capital,  so  to  speak,  that  is  the 
condition  of  progress.  It  is  this  which 
more  than  anything  else  marks  the  dif- 
ference between  man  and  the  brute,  or 
between  progressive  societies  and  those 
static,  barbarian  societies  in  which  hu- 
man energy  is  exhausted  by  the  effort 
to  preserve  existence  with  no  hope  of 
betterment. 

IV 

It  is  now  evident  enough  that  what  I 
have  called  useless  virtues,  or  unprac- 
tical values,  are  not  divorced  from  life 
in  any  absolute  or  ultimate  sense.  We 
may  as  well  declare  once  and  for  all 
that  there  is  no  virtue  or  value  whatso- 
ever that  is  divorced  from  life  in  such  a 
sense.  That  it  is  impossible  that  know- 
ledge should  be  absolutely  useless  is 
self-evident.  For  to  know  at  all  is  to 
know  the  world  we  live  in;  and  to  know 
it  is  to  bring  it  within  the  range  of  ac- 
tion, pave  the  way  to  the  control  of  it. 

VOL.  114 -NO.  3 


The  better  we  know  our  world  the  more 
effectually  we  can  live  in  it.  This  holds 
unqualifiedly.  But  there  is  a  very  great 
difference  between  what  we  might 
more  correctly  call  long-range  and 
short-range  practicality. 

What  we  usually  speak  of  as  practi- 
cal would  correspond  to  what  I  here 
speak  of  as  short-range  practicality.  It 
means  a  readiness  to  meet  the  immedi- 
ate occasion  as  is  dictated  by  the  mo- 
mentary desire.  Such  practicality  is  a 
perpetual  meeting  of  emergencies.  It  is 
a  sort  of  living  from  hand  to  mouth,  an 
uninspired  and  unillumined  opportun- 
ism. That  which  is  ordinarily,  or  from 
this  standpoint,  condemned  as  unprac- 
tical, and  which  is  unpractical  from  this 
narrow  standpoint,  may  now  be  called 
long-range  practicality.  That  is  to  say, 
it  is  that  prevision,  that  thorough  in- 
tellectual equipment,  that  wisdom  as 
to  the  ultimate  and  comparative  worth 
of  things,  without  which  there  can  be 
no  security  nor  any  confirming  sense  of 
genuine  achievement.  It  is  that  which 
makes  the  difference  between  making  a 
fool  of  one's  self,  however  earnestly  or 
even  successfully,  and  living  in  a  man- 
ner which  would  be  able  to  endure  the 
test  of  time,  and  would  not  appear 
ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  one  who  was  a 
witness  of  eternity. 


THE  FLAVOR  OF  THINGS 


BY   ROBERT  M.    GAY 


'Life  is  sweet,  brother.' —  MB.  PETULENGRO. 

THERE  can  be  no  doubt  that  for 
some  people  mathematics  has  flavor, 
even  though  for  me  it  is  as  the  apples 
of  Sodom.  I  have  known  people  who 
seemed  to  be  in  love  with  the  triangles. 
Permutations  and  combinations  and 
the  doctrine  of  chances  filled  their  souls 
with  elation;  they  would  rather  wander 
over  the  area  of  a  parallelogram  than 
over  the  greenest  meadow  under  hea- 
ven, collecting  angles  and  sides  as  an- 
other would  daisies  and  buttercups, 
and  chasing  the  unknown  quantity  as 
another  might  a  butterfly. 

I  envy  these  people  this  faculty 
which  I  can  never  hope  to  acquire.  I 
used  to  try  to  work  up  a  factitious  en- 
thusiasm for  geometry  by  naming  angle 
A  Abraham,  B  Benjamin,  C  Cornelius, 
and  so  on;  side  AB  then  became  Abra- 
jamin,  side  BC  Benjanelius,  side  AC 
Abranelius,  and  the  perimeter  Abrajam- 
inelius,  —  the  last  a  name  of  Miltonic 
sonorousness,  mouth-filling,  and  per- 
fectly pronounceable  if  one  scanned  it 
as  catalectic  trochaic  tetrameter. 

Although  I  never  had  the  courage  to 
introduce  them  to  my  teachers,  I  re- 
garded the  Abrajaminelian  family  with 
some  affection  until  one  day  I  tried  to 
name  the  perimeter  of  a  dodecagon, 
when  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
would  require  less  time  to  learn  the 
proposition  by  heart  than  to  learn  the 
name;  and  from  that  day  I  gave  up  all 
attempt  to  infuse  an  adventitious  in- 
terest into  Legendre,  and  simply  mem- 
orized him. 

418 


I  have  heard  geometry  described  as 
a  *  beautiful  science,'  but  — 

If  she  be  not  fair  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be? 

To  me  she  was  an  obstacle  in  the  path 
of  knowledge,  invisible,  not  hostile, 
but  palpable  and  stubborn  as  the  Boyg 
that  gave  Peer  Gynt  so  much  trouble. 
I  tried  in  vain  to  squirm  and  wriggle 
past  her.  There  is  a  possibility  that  I 
should  still  be  blindly  bumping  that 
obstruction  halfway  up  the  Mathemat- 
ical Mountains  if  my  professor  of 
solid  geometry  had  not  opportunely 
departed  from  college  leaving  no  class- 
records  behind  him.  I  passed  —  by  an 
intervention  of  Providence  —  and  my 
days  of  pure  mathematics  were  over; 
but  I  felt  no  undue  elation,  for  ap- 
plied mathematics  remained.  If  I  had 
impressed  my  instructors  before  as 
half-witted,  here  I  was  wholly  witless. 
One  cannot  apply  what  one  does  not 
possess. 

From  a  child  I  had  had  an  obscure 
distrust  of  mechanism  of  all  kinds. 
The  people  of  Erewhon,  you  remem- 
ber, feared  it  because  they  thought  it 
had  a  soul :  I  feared  it  because  it  seemed 
to  me  to  have  none,  until  I  discovered 
that  its  soul  was  mathematical,  a  new 
ground  for  trepidation.  Even  yet  I 
cannot  feel  warmly  toward  a  machine. 
I  can  gape  with  wonder  as  well  as  any- 
body as  I  watch  the  white  paper  fed 
in  at  one  end  of  a  press  in,  say,  the 
Herald  Building,  and  the  Sunday  Illus- 
trated Supplement  taken  out  at  the 
other;  but  my  wonder  is  only  polite, 
merely  intellectual;  there  is  no  heart 


THE  FLAVOR  OF  THINGS 


419 


in  it.  My  half  hour  spent  thus  has  been 
instructive,  it  may  be,  but  joyless. 

This  curious  diffidence,  amounting 
to  a  covert  hostility,  I  felt  also  in  the 
presence  of  the  celestial  mechanics.  I 
had  no  sense  of  comfort  in  the  company 
of  the  stars  and  planets.  For  a  while 
I  might  be  interested  in  the  inhabitants 
of  Mars,  but  Jupiter's  satellites  and 
Saturn's  rings  could  arouse  no  emo- 
tional response  in  me.  I  irrationally 
found  more  to  wonder  at  in  a  moon 
of  green  cheese  than  in  a  burned-out 
world. 

Try  as  I  may  to  overcome  the  aver- 
sions of  my  youth,  I  cannot  help  think- 
ing of  the  quadratics  and  binomials 
of  days  long  gone,  whenever  I  look  at 
a  fly-wheel  or  a  piston.  Across  the  glo- 
ries of  the  heavens  I  detect  a  shadow 
cast  over  my  spirit  when  I  tried  on  a 
college  examination  to  explain  parallax. 
At  the  time  —  for  a  day  or  two  —  I 
was  rather  proud  of  that  explanation. 
Desiring,  as  usual,  to  get  a  picture  of 
the  thing,  I  used,  I  remember,  the  an- 
alogy of  an  umbrella.  If  it  were  raining, 
I  said,  and  you  had  an  open  umbrella 
and  you  held  it  perpendicularly  over 
you  and  then  ran,  you  would  get  wet- 
ter than  if  you  merely  walked.  Just 
what  the  connection  was,  I  am  —  and 
doubtless  was  —  unable  to  say;  but  it 
seemed  very  neat.  I  chuckled  over  it, 
and  felt  as  if  at  last  I  was  beginning  to 
get  ahead  in  astronomy.  And  then, 
briefly  and  coldly,  the  professor  pro- 
nounced my  analogy  bosh,  and  the  only 
glimmer  of  originality  I  ever  evinced 
in  his  subject  winked  and  went  out. 

If  mathematics,  pure  and  applied, 
had  no  flavor  for  me  but  an  unpleasant 
one,  I  have  no  one  to  blame,  I  suppose, 
but  myself,  although,  of  course,  I  did 
blame  my  teachers.  All  through  my 
boyhood  I  held  the  entirely  unreason- 
able view  that  mathematicians  were 
only  slightly  human,  having,  in  fact, 
like  their  subject,  no  souls.  Their  sub- 


ject as  they  presented  it  to  me  had  a 
striking  resemblance  to  the  working  of 
a  machine,  clean,  precise,  cold;  it  made 
me  shiver.  I  felt  for  it  the  contempt  of 
youth.  Each  science  in  turn  I  loved,  as 
long  as  it  had  to  do  with  things;  but 
the  moment  mathematics  entered,  as 
it  always  did,  soon  or  late,  my  love,  as 
milk  at  the  addition  of  certain  bac- 
teria, curdled  and  turned  bitter. 

Only  the  other  day  I  listened  to  a 
lecturer  on  sun-spots  expatiating  on  the 
enfranchising  and  ennobling  power  of 
his  science,  teaching  as  it  does  the 
majesty  of  God  and  his  handiwork. 
I  agreed,  of  course.  Theoretically,  I 
knew  he  was  right;  yet,  as  for  myself, 
I  could  not  help  preferring  to  wonder 
at  the  hand  of  the  Almighty  in  the 
creation  of  a  dandelion,  a  sparrow,  a 
flounder. 

The  best  that's  known 

Of  the  heavenly  bodies  does  them  credit  small. 

View'd  close  the  Moon's  fair  ball 

Is  of  ill  objects  worst, 

A  corpse  in  Night's  highway,  naked,  fire-scarr'd, 

accurst; 

And  now  they  tell 

That  the  Sun  is  plainly  seen  to  boil  and  burst 
Too  horribly  for  hell. 

The  poet  speaks  enthusiastically,  as 
poets  will;  besides,  he  was  a  Catholic 
and  may  have  been  affected  by  doc- 
trine; I  cannot  wholly  ratify  his  senti- 
ments, yet  I  can  understand  them  and 
sympathize. 

Botanist  and  biologist  friends  call 
upon  me  to  admire  a  paramoecium  or  a 
spirogyra;  they  will  grow  quite  enthu- 
siastic over  one,  as  you  or  I  might  over 
a  dog  or  a  baby.  I  can  share  their  emo- 
tions, to  a  degree;  these  little  creatures, 
as  the  same  poet  observes,  'at  the  least 
do  live';  yet  I  find  that  I  cannot  love 
a  paramoecium  or  a  spirogyra,  strep- 
tococcus and  micrococcus  arouse  no 
friendly  feelings,  oscillaria  and  spiril- 
lum can  never  compete  for  my  affec- 
tions with  a  calf  or  a  puppy.  I  can 
sympathize  imaginatively  with  the 


420 


THE  FLAVOR  OF  THINGS 


microscopist  who  watches  the  contor- 
tions of  an  amceba  or  a  polyp,  its  table- 
manners  and  general  deportment;  I 
can  sit  much  longer  at  the  microscope 
than  at  the  telescope,  and  feel  more 
comfortable  there  (Gulliver  seems  to 
have  been  more  at  his  ease  among  the 
Lilliputians  than  among  the  Brobding- 
nagians);  yet,  once  more,  the  hour 
spent  thus  has  been  instructive  rather 
than  joyous. 

When  I  was  a  little  boy,  I  used  to  get 
a  great  deal  of  satisfaction  out  of  strok- 
ing a  kitten  or  a  puppy,  or  crushing  a 
lilac  leaf-bud  for  its  spring  fragrance, 
or  smelling  newly  turned  soil,  or  tast- 
ing the  sharp  acid  of  a  grape  tendril,  or 
feeling  the  green  coolness  of  the  skin  of 
a  frog.  I  could  pore  for  long  minutes 
over  a  lump  of  pudding-stone,  a  bean- 
seedling,  a  chrysalis,  a  knot  in  a  joist  in 
the  attic.  There  was  a  curious  con- 
tentment to  be  found  in  these  things. 
My  pockets  were  always  full  of  shells 
and  stones,  twigs  and  bugs;  my  room 
in  the  attic,  of  Indian  relics,  fragments 
of  ore,  birds'  eggs,  oak-galls,  dry  seeds 
and  sea-weeds,  bottled  spiders,  but- 
terflies on  corks.  All  the  lessons  of  the 
schoolroom  seemed  of  no  consequence 
compared  with  Things  so  full  of  inti- 
macy, of  friendliness. 

All  children  love  things  in  this  way, 
because  of  their  appeal  to  the  senses; 
and  I  suppose  that  all  older  people  do, 
too,  though  they  may  not  know  it.  My 
teachers  used  to  try  to  make  me  see 
that  a  bird's  egg  or  a  hornet's  nest  is 
unimportant  in  comparison  with  the 
pageant  of  history,  the  beautiful  me- 
chanism of  arithmetic;  but  what  child 
cares  anything  about  matters  of  ab- 
stract importance?  I  had  a  fondness 
for  the  hornet's  nest  because  I  could 
feel  of  it,  poke  a  stick  in  at  the  door, 
and  picture  the  fiery  little  termagants 
flying  in  and  out,  chewing  their  paper- 
pulp,  building  their  walls.  What  had 
Washington  praying  at  Valley  Forge, 


or  even  Lawrence  refusing  to  give  up 
the  ship,  to  contribute  comparable  with 
this?  Yet  few  even  of  my  companions 
understood  the  ridiculous  pleasure  I 
found  in  carrying  a  crab's  claw  in  my 
pocket,  although  they,  too,  after  their 
own  fashion,  worshiped  things.  Their 
things  were  electric  batteries  and  print- 
ing-presses and  steam-engines. 

My  bosom-passion  was  for  living 
things,  —  beast,  bird,  amphibian,  rep- 
tile, fish,  crustacean,  insect,  mollusc, 
worm,  they  were  all  one,  if  they  were 
alive;  and,  wanting  these,  which  could 
not  well  be  carried  in  pockets  or  kept 
in  bedrooms,  I  loved  their  reliques. 
While  I  was  studiously  collecting  the 
disjecta  membra  of  the  animal  and  vege- x 
table  kingdoms,  however,  I  did  not 
realize  that  I  was  also  laying  up  a  store 
of  memories  that  would  in  time  make 
these  seem  about  the  only  real  things 
in  the  world.  Here  is  the  point.  The 
common  or  curious  but  everyday  ob- 
jects of  nature  have  for  me  a  flavor  so 
rich  that  they  seem  charmed,  talis- 
manic;  they  are  my  philosopher's 
stone,  my  quintessence,  my  One  Thing 
which  can  charge  the  base  metal  of 
thought  with  the  gold  of  feeling. 

It  is  thus,  I  suppose,  that  poets  and 
mystics  are  made,  who  see  in  the  veri- 
est stick  or  stone  a  symbol  of  one  of  the 
infinities.  That  I  cannot  do  so,  that  I 
cannot  make  this  passion  the  basis  of 
a  romanticism  or  a  symbolism  or  a 
pantheism,  is  due,  it  may  be,  to  my 
teachers  who  carefully  discouraged  any 
such  nonsense.  Practical  people,  they 
early  taught  me  that '  life  is  real,  life  is 
earnest.'  In  church,  too,  I  was  duly 
informed  that  we  are  pilgrims  and 
strangers  traveling  through  a  barren 
land. 

Such  instructions,  running  counter 
as  they  did  to  all  I  learned  when  left  to 
myself,  produced  a  curious  state  of  an- 
archy in  my  microcosm.  Belonging  by 
nature  to  the  class  of  the  poetical  and 


THE  FLAVOR  OF  THINGS 


421 


by  education  to  the  class  of  the  prac- 
tical, I  find  myself  torn  between  the 
desire  to  loiter  and  the  desire  to  get 
on,  passively  to  enjoy  and  actively  to 
do.  A  practical  conscience  is  fighting 
with  a  poetical  immorality. 

I  do  not  seem  to  be  alone  in  this  am- 
biguity. I  see  only  an  occasional  per- 
son whom  I  could  call  completely  prac- 
tical, who  treats  things  as  if  they  were 
algebraic  symbols,  loving  them  only 
as  they  help  him  on  in  some  enterprise 
or  toward  some  goal.  I  find,  on  the 
contrary,  the  most  hard-headed  men 
and  women  collecting  and  cherishing 
books  and  prints  and  rose-bushes  and 
tulips  and  stamps  and  coins  and  Co- 
lonial furniture  and  teapots  and  cats 
and  dogs.  Whether  openly  or  secretly, 
brazenly  or  sheepishly,  they  are,  nine 
tenths  of  them,  addicted  to  the  boy's 
habit  of  filling  his  pockets  with  incon- 
siderable nothings  which  he  can  finger 
and  fondle.  Nearly  all  of  them  defend 
their  hobby  on  practical  grounds,  as 
educative,  or  restful,  or  cultural,  or 
what  not,  yet  one  and  all  are  really  fol- 
lowing an  instinct.  If  you  could  get 
them  to  be  honest,  they  would  confess 
that  from  these  useless  objects  they  de- 
rive a  satisfaction  that  they  cannot  ex- 
plain but  that  has  its  seat,  not  in  any 
motives  of  practicality,  not  even,  as 
many  think,  wholly  in  a  sense  of  pos- 
session, but  in  the  things  themselves 
as  things.  The  things  are  rich  in  im- 
plications, adumbrations,  of  course, 
fully  felt  perhaps  only  by  the  possessor, 
yet,  notwithstanding  the  accretions  of 
memory  and  fancy,  still  things,  appeal- 
ing now,  as  in  childhood,  to  the  senses 
with  warmth  and  friendliness,  as  only 
objects  of  sense  can.  They  are  charmed 
things.  '  Every  one  of  them  is  like  the 
first  link  in  a  long  chain  of  associated 
ideas.  Like  the  dwelling  place  of  in- 
fancy revisited  in  manhood,  like  the 
song  of  our  country  heard  in  a  strange 
land,  they  produce  upon  us  an  effect 


wholly  independent  of  their  intrinsic 
value.' 

Macaulay  here  is  speaking  of  the 
connotation  of  words,  that  which  gives 
most  of  its  flavor  to  literature.  It  seems 
to  me,  however,  that  words,  wonder- 
ful as  they  are  in  their  power  to  set 
the  mind  running,  still  lag  far  behind 
things.  They  are  at  their  best  only 
secondhand.  The  phrase  '  an  old  rusty 
spade,'  suggests  little  except  an  anti- 
quated implement  for  digging;  but  as 
a  thing,  an  old  spade  may  call  up 
thoughts  of  death  and  the  grave,  snow 
forts, 'green  gardens,  buried  treasure, 
—  all  the  digging  and  ditching  since 
Adam  delved  and  Eve  span. 

I  cannot  think  that  it  is  entirely 
mundane  to  make  such  a  to-do  about 
that  which  we  are  accustomed  to  call 
the  material.  Although  it  is  becoming 
old-fashioned  to  confess  to  a  liking  for 
domesticity,  there  are  still  few  honest 
people  who  do  not  become  attached  to 
a  home  if  they  live  in  it  long  enough. 
It  may  be  filled  with  surprisingly  ugly 
furniture,  and  pictures  such  as  may  jar 
upon  the  finer  sensibilities  of  the  visi- 
tor, yet  the  ugliest  becomes  lovely  with 
time. 

Next  to  the  fellowship  of  the  family, 
it  is  the  furniture  that  makes  the  home, 
and  old  furniture  is  best.  We  become 
fond  of  a  chair  or  a  table  or  a  bed  al- 
most as  we  do  of  a  person,  because,  as 
we  say,  of  its  associations.  Now,  I 
look  upon  things  as  the  furniture  of 
the  world,  furniture  that  was  there 
when  we  came  into  it  and  will  be  there 
when  we  go  out,  —  veritable  antiques 
with  all  the  charm  of  age  about  them. 
Try  to  picture  a  world  empty  of  things 
material  and  furnished  only  with  math- 
ematical formulae,  and  with  social  theo- 
ries, theological  speculations,  and  phil- 
osophic systems.  Try  to  imagine  — 
But  no.  These  matters  'must  be  not 
thought  after  these  ways;  so,  it  will 
make  us  mad.' 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


Our  forefathers  had  an  interesting 
theory  that  swallows  lived  on  air.  Be- 
cause the  birds  were  observed  to  fly 
with  their  mouths  open  and  never  to 
come  to  ground,  it  was  concluded  that 
they  must  be  classed  with  the  knights 
of  the  Round  Table  and  the  chamele- 
ons as  aerophagi.  There  are  many 
aerophagi  abroad  in  the  land  to-day, 
high-flying  folk  who  live  on  airy  isms 
and  ologies,  and  who  are  scornful  of 
those  who  long  for  less  windy  food. 
Why  one  man  loves  things  and  an- 
other theories,  or  why  one  loves  things 
for  their  connotations  and  another  for 
their  use,  or  why  one  loves  some  kinds 
of  things  above  all  others,  remains  as 
inexplicable  as  why  one  cannot  abide 
a  gaping  pig,  why  one  a  harmless  neces- 


sary cat.    It  is  all  taste  and  tempera- 
ment. 

Yet  there  are  times  when  I  grow  tired 
of  socialism  and  industrialism  and  syn- 
dicalism and  Nietzscheism  and  Berg- 
sonism  and  feminism;  times  when  I  do 
not  want  to  be  a  reformer  or  an  up- 
lifter  or  even  a  public-spirited  citizen; 
when  *  I  do  not  hunger  for  a  well-stored 
mind '  and  am  tired  of  books,  and  of 
talking  about  them  and  urging  others 
to  read  them.  With  much  bandying- 
about  these  become  unreal ;  one  is  filled 
with  doubt  about  them,  about  their 
very  existence,  at  least  about  their 
importance.  It  is  in  such  moods  that 
one  longs  for  the  kitten  or  puppy,  the 
lilac  leaf-buds,  the  bean  seedling,  the 
chrysalis,  the  frog. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


SOME    LETTERS   I  HAVE    KNOWN 

THE  preservation  of  letters  amounts 
to  something  like  a  mania  with  people 
who  regard  every  scrap  of  a  friend's 
handwriting  as  sacred  and  to  be  treas- 
ured as  one  of  the  heirlooms  of  the  fam- 
ily. They  give  great  trouble  to  those 
who  come  after  them.  In  old  garrets 
may  be  found  bundles  of  letters,  tied 
up  in  their  faded  ribbons,  which,  if  pos- 
terity is  wise,  will  be  tossed  without 
hesitation  into  the  fire.  Let  us  open 
one  of  them.  The  writer  is  in  distress. 
Four  cooks,  all  equally  worthless,  have 
come  and  have  been  dismissed  in  as 
many  weeks.  The  roof  has  been  leak- 
ing and  a  carpet  upon  an  upper  floor 
is  destroyed  (underlined).  'Poor  Aunt 
Martha!'  her  niece  had  exclaimed  as 
she  read  this  '  chronicle  of  small  beer,' 


'her  troubles  have  once  more  inspired 
her  pen!  The  last  time  she  wrote,  we 
were  loudly  called  upon  for  sympathy 
in  the  calamity  of  her  new  black  silk 
dress  which  the  dressmaker  RUINED!' 
(doubly  underlined  and  with  an  excla- 
mation point). 

Still,  I  recall  the  charming  letters 
which  occasionally  came  from  an  Eng- 
lish lady  to  her  friends  on  this  side  of 
the  Atlantic,  in  about  the  year  1840. 
On  the  arrival  of  one  of  these  letters  we 
were  invited  to  the  reading.  In  the 
evening,  after  dinner,  we  assembled  in 
the  drawing-room,  sitting  around  the 
table  or  by  the  fireside,  with  our  needle- 
work, and  listened  with  rapt  attention 
while  a  member  of  the  party  read  these 
interesting  letters.  They  were  written 
on  large  paper  of  the  foolscap  size,,  in 
double  columns,  like  the  pages  of  a 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


423 


magazine.  Their  style  was  pictur- 
esque, often  poetical,  not  without  an 
element  of  romance  when  she  told  of 
the  marriage  of  her  young  niece,  beau- 
tiful and  accomplished,  and  going  off 
to  India  with  her  brave  young  soldier 
bridegroom. 

In  contrast  to  these  were  the  letters 
a  dear  old  lady  used  to  receive  from  her 
daughter,  married  and  living  in  a  New 
England  town.  They  were  in  brief  sen- 
tences reminding  us  of  what  the  mathe- 
matical gentleman  said  of  the  Diction- 
ary: 'This  is  all  mere  assertion,  no- 
thing is  proved.'  In  an  afternoon  call 
we  were  told,  *  I  have  received  a  letter 
from  Harriet;  would  you  like  to  hear 
it?'  Of  course  we  would,  so  it  was 
brought  forth  and  read  to  us  with  that 
slow  precision  which  is  adopted  by 
many  elderly  people  in  reading  hand- 
writing which  must  be  treated  with  re- 
spect, and  not  hurried  over  glibly  as  if 
it  were  merely  printed  matter.  It  was 
a  neat  little  epistle,  all  the  little  'i's9 
were  dotted,  all  the  little  '2V  crossed. 
At  the  top  of  the  page  the  date  was 
duly  written,  the  day  of  the  month, 
the  year  of  Our  Lord.  Then  it  began: 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER:  — 

I  received  your  letter  two  weeks  ago 
yesterday.  I  was  glad  to  hear  from 
you.  We  are  all  well.  Tommy  has  re- 
covered from  the  measles.  The  house- 
cleaning  is  finished.  The  garden  looks 
very  pretty.  There  are  a  good  many 
roses.  I  have  a  new  bonnet.  It  is  of 
white  straw;  it  is  trimmed  with  pale 
green  ribbon;  it  looks  very  neat.  Mrs. 
Wilson  called  yesterday,  she  is  very 
pleasant.  I  am  coming  to  see  you  in 
August.  I  shall  bring  Tommy  with  me. 
I  hope  you  keep  well. 

Your  affectionate  daughter, 

HARRIET  L.  STEBBINS. 

Now,  is  n't  that  a  good  letter?'  we 
are  asked.    Good  indeed!    Is  not  the 


mother  told,  concisely,  all  that  she 
wishes  to  know  about  her  daughter's 
welfare  ?  Can  we  not  see  Harriet  in  her 
well-ordered  house,  taking  strict  care 
of  everything;  seeing  that  the  house- 
cleaning  is  thoroughly  done;  nursing 
Tommy  through  the  measles;  taking 
the  pleasant  Mrs.  Wilson  into  the  gar- 
den; cutting  a  bunch  of  roses  for  her? 
When  the  letter  is  finished  it  is  care- 
fully folded  and  returned  to  its  envelope 
with  a  happy  smile.  'What  a  pretty 
hand  Harriet  writes!'  she  says.  Once 
we  nearly  lost  our  composure  when, 
after  regarding  the  envelope  admiring- 
ly for  a  few  seconds,  the  mother  ex- 
claimed rapturously,  'How  true  that 
stamp  is  put  on!'  Certainly  Harriet 
was  a  paragon !  She  did  everything  well, 
even  to  the  sticking  on  of  a  postage 
stamp.  Has  not  genius  itself  been  de- 
fined as  'the  infinite  capacity  for  tak- 
ing pains'? 

Of  love  letters  much  has  been  writ- 
ten. It  is  not  necessary  to  expatiate 
upon  the  love  letters  of  the  man,  who 
through  long  years  of  waiting  and  dis- 
couragement continues  faithful  to  the 
end  of  his  life.  Nor  yet  upon  the  ephem- 
eral love  letters  of  the  too  ardent  youth, 
who,  after  a  few  months  have  passed, 
devoutly  wishes  those  letters  never 
had  been  written.  We  shall  speak  only 
to  the  love  letters  of  an  Italian  count, 
which  diverted  the  inmates  of  a  board- 
ing house  in  New  York  City  during  a 
winter  not  many  years  ago.  In  the  au- 
tumn there  had  arrived  an  old  lady, 
unlovely  in  appearance,  somewhat  gro- 
tesque in  apparel,  lately  returned  from 
Italy,  where  she  had  met  the  goodlook- 
ing,  but  impecunious,  young  count, 
who,  having  been  told  that  she  was  a 
rich  American,  made  love  to  her  and 
wrote  her  the  most  impassioned  love 
letters.  She  did  not  let  concealment 
prey  upon  her.  Nearly  every  one  in 
the  house  was  taken  into  her  confi- 
dence and  shown  the  letters.  One 


424 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


evening,  at  dessert,  she  tossed  an  apple 
paring  over  her  shoulder,  and  asked 
her  neighbor  at  the  table,  '  Can  you  see 
what  letter  that  makes?'  'It  looks 
more  like  a  "Q'!  than  anything  else/ 
was  the  reply.  'I  wish  it  were  a"G",' 
she  said.  The  count's  name  was  Gio- 
vanni. She  wore  an  aspect  of  bland 
content,  which,  as  the  season  wore  on, 
gave  place  to  a  green  and  yellow  melan- 
choly. *  When  have  you  heard  from  the 
count?'  she  was  asked  one  day.  'I 
think  he  is  offended  with  me,'  she  an- 
swered sadly.  'He  wanted  me  to  ask 
Mr.  Carnegie  to  pay  off  the  mortgage 
on  his  villa.'  'How  much  is  the  mort- 
gage?' 'Seventeen  thousand  dollars.  I 
could  not  go  to  see  Mr.  Carnegie.  I 
wrote  to  him  and  asked  him  to  come 
and  see  me,  but  he  has  never  answered 
my  letter.'  After  this,  no  more  was 
heard  of  Count  Giovanni  and  his  love 
letters. 

Letters,  as  well  as  money,  have  been 
known  to  remove  an  obstacle  to  a  mar- 
riage. When  I  was  a  young  girl  my 
mother  had  a  pretty  young  maid 
named  Angeline,  who  had  a  follower, 
a  young  man  whose  position  in  life 
was  a  peg  higher  than  her  own  in  the 
social  scale.  His  brother,  a  prosperous 
grocer,  and  his  brother's  wife,  made 
ineffectual  attempts  to  undo  the  en- 
tanglement, but  the  young  fellow  was 
faithful.  He  used  to  spend  all  his  spare 
evenings  in  the  kitchen  with  Angeline 
and  take  her  out  on  Sunday  after- 
noons, when  she  imagined  that  she 
looked  like  a  lady,  —  for  she  spent  all 
of  her  wages  upon  clothes,  and,  like 
a  certain  lady's  maid,  'affected  the 
latest  fashions,  but  was  a  failure  in 
gloves.'  Despite  the  fact  that  he  was 
so  attentive,  she  had  grave  fears  that 
he  might  prove  inconstant.  She  was  of 
a  morbid  temperament  and  confessed 
that  she  sometimes  came  downstairs  in 
the  night  and  hid  the  carving-knife,  for 
fear  she  might  do  herself  an  injury, 


illogically  concluding  that  she  could 
not  find  it  if  she  were  seized  with  a 
desire  to  cut  her  throat.  After  one  of 
these  nights,  she  would  appear  in  the 
morning  with  a  countenance  of  gloom. 
'Are  you  not  well,  Angeline? '  she  would 
be  asked.  'Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  I  am  very 
well,  only  I  just  feel  as  if  I  should  n't 
never  see  Hen  again.'  'Why,  did  you 
quarrel  last  night  ? '  '  Oh,  no,  ma'am,  we 
don't  never  quarrel!'  'Then  what  is 
the  matter?'  'Nothin'  ain't  the  mat- 
ter, only  I  just  feel  as  if  I  should  n't 
never  see  Hen  again.' 

In  spite  of  these  dark  forebodings, 
the  evening  visits  continued,  till  one 
afternoon  Hen  came  to  say  good-bye. 
He  had  suddenly  decided  to  go  to  Chi- 
cago to  seek  his  fortune.  Then  it  was 
feared  that  the  poor  girl  might  indeed 
never  see  her  lover  again.  It  was  not 
long,  however,  before  a  letter  came  to 
Angeline  from  Chicago,  written  in  a 
sprawling  hand,  grammar  and  spelling 
cast  to  the  winds.  Hen  was  prospering. 
He  described  his  boarding  house  as 
'very  pleasant,  no  atention  is  n't  paid  to 
mear  form,  like  the  big  hotels.'  As  usu- 
al, the  poor  girl's  happiness  was  over- 
clouded by  doubt  and  fears.  How 
could  she  ever  answer  this  beautiful 
letter?  In  her  dilemma  she  appealed  to 
my  little  sister,  whose  handwriting  was 
remarkably  pretty,  and  whose  disposi- 
tion was  sweet  and  obliging.  In  the 
evening,  after  her  work  was  finished, 
Angeline  would  come  to  my  sister  and 
the  two  together  would  compose  the 
innocent  little  letters.  Sometimes  there 
would  be  a  quotation  from  a  song.  I  re- 
member one:  — 

Never  from  memory  will  fade  those  bright  hours, 

(that  is,  the  evenings  in  the  kitchen) 
So  sacred  to  friendship  and  thee. 

As  may  be  supposed,  words  could 
hardly  express  the  young  man's  emo- 
tion when  he  received  these  refined  let- 
ters. His  pride  in  his  Angeline  knew  no 
bounds.  The  correspondence  continued 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


425 


at  intervals  till  the  next  June,  when 
the  lover  came  back  to  be  married. 

'It  was  them  letters  as  done  it,'  said 
the  sister,  Marthy,  envious  of  what  she 
considered  Angeline's  good  fortune. 
Let  us  hope  that  they  were  happy  ever 
after. 

'  Man  was  made  to  mourn '  over  the 
invention  of  the  picture  post-card,  and 
'countless  thousands  mourn'  when 
they  see  it  come,  as  it  does,  from  every 
corner  of  the  globe,  sent  forth  broad- 
cast by  indolent  and  selfish  people. 
They  will  not  trouble  themselves  to 
write  the  letter  which  would  have  af- 
forded comfort  and  relief  to  the  hearts 
of  parents  and  friends,  pining  for  some 
definite  intelligence  of  far-away  child- 
ren or  relatives.  It  was  not  bad  ad- 
vice which  the  old  lady,  who  had  no 
use  for  adverbs,  gave  her  daughter, 
who  was  embarking  for  six  months 
travel  in  foreign  lands.  The  barren 
brevity  of  her  letters  from  school  had 
too  often  brought  disappointment  to 
her  mother's  heart.  'Don't  you  dare/ 
said  the  old  lady,  'to  send  me  any  of 
those  trashy  picture-cards.  I  can  buy 
as  many  of  them  as  I  want  from  the 
Pyramid  down  at  the  corner.  I  don't 
want  no  view  of  the  Coliseum  (the 
Colisyum,  she  called  it) ;  everybody  who 
goes  to  Rome  sends  me  a  Colisyum 
card.  Foolish  things  —  I  just  burn  'em 
all  up.  Why  don't  they  wait  till  the 
building  is  finished  ?  I  suppose  the  con- 
tractors keep  puttin'  them  off,  as  they 
did  us  when  we  was  buildin'.  No,  don't 
you  think  you  can  put  me  off  with  none 
of  them.  Wherever  you  be,  just  set 
down  and  write  me  a  letter,  and  write 
satisfactory,  and  write  particular,  and 
write  explicit,  and,  above  all,  write 
comprehensible! ' 

Against  the  plain  post-card  no  objec- 
tion can  be  made.  Its  usefulness,  in 
emergencies,  is  undeniable,  and  the 
amount  of  information  which  can  some- 
times be  spread  over  its  surface  is  sur- 


prising. There  is  a  lady  who  conducts 
her  entire  correspondence  through  this 
channel.  She  reveals  secrets  supposed 
to  be  the  most  profound,  relates  mis- 
demeanors and  indiscretions  with  a 
reckless  disregard  of  the  consequences. 
One  of  her  cards  reads  like  the  dis- 
course of  Jingle  in  the  Pickwick  Papers: 
for  instance:  — 

'Dick  Dawson  dead  —  they  say 
morphine.  Flirtatious  Julia  Mitchell. 
Scandalous!  Mrs.  Dick  resentful.  Wore 
red  dress  at  funeral.  Beautiful  summer. 
Roses  and  strawberries,  profusion.' 

Then,  later:  — 

'July  weather,  great  heat.  Mrs. 
Dawson  still  resentful  —  has  found 
Julia's  letters  to  Dick  —  shown  them 
about  everywhere  —  says  she  will 
hound  Julia  to  the  day  of  her  death.' 

Her  confidence  is  unbounded  in  the 
integrity  of  postmen  and  bell-boys, 
while  the  latter  may  be  seen  any  morn- 
ing, sitting  on  the  doorsteps  of  apart- 
ment houses,  making  merry  over  the 
post-card  correspondence. 

Woe  to  the  man  whose  conscience 
slumbers,  seared  with  a  hot  iron,  when 
letters  come  to  him  pleading,  often 
pathetically,  for  the  payment  of  debts. 
A  poor  French  wine-merchant  once 
confided  to  a  gentleman  the  trouble  he 
had  with  a  man  who  had  been  long 
owing  him  for  some  wine.  'At  last,' he 
said,  '  I  wrote  to  him.  My  God !  he  was 
very  angry.  He  said  I  thought  he 
would  not  pay.  It  was  not  that  —  I 
would  not  care  if  he  did  not  pay  for 
three  years.  It  was  the  silence,  you 
understand.  When  your  letters  are 
not  answered,  the  first  time  you  say, 
'  He  have  not  received  them,"  the 
second  time  you  say,  "  He  is  away," 
the  third  time  you  say, "He  is  seeck," 
the  next  time  you  say,  "  He  wants  to 
steal  me  that  money!'1 

It  is  related  of  another  merchant 
that,  impatient  at  the  long  delay  of  a 
customer  in  settling  his  accounts  with 


426 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


him,  he  said  at  last  to  his  young  clerk, 
'Write  to  that  man  and  tell  him  that 
I  can  wait  no  longer ! '  *  What  shall  I 
write  to  him?'  the  young  man  asked. 
The  merchant  was  hurried  and  an- 
swered crossly  and  without  thought, 
*  Something  or  nothing,  and  that  soon ! ' 
In  a  few  days  a  check  came  from  the 
delinquent,  paying  the  entire  amount 
of  his  indebtedness.  Surprised,  the  mer- 
chant asked  his  clerk, '  What  did  you 
write  to  that  man?'  'Just  what  you 
told  me  to,'  the  young  man  answered. 
*I  did  not  tell  you  what  to  write.'  'Yes, 
you  did;  you  said,  "Something  or  no- 
thing, and  that  soon."  I  wrote  that.' 
True,  O  Uncle  Joshua,  it  takes  some 
one  more  wise  than  a  fool  to  *  compose 
a  letter.' 

ASYLUMS   FOR   THE  HOPELESSLY 

.  SANE 

THESE  are  courageous,  intelligent 
days,  when  the  world  is  taking  itself 
in  hand  and  studying  its  own  wants, 
with  the  effect  of  divining  some  needs 
which  our  fathers  crassly  ignored.  Our 
psychological  development  enables  us 
more  and  more  to  look  below  the  obvi- 
ous surface  of  the  demands  of  our  civil- 
ization. Among  other  things,  we  are 
beginning  to  feel  the  necessity  of  erect- 
ing a  few  asylums  for  the  hopelessly 
sane.  The  progress,  if  not  the  actual 
safety,  of  the  commonwealth  requires 
them. 

Fortunately,  there  would  never  have 
to  be  many  such  institutions  in  exist- 
ence; for  sanity  in  its  advanced  stages 
is  not  a  disease  widely  prevalent  among 
human  communities,  and  incipient  san- 
ity can  generally  be  checked.  But  the 
demand  might  support  a  supply  of  one 
to  every  state. 

What  are  the  symptoms  of  sanity, 
and  what  are  the  dangers  inherent  in 
its  development?  Some  of  us  know 
only  too  well.  We  have  tried  to  deal 


with  sane  people.  But  others,  more 
fortunate,  have  never  felt  the  chilly 
blanketing  of  the  malign  influence,  its 
distortion  of  the  generous  values  of 
life,  and  they  have  to  have  their  eyes 
opened  to  the  thwarting  peril. 

Sanity  holds  such  a  wise  equipoise 
among  the  conflicting  forces  of  a  none 
too  sagacious  world  that  it  never  gets 
pulled  in  any  one  direction  more  than 
in  another.  That  sounds  all  right. 
Yes,  the  insidious  nature  of  sanity  is 
to  sound  all  right.  But  some  of  the 
forces  of  the  world  are  much  better 
than  others;  some  are  so  gloriously  ex- 
cellent that  they  should  be  yielded  to 
utterly,  followed  without  reserve  to 
their  extreme  conclusion.  What  are 
such  forces  to  make  of  a  person  who 
says,  'Ah,  well,  yes,  that  does  all  very 
well;  but  you  go  too  fast  and  too  far, 
you  become  undignified.  I  agree  with 
you,  cautiously,  up  to  a  certain  point. 
There  I  draw  the  line.'  Sane  people  are 
always  drawing  lines.  That  is  one  of 
the  surest  indications  of  their  malady. 
As  if  the  hard-and-fast  lines  of  our  hu- 
man destiny  were  not  already  drawn 
close  enough!  As  if,  enlisted  in  a  good 
cause,  we  had  any  business  to  set  our- 
selves boundaries! 

Sanity  is  Argus-eyed,  and  sees  a 
great  many  sides  to  every  question. 
That,  again,  sounds  very  well.  Surely, 
a  catholic  disposition  is  all  to  the  good. 
But  it  does  not  look  deep  enough  to 
compare  one  side  with  another;  for,  if  it 
did,  its  individual  temperament  would 
compel  it  to  preference.  The  great  or- 
ganization that  has  monopolized  the 
term  catholic,  has  a  single  vision  and 
emphatic  preferences.  But  it  may  be 
that  sanity  dispenses  with  individual 
temperament,  and  so  foregoes  the  very 
standard  of  choice.  At  any  rate,  by 
its  wide  tolerant  recognition,  it  com- 
mits itself  to  a  policy  of  passivity  in 
an  active  world. 

But  is  sanity  tolerant?  If  it  were,  it 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


427 


would  at  least  be  harmless,  and  there 
would  be  no  need  for  the  Sane  Asy- 
lums. Unfortunately,  like  all  its  other 
characteristics,  tolerance  graces  it  only 
up  to  a  certain  point.  Beyond  that,  a 
decided  negation  takes  possession  of 
it  and  makes  it  a  grim  force  in  the 
world. 

One  has  only  to  study  the  history  of 
humanity's  greatest  movements  to  see 
how  this  works  out.  The  early  Church 
went  careering  madly,  bent  wholly, 
fiercely,  on  righteousness,  cutting  off 
its  hands,  plucking  out  its  eyes  in  every 
direction.  The  Kingdom  might  per- 
haps have  come  as  soon  as  the  disciples 
expected  if  that  6lan  had  continued. 
But  then  Constantine  arose,  at  the 
same  time  giving  the  new  religion  its 
first  organized  chance  and  teaching  it 
its  first  lessons  in  worldly  wisdom. 
'  Very  well ;  you  have  your  good  points ; 
I  will  help  you  —  especially  since,  if  I 
don't,  you  seem  likely  to  make  things 
unpleasant  for  me.  But  you  go  too  far. 
You  must  learn  self-control.  I  will  set 
you  an  example  by  deferring  my  bap- 
tism till  the  hour  of  my  death.'  Per- 
haps it  is  ungracious  to  criticize  the 
first  Christian  emperor;  but  certainly 
since  his  day,  the  Church  has  ceased 
plucking  out  its  eyes,  and  no  longer 
succeeds  in  making  things  effectively 
unpleasant  for  anybody.  It  would 
speak  volumes  if  some  Tammany  mag- 
nate, some  iniquitous  factory  overseer, 
should  feel  the  necessity  of  committing 
himself  to  baptism  rather  than  suffer 
the  slings  and  arrows  of  some  outrag- 
eous religious  denomination.  Unhap- 
pily, it  speaks  other  volumes  that  no 
one  does. 

Enthusiasm  is  too  sensitive  and  spir- 
itual an  essence  not  to  suffer  from  the 
shock  and  chill  of  encounter  with  pru- 
dence. It  draws  in  its  tentacles,  con- 
tracts; and,  when  it  recovers  itself, 
finds  itself  a  changed  being  in  a  hard- 
ening world.  There  is  then  nothing  for 


it  but  to  go  slowly;  for  hard  things  re- 
quire deliberate  manipulation.  Only 
things  made  molten  by  a  fire  of  love 
and  zeal  flow  swiftly  into  place. 

One  sees,  then,  how  fatal  the  touch 
of  sanity  may  be.  It  is  not  precisely 
contagious,  for  most  of  us  —  thank 
heaven !  —  have  no  germs  of  it  in  us ; 
but  it  is  very  arresting.  It  interrupts 
the  momentum  by  which  many  a  good 
cause,  if  left  to  itself,  would  have  car- 
ried all  before  it.  When  the  world  at 
last  makes  up  its  mind  to  become  and 
to  do  that  which  it  promised  nineteen 
hundred  years  ago,  it  will  have  to  be- 
gin by  locking  all  its  strictly  sane  peo- 
ple out  of  the  way. 

But  if  sanity  is  so  thwarting,  does  it 
follow,  on  the  other  hand,  that  mad- 
ness is  the  disposition  which  best  suits 
human  life?  Natural  selection  seems  to 
have  found  it  so.  Everybody  is  mad 
when  he  is  most  spontaneously,  most, 
effectively  himself.  For  then  he  is 
literally  beside  himself,  carried  out  of, 
away  from  himself,  lost  to  his  own 
recognition  in  the  mighty  sweep  of  his 
cause.  He  does  not  stop  to  weigh  and 
consider,  to  balance  expediencies;  he 
lets  himself  go,  and,  almost  without 
knowing  it,  accomplishes  great  things. 
He  who  is  not  mad  when  he  is  in  love  is 
a  pretty  poor  kind  of  lover;  and  what 
are  we  all  but  desperate  lovers  of 
Heaven  ? 

Madness  is  an  attribute  of  youth, 
and  sanity  of  maturity.  That  is  the 
reason  why  a  beneficent  Providence 
has  decreed  that  the  span  of  human  life 
shall  be  so  comparatively  short,  and 
that  nations  and  civilizations  shall  be 
so  frequently  dissolved  and  dispersed. 
Only  when  people  and  countries  are 
young,  do  they  make  vigorous  history. 
When  they  take  to  turning  on  them- 
selves and  asking  soberly,  'Is  this 
worth  while?  Are  we  not  becoming 
ridiculous? '  they  have  to  be  safely  an- 
nihilated. Then  the  world-progress, 


428 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


sorely  interrupted  and  impeded,  can 
gather  itself  together  and  go  on  again. 

This  is  all  quite  too  bad.  For  youth's 
inexperience  is  its  serious  handicap; 
and  maturity's  wisdom  might  stand  it 
in  good  stead,  if  it  were  not  taken  in 
such  over-doses  that  it  becomes  a  poi- 
son. If  people  and  nations  could  only 
conserve  their  madness  through  the 
whole  course  of  their  experimenting 
lives,  learning  the  rules  of  the  game 
while  still  devoting  their  passionate  at- 
tention to  the  goal,  they  might  end  by 
making  some  really  great  and  brilliant 
achievements. 

Perhaps,  then,  sanitariums  would  be 
better  than  asylums  for  our  sane.  In- 
stead of  waiting  till  they  become  hope- 
less and  then  committing  them  perma- 
nently, it  might  be  well  to  note  the  first 
symptoms  and  take  them  in  hand.  For 
the  groundwork  of  human  nature  is  so 
vital  and  healthy  that,  if  it  is  encour- 
aged, it  can  almost  always  throw  off 
incipient  sanity.  The  methods  of  such 
sanitariums  would  be  interesting  to 
devise.  Patients  not  too  far  advanced 
in  their  malady  would  have  a  good 
time.  They  would  be  constrained  to 
devote  themselves  recklessly  to  what- 
ever they  held  most  dear  (provided  the 
causes  were  approved  worthy);  they 
would  be  made  to  take  risks,  commit 
imprudences.  By  some  ingenious  ar- 
rangement of  the  daily  curriculum, 
they  would  be  constantly  given  the 
choice  between  that  which  is  spontane- 
ous, vital,  and  that  which  is  reasonable; 
and,  when  they  chose  the  latter,  they 
would  be  hissed.  A  fine  place,  such  a 
sanitarium!  Stimulating,  inspiring,  in- 
vigorating. We  should  all  of  us  want 
to  go  there,  for  very  love  of  the  stand- 
ard, for  very  joy  in  the  great  contagion 
of  enthusiasm.  Sane  and  insane  alike, 
we  should  look  upon  the  experience  as  a 
sort  of  religious  *  retreat/ 

Ah!  it  is  a  desperate  business,  this 
life,  to  which  we  are  so  obscurely,  so 


inexplicably  committed.  Our  only 
chance  with  it  is  to  take  it  desperately. 
It  is  infinitely  greater  than  we  are,  it 
knows  what  it  is  about,  its  cosmic  in- 
tentions endure.  We  are  wise  when  we 
let  ourselves  go  with  it;  we  are  very 
silly  when  we  weigh  and  reserve  our  al- 
legiance. So,  then,  the  sane  are  the 
only  insane?  That  is  possible. 

IN   A    TRAIN   WITH    LAMB 

I  WAS  riding  in  a  train  with  Charles 
Lamb  —  who  never  rode  in  one  in  all 
his  shadowed  life.  I  doubt  whether  he 
would  have  cared  for  it.  When  he 
went  to  Coleridge's  or  to  Mackery  End 
by  coach  there  was  a  slowness  of  tran- 
sit that  did  not  forebode  the  putting 
of  great  distances  between  himself  and 
his  beloved  London.  But  a  train!  — 
whizz  and  clang !  and  many  miles  away 
from  Fleet  Street  in  an  incredibly 
short  space  of  time!  He  would  have 
fancied  the  impossibility  of  ever  going 
back  over  such  a  distance.  Of  course, 
in  reality,  the  going  back  would  have 
been  as  swift;  but  Charles  Lamb  no 
more  dwelt  amid  realities  than  did  I 
reflect  reality  when  I  wrote  of  riding 
with  him  in  a  train.  What  I  truly 
meant  was  that  I  had  his  essays  with 
me;  and  as  I  was  buried  in  "  Schoolmas- 
ters New  and  Old"  the  subconscious 
contrast  was  in  my  mind  between  the 
coach  of  which  he  told  —  the  leisurely 
and  I  hope  comfortable  coach  —  and 
my  clanking  train  which  was  making  a 
blur  of  all  the  beauty  near  at  hand  and 
leaving  for  the  eye's  delight  only  the 
more  distant  landscape. 

It  was  in  raising  my  eyes  from  the 
book  for  a  second  to  look  at  the  distant 
hills  —  misty,  as  I  love  hills  best  - 
that  I  brought  about  a  longer  interrup- 
tion of  my  reading  than  I  had  intend- 
ed. My  own  fault,  of  course,  for  de- 
serting the  page;  one  who  wants  to  find 
the  crock  of  gold  should  never  allow  his 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


429 


eyes  to  leave  the  guiding  fairy.  But 
Lamb  so  vividly  described  the  bore 
with  whom  he  was  riding  in  the  coach 
that  I  forewent  for  a  moment  the  de- 
light of  his  page  to  reflect  with  sardonic 
and  not  sufficiently  guilty  pleasure  on 
the  boredom  of  visiting  relatives  whom 
I  had  escaped  by  a  far  from  truthful 
story  that  I  must  make  a  journey  into 
the  country.  Yet,  'a  feller  has  to 
fish '  —  and  as  I  laid  my  hand  affec- 
tionately on  the  rod  which  stood  be- 
side me  I  reflected  that  the  imperative 
in  the  line  quoted  afforded  at  least 
some  salve  for  conscience.  And  it  was 
with  this  feeling  of  stifled  scruples  that 
I  was  turning  back  to  the  volume  when 
the  man  who  sat  between  me  and  the 
window  spoke. 

I  had  no  further  noted  him  in  taking 
my  seat  than  to  observe  that  he  was 
bulky  and  left  me  none  too  much  room. 
Now,  as  he  spoke  and  I  perforce  looked 
at  him,  I  saw  that  his  face  was  mate 
to  his  body  in  its  bulkiness,  and  that 
there  was  little  in  it  to  indicate  com- 
panionship for  me. 

He  pointed  to  a  building  of  galvan- 
ized iron  which  was  going  up  at  the 
farther  edge  of  a  marsh  over  which  we 
were  traveling. 

'Do  you  happen  to  know  what  that 
is  intended  for?'  he  inquired. 

With  politeness  that  denoted  a  total 
lack  of  interest  I  replied  that  I  did 
not. 

*  I  heard  that  big  woolen  mills  are  to 
be  put  up  in  this  neighborhood,'  he  said, 
'and  I  wondered  if  that  could  be  the 
building.' 

I  did  not  know,  I  was  sure.  I  lack 
the  temperament  which  enables  one  to 
turn  abruptly  away  from  a  bore  —  and 
although  perhaps  not  encouraged,  he 
was  at  least  not  sufficiently  discouraged 
by  my  reticence  to  be  prevented  from 
saying,  — 

'There  would  be  a  fine  opening  for  a 
big  woolen  mill  here.' 


I  tried  to  think  of  something  pat  to 
the  occasion  —  I  could  not;  I  saw 
something  opposite  in  the  form  of  a 
flock  of  grazing  sheep,  but  was  afraid 
that  mention  of  them  would  make  him 
further  discursive,  and  depended  upon 
nods  and  half-muttered  negatives  and 
assents  to  silence  him.  But  this  was 
not  easy.  He  was  interested  in  woolen 
mills  and  craved  conversation  about 
them.  Then  the  recollection  that  a 
chewing-gum  factory  was  to  be  erected 
in  the  neighborhood  furnished  a  cud 
for  his  audible  reflections  to  several 
minutes'  extent.  The  wonder  to  me 
was  that  he  could  be  so  interested  in 
these  things,  yet  talk  so  stupidly  of 
them.  I  am  not  one  of  the  bookish  sort 
who  look  upon  books  as  the  only 
worth-while  topic  of  conversation;  but 
one  who  cannot  talk  well  upon  the  only 
things  he  knows,  as  was  the  case  with 
this  man,  should  talk  only  to  himself. 

I  was  becoming  desperate  when  the 
delightful  reflection  came  upon  me  that 
I  was  going  through  an  episode  such 
as  had  befallen  Lamb  on  the  stage- 
coach —  that  I  had  deserted  an  ac- 
count of  his  distressing  experience  only 
to  plunge  into  something  similar.  So 
absorbed  did  I  become  in  dwelling 
upon  the  comparison  that  I  ceased  lis- 
tening to  what  the  man  was  saying 
till  he  leaned  toward  me  and  asked,  — 

'May  I  inquire  what  you  are  read- 
ing?' 

I  wanted  to  shout  with  laughter.  It 
was  with  real  effort  that  I  suppressed 
at  least  a  chuckle.  What  an  opportun- 
ity! He  should  see  the  book  —  his  at- 
tention should  be  called  to  the  passage 
wherein  Lamb  drew  the  schoolmaster 
who  must  have  been  one  of  my  neigh- 
bor's ancestors.  With  my  finger  ready 
to  point  to  the  passage  as  one  especial- 
ly worth  reading,  I  extended  the  book 
to  him. 

'Lamb,'  I  said. 

I  had  regarded  him  as  a  man  who, 


430 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


should  a  waiter  say,  'Lamb,  sir? '  would 
look  epicureanly  reflective.  What 
other  application  of  the  word  could  ap- 
peal to  him? 

But  at  my  reply  his  heavy  face  grew 
all  a-sparkle. 

'Lamb!'  he  cried.  'I  hope  for  your 
sake  that  you  love  him  as  I  do.  To 
know  him  is  enough  to  make  one  happy 
for  life.' 

By  this  time  he  had  the  volume  in 
his  hand,  and  my  changed  heart  was 
beating  in  sympathy  with  his. 

He  flipped  the  pages  rapidly,  slowly, 
glancing  here  and  there,  reading  here 
and  there,  sometimes  to  himself  with 
great  inner  rumblings,  sometimes  to  me 
—  until  I  impatiently  but  politely  took 
the  book  from  him  and  had  my  share 
of  glance  and  comment.  He  liked  some 
passages  better  than  I  did  —  I  liked 
others  better  than  he  did.  For  some 
our  admiration  was  equally  shared. 

'What  a  fellow!'  he  said.  'Remem- 
ber his  friend  George!  —  what  was  his 
other  name?  Well,  it  does  n't  matter. 
But  you  remember,  don't  you,  how  he 
was  leaving  Lamb's  house  one  night, 
and  fell  into  the  river;  and  Lamb  and 
others  fished  him  out,  all  but  drowned; 
and  how  the  soppy  eccentric  stood 
there  and  said,  happy  over  his  own 
perception,  "  Huh,  I  knew  all  the  time 
that  I  was  in  the  river"?' 

What  joy  to  meet  a  man  who  knows 
and  loves  your  favorite  story  of  all 
stories ! 

With  equal  gusto  I  reviewed  Lamb's 
letter  in  which  he  wrote  of  his  journey 
home  from  the  doctor's  party  astride  a 
friend's  back  —  it  having  been  a  party 
of  the  sort  that  makes  walking  difficult 
for  a  true  devotee  of  gin.  So  overjoyed 
was  my  new  acquaintance  at  the  re- 
awakened memory  of  this  letter  that 
he  thumped  me  heartily  on  the  back  to 
emphasize  his  delight.  Now,  I  am  sens- 
itive about  being  thumped  on  the  back, 
but  on  this  occasion  it  seemed  to  be 


quite  in  keeping  with  the  boisterous- 
ness  of  the  doctor's  party. 

It  was  with  real  regret  that  I  pre- 
pared to  leave  him  at  my  journey's 
end  —  real  regret  until  he  said,  'Sorry 
you're  going;  we  have  n't  had  time  to 
go  through  my  favorite  essay,  "School- 
masters New  and  Old."  Then  I  was 
rather  glad  that  we  had  to  part. 

FLAT    PROSE 

SOME  time  ago  a  writer  in  the  Atlan- 
tic protested  against  the  taboo  on 
'beautiful  prose.'  He  asserted  that  the 
usual  organs  of  publication,  especially 
in  America,  reject  with  deadly  certain- 
ty all  contributions  whose  style  sug- 
gests that  melodious  rhythm  which  De 
Quincey  and  Ruskin  made  fashionable 
for  their  generations,  and  Stevenson  re- 
vived in  the  nineties.  He  complained 
that  the  writer  is  no  longer  allowed  to 
write  as  well  as  he  can;  that  he  must 
abstract  all  unnecessary  color  of  phrase, 
all  warmth  of  connotation  and  grace  of 
rhythm  from  his  style,  lest  he  should 
seem  to  be  striving  for  'atmosphere/ 
instead  of  going  about  his  proper  busi- 
ness, which  is  to  fill  the  greedy  stom- 
ach of  the  public  with  facts. 

Unfortunately,  this  timely  fighter  in 
a  good  cause  was  too  enamored  of  the 
art  whose  suppression  he  was  bewailing. 
He  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to  make  his 
own  style  'beautiful'  in  the  old-time 
fashion,  and  thus  must  have  roused  the 
prejudice  of  the  multitude,  who  had  to 
study  such  style  in  college,  and  knew 
from  sad  experience  that  it  takes  longer 
to  read  than  the  other  kind. 

But  there  are  other  and  safer  ways 
of  combating  the  taste  foT  flat  prose. 
One  might  be  to  print  parallel  columns 
of  'newspaper  English'  (which  they 
threaten  now  to  teach  in  the  schools) 
until  the  eye  sickened  of  its  deadly 
monotony.  This  is  a  bad  way.  The  av- 
erage reader  would  not  see  the  point. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


431 


Paragraphs  from  a  dozen  American  pa- 
pers, all  couched  in  the  same  utilita- 
rian dialect,  -  -  simple  but  not  always 
clear,  concise  yet  seldom  accurate,  em- 
phatic but  as  ugly  as  the  clank  of  an 
automobile  chain,  —  why,  we  read 
thousands  of  such  lines  daily!  We 
think  in  such  English;  we  talk  in  it; 
to  revolt  from  this  style,  to  which  the 
Associated  Press  has  given  the  largest 
circulation  on  record,  would  be  like 
protesting  against  the  nitrogen  in  our 
air. 

And  who  wants  to  bring  back  color, 
rhythm,  beauty,  a  sense  of  the  innate 
value  of  words,  to  the  news  column, 
or  even  to  the  editorial  page!  It  takes 
too  long  to  read  them  now. 

Books  and  magazines  require  a  dif- 
ferent reckoning.  The  author  is  still 
allowed  to  let  himself  go  occasionally 
in  books  —  especially  in  sentimental 
books.  But  the  magazines,  with  few 
exceptions,  have  shut  down  the  lid,  and 
are  keeping  the  stylistic  afflatus  under 
strict  compression.  No  use  to  show 
them  what  they  might  publish  if,  with 
due  exclusion  of  the  merely  pretty,  the 
sing-song,  and  the  weakly  ornate,  they 
were  willing  to  let  a  little  style  escape. 
With  complete  cowardice,  they  will 
turn  the  general  into  the  particular, 
and  insist  that  in  any  case  they  will  not 
publish  you.  Far  better,  it  seems  to 
me,  to  warn  editors  and  the  *  practical 
public'  as  to  what  apparently  is  going 
to  happen  if  ambitious  authors  are  tied 
down  much  longer  to  flat  prose. 

It  is  not  generally  known,  I  believe, 
that  post-impressionism  has  escaped 
from  the  field  of  pictorial  art,  and  is 
running  rampant  in  literature.  At  pre- 
sent, Miss  Gertrude  Stein  is  the  chief 
culprit.  Indeed,  she  may  be  called  the 
founder  of  a  coterie,  if  not  of  a  school. 

Her  art  has  been  defined  recently  by 
one  of  her  admirers,  who  is  also  the 
subject,  or  victim,  of  the  word-portrait 
from  which  I  intend  later  to  quote  in 


illustration  of  my  argument.  'Ger- 
trude Stein,'  says  Miss  Dodge,  'is  do- 
ing with  words  what  Picasso  is  doing 
with  paint.  She  is  impelling  language 
to  induce  new  states  of  consciousness, 
and  in  doing  so  language  becomes  with 
her  a  creative  art  rather  than  a  mirror 
of  history.'  This,  being  written  in  psy- 
chological and  not  in  post-impression- 
ist English,  is  fairly  intelligible.  But  it 
does  not  touch  the  root  of  the  matter. 
Miss  Stein,  the  writer  continues,  uses 
'  words  that  appeal  to  her  as  having  the 
meaning  they  seem  to  have  [that  is,  if 
'diuturnity'  suggests  a  tumble  down- 
stairs, it  means  a  tumble  downstairs]. 
To  present  her  impressions  she  chooses 
words  for  their  inherent  quality  ra- 
ther than  their  accepted  meaning.' 

Let  us  watch  the  creative  artist  at 
her  toil.  The  title  of  this  particular 
word-picture  is  'Portrait  of  Mabel 
Dodge  at  the  Villa  Curonia.'  As  the 
portrait  itself  has  a  beginning,  but  no 
middle,  and  only  a  faintly  indicated 
end,  I  believe  —  though  in  my  ignor- 
ance of  just  what  it  all  means  I  am  not 
sure  —  that  I  can  quote  at  random 
without  offense  to  the  impressions  de- 
rivable from  the  text. 

Here  then  are  a  few  paragraphs 
where  the  inherent  quality  of  the  words 
is  said  to  induce  new  states  of  con- 
sciousness :  — 

'  Bargaining  is  something  and  there 
is  not  that  success.  The  intention  is 
what  if  application  has  that  accident 
results  are  reappearing.  They  did  not 
darken.  That  was  not  an  adulteration. 
.  .  .  There  is  that  particular  half  of  di- 
recting that  there  is  that  particular 
whole  direction  that  is  not  all  the  meas- 
ure of  any  combination.  Gliding  is  not 
heavily  moving.  Looking  is  not  vanish- 
ing. Laughing  is  not  evaporation. 

'  Praying  has  intention  and  relieving 
that  situation  is  not  solemn.  There 
comes  that  way. 

'  There  is  all  there  is  when  there  has 


432 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


all  there  has  where  there  is  what  there 
is.  That  is  what  is  done  when  there 
is  done  what  is  done  and  the  union  is 
won  and  the  division  is  the  explicit 
visit.  There  is  not  all  of  any  visit.* 

After  a  hundred  lines  of  this  I  wish 
to  scream,  I  wish  to  burn  the  book,  I 
am  in  agony.  It  is  not  because  I  know 
that  words  cannot  be  torn  loose  from 
their  meanings  without  insulting  the 
intellect.  It  is  not  because  I  see  that 
this  is  a  prime  example  of  the  *  confu- 
sion of  the  arts.'  No,  my  feeling  is 
purely  physical.  Some  one  has  applied 
an  egg-beater  to  my  brain. 

But  having  calmed  myself  by  a  sed- 
ative of  flat  prose  from  the  paper,  I 
realize  that  Miss  Stein  is  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning.  She  is  merely  a 
red  flag  waved  by  the  Zeitgeist. 

For  this  is  the  sort  of  thing  we  are 
bound  to  get  if  the  lid  is  kept  down  on 
the  stylists  much  longer.  Repression 
has  always  bred  revolt.  Revolt  breeds 
extravagance.  And  extravagance  leads 
to  absurdity.  And  yet  even  in  the  ab- 
surd, a  sympathetic  observer  may  de- 
tect a  purpose  which  is  honest  and 
right.  Miss  Stein  has  indubitably  writ- 
ten nonsense,  but  she  began  with  sense. 
For  words  have  their  sound-values  as 
well  as  their  sense-values,  and  prose 
rhythms  do  convey  to  the  mind  emo- 


tions that  mere  denotation  cannot  give. 
Rewrite  the  solemn  glory  of  Old  Testa- 
ment diction  in  the  flat  colorless  prose 
which  just  now  is  demanded,  and  won- 
der at  the  difference.  Translate  'the 
multitudinous  seas  incarnadine'  into 
'  making  the  ocean  red,'  —  or,  for  more 
pertinent  instances,  imagine  a  Carlyle, 
an  Emerson,  a  Lamb  forced  to  exclude 
from  his  vocabulary  every  word  not 
readily  understood  by  the  multitude, 
to  iron  out  all  whimseys,  all  melodies 
from  his  phrasing,  and  to  plunk  down 
his  words  one  after  the  other  in  the  or- 
der of  elementary  thought. 

I  am  willing  to  fight  to  the  last  drop 
of  ink  against  any  attempt  to  bring 
back  '  fine  writing '  and  ornate  rhetoric 
into  prose.  *  Expression  is  the  dress  of 
thought,'  and  plain  thinking  and  plain 
facts  look  best  in  simple  clothing.  Nev- 
ertheless, if  we  must  write  our  stories, 
our  essays,  our  novels,  and  (who 
knows)  our  poems  in  the  flat  prose  of 
the  news  column,  —  if  the  editors  will 
sit  on  the  lid,  —  well,  the  public  will 
get  what  it  pays  for,  but  sooner  or  la- 
ter the  spirit  of  style  will  ferment,  will 
work,  will  grow  violent  under  restraint. 
There  will  be  reaction,  explosion,  revo- 
lution. The  public  will  get  its  flat 
prose,  and  —  in  addition  —  not  one, 
but  a  hundred  Gertrude  Steins.' 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


OCTOBER,  1914 


DO  OUR  REPRESENTATIVES  REPRESENT? 


BY   FRANCIS   E.   LEUPP 


IN  a  recent  number  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  an  English  writer  sketches  the 
political  and  social  changes  which  have 
come  over  the  British  Isles  within  the 
last  generation.1  His  survey  is  made 
with  particular  reference  to  the  mooted 
point,  how  far  representative  govern- 
ment has  been  promoted  or  impaired 
by  these  changes;  and  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  his  article  he  goes  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  whole  business  by  asking 
what,  after  all,  is  'real  representation.' 
In  the  United  States,  within  the  corre- 
sponding period,  we  have  been  experi- 
encing changes  as  momentous  as  those 
in  the  mother  country,  and  the  same 
fundamental  question  confronts  us  as 
we  glance  over  the  fields  in  which  they 
have  occurred. 

Representation,  considered  without 
special  reference  to  domestic  politics, 
may  take  any  one  of  several  forms. 
The  envoy,  for  example,  represents  his 
sovereign  in  a  manner  quite  unlike  that 
in  which  the  guardian  represents  his 
ward.  The  envoy  must  make  himself 
as  nearly  as  practicable  the  mirror  and 
echo  of  his  sovereign,  whose  idiosyn- 
crasies and  passing  whims  he  must  re- 
flect with  equal  faithfulness,  whether 

1  'England    and    Ireland/  by  H.  FIELDING- 
HALL,  in  the  Atlantic  for  December.  1913. 
VOL.  114 -NO.  4 


they  appeal  to  his  common  sense  or 
revolt  it.  The  guardian,  on  the  other 
hand,  however  well  settled  the  terms  of 
his  appointment,  and  regardless  of  the 
share  the  ward  may  have  been  allowed 
in  his  selection,  is  clothed  with  a  discre- 
tion for  the  exercise  of  which  he  is  held 
to  as  strict  account  as  for  his  honesty. 
Of  alternative  courses  open  to  -him  in 
any  instance,  the  one  promising  imme- 
diate profit  and  eagerly  desired  by  the 
ward,  the  other  presenting  fewer  super- 
ficial attractions  but  pointing  to  larger 
advantages  in  the  future,  he  is  bound 
to  take  that  which,  according  to  his  own 
best  judgment,  will  be  for  the  ward's 
greater  eventual  benefit.  Then,  there 
is  the  representative  relation  of  the 
attorney,  who,  though  accepting  the 
client's  instructions  with  his  retainer, 
is  nevertheless  subject  to  the  higher 
obligations  of  professional  ethics,  and 
must  be  ever  mindful  that  he  is  an  offi- 
cer of  the  court  as  well  as  a  private 
practitioner.  Finally,  there  is  the  fam- 
iliar illustration  of  the  stockholder  in 
a  corporate  enterprise,  who  assigns  to 
a  proxy  the  right  to  vote  in  his  stead 
on  matters  of  vital  importance,  not 
only  leaving  to  this  representative  ab- 
solute freedom  of  action,  but  approv- 
ing and  validating  in  advance  every 
step  he  may  take. 

So  it  will  be  seen  that  representation 


434 


DO  OUR  REPRESENTATIVES  REPRESENT? 


is  a  term  not  so  easy  to  define  as  one 
might  suppose,  and  especially  difficult 
when  we  use  it  to  describe  the  duty  of 
a  public  servant.  Does  it  mean  that 
the  man  we  put  into  office  shall  always 
do  there  just  what  we  should  have  done 
if  we  had  been  handling  the  same  af- 
fairs directly?  Or  does  it  mean  that, 
in  a  crisis  where  his  judgment  and  ours 
differ  with  respect  to  a  large  question 
which  he  has  had  a  better  opportunity 
than  we  to  study  at  close  range,  he  is  to 
obey  our  orders  in  defiance  of  his  per- 
sonal conviction  that  to  do  so  would 
make  for  our  ultimate  injury?  Or  does 
it  mean  that  if  the  code  of  official  ethics 
adopted  and  maintained  for  the  com- 
mon good  stands  in  the  way  of  his  ac- 
complishing some  purpose  on  which  we 
individually  have  set  our  hearts,  he 
shall  disregard  it  in  the  assertion  of  his 
representative  character?  Or  does  it 
mean  that,  when  we  put  him  where  he 
is,  we  turned  over  to  him  every  power, 
right,  and  privilege  we  possessed  in  the 
premises,  and  deliberately  estopped 
ourselves  from  further  interference  in 
the  business  we  intrusted  to  him? 


II 

At  one  time  or  another,  and  wholly 
or  in  part,  representative  government 
in  the  United  States  has  passed  through 
all  these  phases.  In  great  emergencies, 
like  that  presented  by  the  Civil  War 
and  its  immediate  sequelae,  the  people 
with  practical  unanimity  surrendered  to 
the  government  at  Washington  all  au- 
thority, to  be  exercised  as  might  seem 
best  on  any  occasion.  It  was  the  sense 
that  they  had  done  this,  and  were  bound 
to  stand  by  their  bargain,  that  kept 
the  country  generally  quiet  in  the  face 
of  repeated  trespasses  by  the  military 
power  upon  the  civil  domain,  and  per- 
mitted the  piling  up  of  the  public  debt, 
the  resort  to  an  irredeemable  paper  cur- 
rency, the  imposition  of  extraordinary 


taxes,  the  recruiting  of  the  army  by 
conscription,  the  unceremonious  seizure 
and  destruction  of  private  property, 
the  arbitrary  creation  and  division  of 
states,  the  wholesale  emancipation  of 
the  slaves  by  executive  proclamation, 
and  many  other  measures  which,  un- 
der different  conditions,  would  have 
been  condemned  as  despotic.  We  have 
seen  a  senator  sent  to  Coventry  for 
voting  his  convictions  at  an  impeach- 
ment trial,  although  he  was  doing  only 
what  he  had  solemnly  sworn  to  do. 
We  have  seen  a  reelection  refused  to 
one  President  because  he  told  the 
truth,  as  he  saw  it,  about  the  tariff,  in 
pursuance  of  his  constitutional  duty 
to  recommend  to  the  consideration  of 
Congress  'such  measures  as  he  shall 
judge  necessary  and  expedient,'  and  to 
another  because  he  kept  too  strictly 
within  the  limits  set  by  the  organic  law 
upon  his  jurisdiction. 

The  fathers  of  the  Constitution  had 
their  own  notion  of  what  representa- 
tion meant.  With  them,  it  was  obvious- 
ly the  relation  of  guardian  to  ward ;  and 
their  debates  in  the  convention  of  1787 
showed  that,  in  their  opinion,  the  safe- 
ty of  the  republic  depended  on  avoid- 
ing an  undue  intimacy  between  the 
twain,  by  taking  care  that  the  ward 
should  not  have  too  much  to  say  about 
the  choice  of  the  guardian.  The  prole- 
tariat were  to  have  their  welfare  safe- 
guarded, of  course,  but  it  was  not  for 
them  to  meddle  with  the  machinery  es- 
tablished for  this  purpose,  since  pre- 
sumptively they  would  not  know  what 
was  best  for  them.  The  right  to  vote 
ought  to  be  restricted  to  the  class  who 
would  use  it  wisely,  and  probably  a 
property  qualification  would  furnish 
the  most  effective  gauge  for  separating 
that  class  from  the  others.  When  this 
proposition  was  before  the  Conven- 
tion, Mr.  Dickinson  of  Maryland  spoke 
in  favor  of  it.  'The  freeholders  of  the 
country,'  he  declared,  'are  the  best 


DO  OUR  REPRESENTATIVES  REPRESENT? 


435 


guardians  of  liberty,  and  the  restriction 
of  the  right  to  them  is  a  necessary  de- 
fense against  the  dangerous  influence 
of  the  multitudes  without  property  and 
without  principle,  with  which  our  coun- 
try, like  all  others,  will  in  time  abound.' 

'The  time/  said  Gouverneur  Morris 
of  New  York,  '  is  not  distant  when  this 
country  will  abound  with  mechanics 
and  manufacturers,  who  will  receive 
their  bread  from  their  employers.  Will 
such  men  be  the  secure  and  faithful 
guardians  of  liberty  —  the  impregna- 
ble barriers  against  aristocracy?  The 
ignorant  and  the  dependent  can  be  as 
little  trusted  with  the  public  interest 
as  children ! ' 

*  Viewing  the  subject  in  its  merits 
alone,'  said  Madison  of  Virginia,  'the 
freeholders  of  the  country  would  be 
the  safest  depositories  of  republican 
liberty.  In  future  times,  a  great  major- 
ity of  the  people  will  not  only  be  with- 
out property  in  land,  but  property  of 
any  sort.  These  will  either  combine 
under  the  influence  of  their  common 
situation,  or,  what  is  more  probable, 
they  will  become  the  tools  of  opulence 
and  ambition ;  in  which  case,  there  will 
be  equal  danger  on  another  side.' 

And  thus  it  went.  Even  Franklin, 
with  all  his  unaristocratic  antecedents, 
and  his  repugnance  to  the  idea  of  con- 
ferring the  ballot  upon  property  while 
denying  it  to  human  beings,  based  his 
most  powerful  plea  on  what  seemed  a 
purely  sentimental  theory,  that  the 
possession  of  the  elective  franchise 
would  of  itself  inspire  nobility  of  char- 
acter in  the  citizen.  Considerations  of 
prudence  finally  prevailed  to  turn  the 
whole  issue  over  to  the  states,  letting 
them  individually  decide  to  whom, 
within  their  own  borders,  they  would 
grant  the  ballot  and  to  whom  refuse 
it.  In  those  days,  so  strong  was  the 
sense  of  the  value  of  property  as  a 
means  of  grace  for  the  administration 
of  a  public  trust,  that  it  was  soberly 


proposed  to  require  a  certain  degree  of 
wealth  of  every  one  who  aspired  to  an 
important  office  —  that  the  President, 
for  instance,  should  be  possessed  of  not 
less  than  one  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars, a  judge  of  fifty  thousand,  and  a 
member  of  Congress  of  a  fortune  of 
proportionate  size. 

How  slender  was  the  faith  of  the 
delegates  generally  in  the  discretion 
and  integrity  of  the  masses  of  the 
people,  is  plain  from  the  distinction 
made  between  the  methods  prescribed 
for  choosing  the  members  of  the  two 
houses  of  Congress,  and  between  the 
lengths  of  their  respective  terms;  from 
the  confining  of  the  consideration  of 
foreign  treaties  to  the  indirectly  chosen 
Senate;  from  the  indirect  process  laid 
down  for  the  election  of  President;  from 
the  power  vested  in  the  President  thus 
elected  to  appoint  the  judiciary,  and  of- 
ficers who  represent  the  United  States 
in  dealing  with  other  nations;  and  from 
the  inclusion  of  the  executive  with 
Congress  as  a  part  of  the  law-making 
machinery.  The  direct  share  of  the 
people  in  all  this  was  narrowed  down 
practically  to  the  election  of  their  re- 
presentatives in  Congress,  who  were  to 
have  the  initiation  of  measures  affect- 
ing taxation,  and  an  equal  share  with 
the  Senate  in  all  legislation.  In  order 
that  the  great  body  of  citizens  should 
have  a  fairly  frequent  hearing  for  their 
views  on  public  questions,  the  member- 
ship of  the  House  of  Representatives 
was  to  be  completely  renewed  once  in 
two  years.  This,  it  was  believed,  would 
provide  for  the  prompt  reflection  of  all 
changes  of  opinion  among  a  constitu- 
ency recognized  as  liable  to  fickleness; 
but,  lest  such  changes  should  be  too 
frequent  for  the  country's  good,  there 
stood  the  Senate,  free  from  immediate 
responsibility  to  the  populace,  and  in- 
trenched behind  a  fixed  term  of  six 
years,  ready  to  act  as  a  steadying  force. 

The  Senate's  function  of  compelling 


436 


DO  OUR  REPRESENTATIVES  REPRESENT? 


deliberation  has  been  illustrated  in 
many  ways,  but  in  none  better  than 
by  one  of  the  apocryphal  stories  of 
George  Washington  on  which  an  earlier 
generation  was  brought  up.  He  was 
said  to  have  been  asked  at  a  friend's 
table,  why  we  had  aped  the  feudal  in- 
stitutions of  Great  Britain  to  the  extent 
of  having  a  select  as  well  as  a  popular 
house  in  our  Congress.  His  hostess  had 
just  helped  him  to  a  cup  of  tea,  so  hot 
that  it  was  sending  forth  a  cloud  of 
steam.  He  poured  a  part  of  the  tea  into 
his  saucer,  and  let  it  stand  long  enough 
to  cool  before  drinking.  *  This  cup, 'said 
he,  'is  the  House  of  Representatives. 
Its  contents  have  come  directly  from 
the  people,  who  may  be  in  a  state  of 
great  excitement.  This  saucer  is  the 
Senate,  in  which  I  can  hold  the  scald- 
ing liquid  till  its  heat  has  subsided 
enough  to  make  it  safe  to  drink.' 

Carrying  the  same  idea  a  stage  fur- 
ther, the  Constitution  empowered  the 
President  to  halt  the  enactment  of  a 
proposed  law  till  he  could  set  forth  any 
reasons  he  might  have  for  regarding  it 
as  ill-advised  or  inopportune,  and  thus 
procure  its  review  in  a  calmer  spirit. 
The  restriction  of  all  foreign  negotia- 
tions to  the  President  and  Senate,  also, 
was  designed  to  put  wholly  outside  of 
a  volatile  atmosphere  the  considera- 
tion of  matters  which  might  bring  our 
government  into  collision  with  others. 
And  with  respect  to  the  judiciary,  the 
influence  of  popular  passion  and  im- 
pulse was  to  be  nullified  by  lifting  the 
Federal  bench  out  of  the  arena  of  poli- 
tics, where  the  decision  of  a  magistrate 
in  some  critical  case  might  be  more  or 
less  swayed  by  his  dread  of  incurring 
the  disfavor  of  his  constituents. 


in 

All  this  was  a  century  and  a  quarter 
ago.  In  the  interval  the  population  of 
the  United  States  has  risen  from  four 


million  to  nearly  one  hundred  million 
souls,  with  a  proportional  multiplica- 
tion of  social  and  economic  problems, 
particularly  in  the  present  generation, 
when  the  increase  in  the  population 
has  been  more  than  equaled  by  the  in- 
crease of  its  density  around  certain 
centres  of  industrial  activity.  What 
the  fathers  foresaw  has  come  to  pass: 
an  enormous  multitude  of  our  people  is 
without  property,  or  with  very  little. 
Yet  manhood  suffrage  prevails  in  al- 
most all  the  states,  and,  in  the  few 
where  any  restrictions  whatever  are 
imposed,  those  restrictions  are  mostly 
educational  tests  of  an  elementary  or- 
der. The  property  qualification  which 
loomed  so  large  in  the  minds  of  Dick- 
-inson  and  Morris  and  Madison,  and 
which  was  widely  adopted  in  the  early 
days,  is  now  everywhere  obsolete  or  ob- 
solescent. Large  wealth  has  accumu- 
lated in  the  hands  of  a  small  minority 
of  our  people.  Human  nature  mean- 
while has  remained  human  nature,  and 
the  class  cleavage  has  followed  finan- 
cial lines  rather  than  lines  of  ancestry 
or  of  worldly  knowledge,  with  the  re- 
sult that  the  citizen  with  insignificant 
means  or  no  means  at  all  is  set  in  an- 
tagonism to  the  citizen  with  plenty. 

Class-consciousness  manifests  itself 
in  politics,  because  politics  furnishes 
the  machinery  for  representation,  and 
representation  for  legislation;  and  the 
whole  trend  of  modern  legislation  has 
been  in  the  direction  of  satisfying  the 
demands  of  the  masses  for  direct  relief 
or  enlarged  opportunity.  The  primitive 
assumption  that  government  is  mere- 
ly a  form  of  organization  to  be  sup- 
ported by  the  people  for  their  common 
convenience,  with  functions  limited 
to  the  maintenance  of  order,  the  ad- 
justment of  controverted  rights,  and 
the  protection  of  the  persons  and  pro- 
perty subject  to  its  jurisdiction,  has 
been  gradually  working  over  into  an 
assumption  that  it  is  the  business  of 


DO  OUR  REPRESENTATIVES  REPRESENT? 


437 


this  government,  at  least,  to  support 
the  people. 

For  indications  marking  stages  in 
such  a  process,  read  in  the  national 
statute-book  the  laws  requiring  a  rigid 
inspection  of  meat  products;  penalizing 
the  adulteration  of  foods  and  drugs; 
establishing  a  postal  savings  system  to 
encourage  thrift  among  the  poor;  com- 
pelling the  use  of  special  appliances  on 
railroads  to  make  the  handling  of  trains 
less  dangerous  for  employees;  prescrib- 
ing the  length  of  a  day's  work  in  sun- 
dry occupations;  creating  bureaus  to 
investigate,  and  incidentally  to  expose 
to  public  criticism,  the  methods  pur- 
sued in  privately  owned  industries  and 
in  the  employment  of  particular  class- 
es of  laborers;  condemning  to  destruc- 
tion a  once  profitable  line  of  manufac- 
ture because  its  raw  materials  were 
unwholesome  for  its  artisans  to  work 
with;  making  employers  liable  for  in- 
juries suffered  by  their  workmen  while 
on  duty;  excluding  from  our  shores 
sundry  classes  of  immigrants  lest  they 
underbid  our  citizens  in  the  labor  mar- 
kets; constructing  mammoth  reclam- 
ation projects  for  the  benefit  of  the 
farmers  of  the  arid  West;  making  war 
upon  lotteries  and  the  prostitute  traf- 
fic; and  for  a  score  of  cognate  purposes 
entirely  beyond  the  contemplation  of 
the  framers  of  the  Constitution.  These, 
indeed,  appear  to  be  but  the  initiatory 
features  of  a  new  epoch,  if  we  believe 
that  President  Wilson  will  carry  his 
anti-trust,  agricultural-education,  and 
farmer-loan  programmes  to  success, 
and  if  we  are  prepared  to  treat  seri- 
ously the  efforts  of  certain  members 
of  Congress  to  commit  that  body  to  a 
policy  regarding  marriage  and  divorce, 
to  the  regulation  of  stock  and  produce 
exchanges,  and  to  the  exemption  of 
labor  organizations  from  the  operation 
of  the  laws  against  monopoly. 

These  things  are  in  addition  to  a 
heap  of  legislation  enacted  in  the  sev- 


eral states,  some  of  which  is  consistent, 
while  much  is  more  or  less  in  conflict, 
with  the  United  States  laws  on  the 
same  subjects.  In  order  to  reconcile 
the  discordant  elements  as  far  as  may 
be,  the  boundaries  which  used  to  sep- 
arate state  from  Federal  jurisdiction 
are  in  process  of  being  obliterated. 
Here  is,  of  course,  a  radical  departure 
from  the  plans  of  the  Constitution- 
makers,  who  never  lost  sight  of  the  ori- 
•gin  of  the  republic  as  a  mere  union  of 
independent  sovereignties  for  the  bet- 
ter assurance  of  their  joint  defense 
against  domestic  insurrection  and  hos- 
tilities from  without.  The  national 
ideal  is  now  invading  every  field  of 
legislation,  supplanting  both  the  ideal 
of  state  sovereignty  and  the  federal 
theory,  and  running  parallel  with  the 
struggle  for  self-assertion  among  the 
masses  of  the  people  and  their  more 
and  more  clamorous  insistence  that 
the  will  of  the  numerical  majority  shall 
override  all  considerations  of  differen- 
ces in  intelligence,  education,  or  social 
condition. 

Whoever  has  watched  the  movement 
with  a  discerning  eye  must  read  in  it, 
I  think,  the  gradual  transformation  of 
a  representative  government  under  a 
thin  veil  of  democracy,  which  we  in- 
herited, into  a  democracy  with  a  few 
superficial  insignia  of  representative 
government,  cherished  rather  for  mem- 
ory's sake  than  for  any  faith  in  their 
virtues. 

The  Constitution  is  distinguished 
no  less  for  its  elasticity  than  for  its 
strength.  When  circumstances  have 
called  into  existence  a  public  policy 
for  which  no  explicit  sanction  could 
be  found  in  its  text,  resort  has  been  had 
to  some  clause  which  would  stretch  if 
pulled  hard  enough.  Thus,  when  all 
state-bank  currency  had  to  be  driven 
out  of  existence,  a  prohibitory  tax  was 
levied  under  the  right  of  Congress  to 
lay  and  collect  taxes;  when  the  great 


438 


DO  OUR  REPRESENTATIVES  REPRESENT? 


carrying  corporations  seemed  to  need 
government  oversight,  the  power  of 
Congress  to  regulate  commerce  be- 
tween the  states  was  invoked;  and 
when  any  novel  demand  could  not  be 
met  otherwise,  the  'general  welfare' 
clause  of  the  preamble  and  the  first 
section  of  article  one  proved  of  timely 
convenience.  Neither  the  eleven  para- 
graphs added  before  the  close  of  the 
eighteenth  century  to  supply  a  few 
omissions  discovered  in  the  original 
text,  nor  the  Twelfth  Amendment, 
adopted  in  1804  to  make  the  electo- 
ral system  more  workable,  affected 
the  spirit  of  the  Constitution  as  first 
promulgated;  so  it  may  be  said  with 
truth  that  the  republic  conducted  its 
business  for  seventy-five  years  under  a 
charter  essentially  unaltered.  The  far- 
reaching  results  of  the  Civil  War  made 
necessary  the  Thirteenth,  Fourteenth, 
and  Fifteenth  amendments,  but  these 
were  followed  by  more  than  forty  years 
of  quiescence. 

IV 

The  purpose  of  this  brief  historical 
review  is  to  emphasize  the  reluctance 
of  the  American  people  in. the  past  to 
tamper  with  their  Constitution,  and 
hence  the  revolutionary  significance  of 
the  Sixteenth  and  Seventeenth  amend- 
ments, proclaimed  in  1913.  Both  have 
in  view  the  expedition  of  the  democra- 
tizing process  which  has  already  been 
noted.  The  Sixteenth  Amendment  re- 
cognizes the  increasing  power  of  indi- 
vidual wealth  throughout  the  country, 
and  is  designed  to  compel  the  assump- 
tion by  the  moneyed  class  of  a  larger 
share  of  the  common  burden.  To  this 
end  it  sweeps  away  state  barriers,  and 
authorizes  the  national  government  to 
impose  a  tax  on  incomes  without  re- 
gard to  the  distribution  of  population 
or  representation.  It  clears  the  way 
for  the  capture  of  the  possessor  of  great 
riches  wherever  found,  and  for  calling 


him  to  the  same  account  as  his  neigh- 
bor who  has  little  or  nothing  —  or,  as 
it  has  worked  out  in  the  exemption  pro- 
visions of  the  present  act,  to  an  ac- 
count far  more  severe. 

The  Seventeenth  Amendment,  by 
which  the  choice  of  senators  is  trans- 
ferred from  the  legislatures  of  the  sev- 
eral states  to  the  people  thereof,  was 
doubtless  the  outgrowth  of  a  widespread 
distrust  of  legislatures.  It  recalls  the 
answer  of  a  notorious  speculator  who 
flourished  in  my  youth,  and  whose  ven- 
tures depended  often  on  the  success  of 
his  lobby  work,  to  the  question  why  he 
took  so  languid  an  interest  in  the  pre- 
liminaries to  an  election  impending  in 
his  state.V  It  is  cheaper  to  buy  the  leg- 
islature after  election  than  the  voters 
before  it.'  Whether  the  remark  was 
earnestly  made,  or  in  cynical  humor, 
it  spread  like  wildfire,  it  was  so  at  one 
with  what  was  known  of  the  character 
of  its  author,  and  comported  so  well 
with  the  sense  of  suspicion  that  lurked 
in  the  popular  mind  regarding  the  up- 
rightness of  law-makers  of  the  rank 
commonly  sent  to  the  state  capitals. 

About  this  time,  also,  began  a  series 
of  deadlocks  in  the  legislatures  which 
had  senators  to  elect,  and  one  or  two 
of  them  occurred  at  critical  junctures 
when  it  was  important  to  a  state  to 
have  a  full  representation  at  Washing- 
ton. Finally,  the  indirect  method  of 
election,  which  kept  the  Senate  always 
at  arm's  length  from  the  people,  and 
gave  it  the  name  of  an  American  House 
of  Lords,  became  more  and  more  an  ob- 
ject of  notice  and  attack  in  the  press. 
Some  of  the  most  censorious  critics 
insisted  that  the  Senate  had  outgrown 
whatever  of  usefulness  it  might  once 
have  possessed,  and  would  better  be 
discarded  altogether;  this  brought  a 
more  conservative  group  of  citizens  to 
its  defense,  and  a  compromise  between 
the  two  extremes  of  view  was  reached 
on  the  basis  of  letting  the  people  of  a 


DO  OUR  REPRESENTATIVES  REPRESENT? 


439 


state  express  in  some  way  their  prefer- 
ence between  senatorial  candidates,  as 
a  guide  to  the  legislature.  And,  while 
several  plans  of  this  sort  were  under 
discussion,  came  Tillman. 

Long  after  the  Civil  War  had  ended 
Negro  slavery,  most  of  the  South  clung 
to  its  aristocratic  traditions  of  public 
service  with  intense  tenacity.  Its  lead- 
ers were  not '  men  of  the  people '  either 
by  descent  or  in  sympathies.  Their  an- 
cestors had  been  conspicuous  figures  in 
their  respective  States  for  several  gen- 
erations; they  were  scions  of  Revolu- 
tionary stock  or  of  the  navy  of  1812,  or 
sprung  from  families  which  had  given 
governors,  legislators,  or  judges  to  the 
.community  in  trying  times  of  old.  All 
were  well  versed  in  American  history, 
many  had  won  local  fame  as  orators, 
and  there  were  few  who  had  not  both 
the  ancient  and  the  English  classics 
at  their  tongues'  command.  The  loss 
of  their  slaves  and  the  deterioration  of 
their  plantations  had  left  them  finan- 
cially stranded,  and  some  salaried  of- 
fice seemed  to  the  worshipful  yeomanry 
around  them  to  offer  the  best  means  of 
providing  for  their  needs.  So  a  stream 
of  blue  blood  poured  from  the  South 
into  Congress,  and  especially  into  the 
Senate,  from  the  hour  that  the  Recon- 
struction bogey  was  exorcised  from 
Southern  politics. 

The  first  break  came  when  Benjamin 
R.  Tillman,  the  head  of  an  insurgent 
movement  among  the  inelegant  rustics 
of  South  Carolina,  succeeded  in  getting 
himself  elected  Governor,  and  forcing 
the  legislature  to  drop  Wade  Hampton 
and  send  John  L.  M.  Irby  to  the  Sen- 
ate. A  little  later  he  came  himself.  A 
'  farmer '  —  not  a  *  planter '  —  by  occu- 
pation, redolent  of  the  upturned  soil  in 
appearance,  manners,  and  speech,  and 
accused  by  local  gossips  of  having  sat  in 
a  wagon  in  an  open  marketplace  and 
sold  the  produce  of  his  acres,  it  would 
be  hard  to  imagine  a  sharper  human 


contrast  than  was  presented  by  this 
man  and  his  immediate  predecessor, 
Matthew  C.  Butler,  every  line  in  whose 
face  bore  witness  to  his  pedigree,  and 
whose  voice  and  bearing  were  those  of 
a  well-bred  citizen  of  the  world.  I  re- 
member the  despairing  comment  of  a 
South  Carolinian  of  distinguished  lin- 
eage who  was  in  Washington  when  the 
news  arrived  that  Tillman  had  defeat- 
ed Butler:  'This  means  that  the  end 
is  at  hand!'  He  read  the  omen  aright. 
The  oligarchy  which  had  ruled  the 
South  for  more  than  a  century  by  vir- 
tue of  the  strain  of  rulership  in  its 
blood,  was  facing  everywhere  a  disas- 
ter from  which  there  could  be  no  recov- 
ery. The  common  people  were  learning 
their  strength,  and  had  begun  to  make 
use  of  it. 

If  doubt  remained  in  any  mind  of  the 
meaning  of  Tillman's  election,  it  was 
dispelled  with  his  first  irruption  as  a 
debater  in  the  Senate,  when  he  said, 
'I  am  the  only  farmer  in  this  august 
body.  Yet  out  of  seventy  million  peo- 
ple in  this  country,  thirty-five  million 
are  engaged  in  agriculture.  If,  then,  one 
farmer  has  broken  down  the  barriers 
and  forced  his  way  here,  upon  his  head 
rests  the  responsibility  of  giving  utter- 
ance to  the  feelings,  the  aspirations 
of  his  fellows.  Before  I  get  through, 
you  will  realize  that  I  speak  plainly 
and  bluntly  .  .  .  the  language  of  the 
common  people;  for  I  am  one  of  them, 
and  I  expect  to  tell  you  how  they  feel, 
and  what  they  think,  and  what  they 
want ! '  And  proceeding  to  discuss  cer- 
tain questions  which  he  said  had  been 
threshed  out  by  lawyers,  and  corpor- 
ation magnates,  and  nearly  everybody 
else,  but  had  'not  yet  been  handled  on 
the  pitchfork  of  the  farmer,'  he  laid 
about  him  savagely,  particularly  de- 
nouncing the  Cleveland  administration 
for  having  betrayed  the  Democratic 
party  and  surrendered  the  nation  into 
the  control  of  a  plutarchy. 


440 


DO  OUR  REPRESENTATIVES  REPRESENT? 


The  '  pitchfork  speech '  was  the  sen- 
sation of  the  day;  but  whoever  sup- 
posed that  it  was  to  remain  a  unique 
oratorical  curio  was  destined  to  be 
speedily  undeceived.  Every  slogan  of 
revolt  raised  in  national  politics  since 
then,  from  the  nasal  wails  of  Teller  at 
St.  Louis  to  the  leonine  roars  of  John- 
son at  Chicago,  has  had  for  its  burden 
the  same  grievance  that  Tillman  voiced : 
The  clique  in  power  represents  not  the 
masses  but  the  classes!  The  men  who 
hold  the  captains'  commissions  under 
its  banner  are  not  of  the  people,  or  in 
close  accord  with  the  people;  whereas 
the  candidates  put  forward  by  the  re- 
monstrants have  this  supreme  excel- 
lence, that  they  come  from  the  people, 
believe  in  the  people,  think  with  the 
people,  and  are  prepared  to  obey  the 
wishes  of  the  people  at  every  turn  and 
to  the  last  extreme.  Economic  and  fin- 
ancial issues  such  as  engaged  the  best 
thought  and  finest  eloquence  of  the  wise 
men  who  sat  in  the  Capitol  a  genera- 
tion ago,  and  through  them  captured 
the  attention  of  their  constituents,  hold 
a  secondary  place  in  the  popular  inter- 
est now,  the  first  place  having  been 
usurped  by  social  and  humane  prob- 
lems which  formerly  were  regarded  as 
outside  the  pale  of  governmental  activ- 
ity; and  Congress  has  been  steadily 
growing,  as  we  have  seen,  more  and 
more  responsive  to  this  latter-day  bent 
of  the  public  mind. 


Thus,  between  the  foundation  of  the 
republic  and  the  present  hour,  the  gen- 
eral conception  of  what  Congress  ought 
to  be  and  do  has  passed  from  one  pole 
to  the  other:  from  the  theory  that  a 
member  was  to  be  chosen  because  of 
his  superior  antecedents  and  culture, 
his  greater  independence  of  spirit,  his 
wider  experience,  and  his  larger  stake 
at  hazard  than  the  bulk  of  his  constitu- 


ency, to  a  demand  for  a  man  who  is  no 
better  than  his  neighbors,'  and  who 
consequently  will  not  be  above  doing 
what  they  wish  to  have  done,  whatever 
his  private  convictions  or  inclinations 
may  be. 

Drop  into  the  gallery  of  either  cham- 
ber to-day,  and  you  will  hear  your  fel- 
low visitors  discussing  men  and  meas- 
ures on  a  more  parochial  basis  than  in 
the  old  times.  Such  personalities  as 
enter  into  their  conversation  take  the 
form  of  comments  on  Jim  Smith's  ef- 
forts to  get  an  appropriation  for  a  new 
postoffice  building  in  his  home  town, 
with  all  the  work  and  wages  it  would 
bring  there;  on  the  probable  falling-off 
in  Tom  Jones's  farmer  vote  now  that 
his  supply  of  free  seeds  is  cut  down;  on 
Bill  Robinson's  genius  as  a  hustler,  de- 
monstrated by  his  getting  the  Indian 
reservation  in  his  district  irrigated  and 
then  opened  for  homestead  settlement. 
Spend  a  whole  day  in  the  gallery,  and 
you  will  hardly  hear  a  visitor  boast  of 
being  a  constituent  of  Henry  Tomp- 
kins  because  he  has  earned  the  chair- 
manship of  the  Ways  and  Means  Com- 
mittee, or  framed  the  winning  act  for 
a  revision  of  the  navigation  laws.  In 
other  words,  despite  the  wider  spread 
of  the  national  spirit,  what  a  Congress- 
man does  for  the  nation  counts  for  less 
now  with  most  of  the  people  in  his  dis- 
trict than  what  he  does  for  his  imme- 
diate neighbors,  albeit  the  one  service 
is  largely  a  matter  of  cleverness  while 
the  other  calls  for  statesmanship.  This 
is  human  nature,  doubtless;  perhaps, 
also,  it  accords  with  the  well-cherished 
ideal  of  representation,  that  the  unit 
should  be  as  small  as  practicable. 

As  might  have  been  foreseen,  one  ef- 
fect of  bringing  Congress  nearer  to  the 
people  has  been  the  elimination  from 
the  national  legislature  of  many  of  its 
notable  figures.  A  generation  ago  the 
Senate  held  a  picturesque  group  of  his- 
tory-builders. It  included  Conkling, 


DO  OUR  REPRESENTATIVES  REPRESENT? 


441 


who  daily  reserved  his  appearance  in  the 
chamber  till  the  other  senators  were 
seated  and  the  scene  set,  and  whose 
majestic  march  down  the  middle  aisle 
reminded  one  of  the  entrance  of  the 
king  in  a  Shakespearean  drama;  Blaine, 
who  had  only  to  rise  for  a  perfunctory 
motion  in  order  to  smite  the  galleries 
with  a  spell  of  expectant  silence  and 
capture  the  eyes  and  ears  of  his  col- 
leagues; Hamlin,  in  his  old-fashioned 
swallow-tail  coat,  whose  association 
with  the  memory  of  Lincoln  seemed  to 
draw  the  great  war  wonderfully  near ; 
Edmunds  and  Hoar,  conserving,  in 
their  range  of  thought  and  speech,  the 
best  traditions  of  New  England  states- 
manship; Hampton  and  Bayard,  exhal- 
ing the  flavor  of  the  old  South;  David 
Davis,  who  twice  had  held  the  fate  of 
the  country  in  his  hand;  Chandler  and 
Ingalls  and  Mahone,  guerilla-fighters 
but  powers  in  their  way;  Allison  and 
Cockrell,  Sanders,  Gordon,  Voorhees, 
Hawley,  Hill,  and  a  dozen  others  whose 
names  and  stories  were  household 
words  from  one  end  of  the  United 
States  to  the  other. 

In  the  House,  during  the  same  peri- 
od, sat  Reed,  the  despot,  and  Kasson, 
the  diplomatist;  Carlisle,  the  logician, 
and  Morrison,  the  bludgeon-bearer; 
Blackburn,  the  fiery,  and  Wheeler,  the 
spider-like;  Kelley  and  Randall,  the 
protectionist  twins;  Wilson,  the  pol- 
ished, and  Hepburn,  the  blunt;  Alexan- 
der H.  Stephens  in  his  wheel-chair; 
Knott,  the  witty,  and  Holman,  the  fru- 
gal; Bland  and  Butterworth,  Bragg 
and  Curtin,  Sherman  and  Mills  and 
Reagan.  Cannon,  whose  recent  retire- 
ment about  exhausts  this  strain,  was 
then  well  past  his  apprenticeship.  In 
their  several  fields,  these  were  efficient 
workers.  They  had  force,  shrewdness, 
individuality;  their  modes  of  self-ex- 
pression had  a  quality  challenging  to 
the  attention  and  compelling  to  the 
memory.  Their  purely  human  charac- 


teristics were  so  pronounced  and  so 
well  advertised  that  they  were  recog- 
nized wherever  they  appeared,  even 
schoolchildren  making  their  acquain- 
tance through  the  cartoons.  When  they 
left  the  centre  of  the  stage,  something 
went  with  them  out  of  our  public  life 
which  may  never  be  replaced.  Wheth- 
er they  were,  or  were  not,  as  truly  '  re- 
presentative '  of  their  constituents  as 
their  successors  are,  they  were  unques- 
tionably, as  a  rule,  of  a  higher  type 
than  the  average  of  the  body  politic; 
and  however  history  may  rank  them 
as  to  their  total  value  to  their  country, 
it  is  but  just  to  say  that  they  helped 
keep  their  generation  steady,  and  lent 
color  and  spice  to  the  contemporary 
chronicles. 

Of  course,  I  have  not  forgotten  the 
presence  in  Congress,  as  I  write,  of  a 
Root  and  a  La  Follette,  a  Champ  Clark 
and  an  Underwood;  but  it  is  doubtful 
whether  the  most  nearly  unique  per- 
sonality in  the  present  group  can  make 
the  same  impression  on  the  minds  of 
his  countrymen  that  some  of  the  old 
fellows  made.  Moreover,  admitting 
whatever  may  be  said  of  the  increasing- 
ly representative  character  of  recent 
Congresses,  assuming  representation  to 
be  another  name  for  reflection,  the 
question  is  pertinent,  whether  this  is  a 
virtue  to  be  acclaimed  under  all  cir- 
cumstances. Are  there  not  occasions 
when  disobedience  in  the  servant  is 
worth  more  to  the  master  than  obedi- 
ence? Where  is  the  senator,  trained  in 
the  rigorous  school  of  representation 
so  loudly  commended  by  an  impatient 
populace  to-day,  whom  we  could  trust 
to  snap  party  ties,  turn  his  back  on 
sectional  claims,  and  defy  the  instruc- 
tions of  his  state,  as  Lucius  Lamar  did 
when  he  voted  against  the  silver  heresy 
for  conscience*  sake?  And  where  is  the 
state  that  would  respond  now,  as  Mis- 
sissippi did  then,  by  reversing  its  own 
attitude  in  approval  of  the  senator's 


442 


DO  OUR  REPRESENTATIVES  REPRESENT? 


manliness?  How  many  men  sitting  in 
either  chamber  of  the  present  Congress 
should  we  look  to  see,  if  another  crisis 
arose  like  that  reached  in  the  railroad 
strikes  of  1894,  stepping  out  of  their 
party  ranks  to  uphold  the  hands  of 
a  hostile  administration  in  a  struggle 
with  mob  violence  over  a  labor  ques- 
tion, like  Cushman  Davis  of  Minne- 
sota when  he  came  to  the  support  of 
President  Cleveland?  In  both  Lamar's 
case  and  Davis's,  popular  sentiment 
seemed  to  press  in  one  direction,  while 
the  judgment  of  the  man  elected  to 
expound  and  enforce  it  pressed  in  an- 
other. 

A  man  who  stood  *  closer  to  the  peo- 
ple '  and  shared  their  desires  more  lit- 
erally, or  who,  regardless  of  his  own 
convictions,  felt  that  the  first  duty  of 
a  representative  was  to  represent  the 
opinions  of  his  principal,  would  not 
have  taken  the  course  of  Davis  or  La- 
mar;  and  not  only  would  a  worthy 
cause  have  suffered,  but  the  moral  in- 
fluence of  such  timely  courage  would 
have  been  lost  to  the  republic. 


VI 

If  space  permitted,  it  would  be  inter- 
esting to  inquire  how  much  further  the 
democratizing  trend  of  the  day  is  likely 
to  go,  in  the  elimination  of  indirection 
from  our  methods  of  selecting  public 
servants.  For  example,  we  are  already 
launching  a  presidential  primary  plan, 
designed  to  dispense  with  party  nomi- 
nating conventions,  and,  in  theory  at 
least,  to  come  nearer  to  a  popular  des- 
ignation of  candidates.  When  we  re- 
member how  shortly  the  senatorial 
primary  plan  preceded  the  adoption  of 
a  constitutional  amendment  for  the 
popular  election  of  senators,  would  it 
be  strange  to  see  another  amendment 
soon  started  on  its  way,  providing  for 
the  choice  of  the  President  by  direct 
popular  vote?  We  might  also  comment 


on  the  significance  of  the  recent  propo- 
sal to  abolish  secret  sessions  of  the  Sen- 
ate. This  project,  certainly,  is  quite  in 
keeping  with  the  general  disposition  to 
hold  the  representatives  of  the  people 
to  a  stricter  account,  for  it  means  that 
no  senator  should  take  advantage  of 
emptied  galleries  and  locked  doors  to 
speak  or  vote  as  he  would  not  have 
dared  to  do  while  in  full  view.  Whether 
open  executive  sessions  might  not  also 
tend  to  encourage  demagogism,  is  apart 
from  the  main  question. 

This  doubt,  however,  suggests  a 
broader  one:  whether  the  popular  re- 
volt against  all  the  old  institutions  is 
going  to  bring  about  the  results  direct- 
ly aimed  at.  Are  the  people  going  to 
rule  themselves  any  more  under  the 
new  regime  than  they  did  under  the 
old?  Will  not  what  is  gained  in  one  di- 
rection be  equaled,  or  more  than  equal- 
ed, by  what  is  lost  in  another?  Most  of 
mankind  prefer  following  a  leader  to 
picking  out  a  path  for  themselves,  so 
long  as  they  are  permitted  to  cherish  a 
few  illusions  of  ultimate  authority;  and 
the  leader  who  has  acquired  the  habit 
of  telling  his  fellow  partisans  what  they 
had  better  do  and  then  proceeding  to 
the  task  himself,  slips  easily  into  a  way 
of  telling  them  what  they  must  do 
and  what  they  shall  do.  The  People's 
Party,  as  will  be  recalled,  was  founded 
on  the  theory  that  the  people  were 
tired  of  being  bossed.  The  convention 
at  which  it  was  organized  was,  for  that 
reason,  not  a  delegate  but  a  mass  con- 
vention ;  nevertheless,  even  as  early  as 
that,  some  of  its  prominent  members 
quarreled  among  themselves  as  to  who 
should  steer  its  deliberations.  A  few 
years  later  I  attended  one  of  its  na- 
tional gatherings,  where  the  presiding 
officer,  a  man  of  giant  frame,  strident 
voice,  and  commanding  personality, 
took  the  whole  business  into  his  own 
hands.  Towering  above  the  babel,  he 
would  put  motions  into  mouths  which 


DO  OUR  REPRESENTATIVES  REPRESENT? 


443 


had  never  so  much  as  opened;  call  for 
votes,  and  declare  them  carried  or  lost 
as  he  saw  fit;  and  adjourn  a  session, 
and  set  the  hour  for  reassembling, 
with  the  utmost  indifference  to  what 
anybody  else  might  desire. 

Walking  with  him  to  his  hotel  after 
one  such  monodramatic  morning,  I 
remarked,  'You  seem  to  have  your 
convention  well  in  hand.' 

He  scanned  my  face  keenly  to  dis- 
cover whether  I  was  serious  or  in  jest, 
and  then  answered,  with  a  broad  smile, 
'Well,  you  see,  these  people  are  mostly 
farmers.  They  don't  know  much  about 
parliamentary  forms.  I  understand 
pretty  well  what  they  want  to  do; 
and,  with  such  a  crowd  to  handle,  the 
"short  cut"  is  usually  the  best/ 

Loud  applause  from  many  sides 
greeted  the  revolt  against  the  rule  of 
Speaker  Cannon  in  the  House  of  Repre- 
sentatives five  or  six  years  ago.  Yet 
Cannon  was  not  the  only  autocrat,  or 
even  the  most  notable,  in  the  history  of 
his  place  and  era :  he  merely  chanced  to 
be  reigning  when  the  time  arrived  for 
an  upheaval.  Sometimes,  indeed,  the 
autocracy  of  a  Speaker  has  been  the 
salvation  of  a  situation.  Mr.  Carlisle, 
famous  as  the  fairest-minded  and  gent- 
lest of  the  men  who  have  filled  the 
high  chair  in  the  House,  obeyed  an  im- 
pulse of  patriotism  as  opposed  to  the 
obvious  preferences  of  a  majority  of  his 
fellow  members  when,  in  the  first  ses- 
sion of  the  Forty-ninth  Congress,  he 
held  back  the  committee  appointments 
till  the  Christmas  recess,  in  order  that 
the  committee  on  coinage  might  be 
surely  under  control  of  safe  men.  As 
a  specimen  of  bossism,  this  does  not 
seem  to  fall  far  behind  the  course  taken 
by  his  successor,  'Czar'  Reed,  when 
the  Senate  sent  over  an  act  for  the  free 
and  unlimited  coinage  of  silver,  and  he 
refused  to  lay  it  before  the  House  in 
the  usual  way,  but  privately  referred 
it  where  it  would  be  kept  under  cover 


till  the  sound-money  members  could 
mature  their  plans  for  dealing  with  it. 
How  much  of  the  present  fine  financial 
credit  of  the  United  States  is  due  to  the 
arbitrary  domination  of  these  two  men 
during  a  crucial  epoch,  few  persons 
realize  who  were  not  in  the  thick  of 
affairs  at  the  capital  while  the  life-and- 
death  struggle  over  the  fifty-cent  dollar 
was  going  on. 

Even  Tillman,  the  first  Goth  to  scale 
the  wall  of  a  supercivilized  Senate, 
has  a  record  in  the  same  line.  He  rose 
to  eminence,  as  we  have  seen,  as 
the  champion  of  popular  government 
against  an  oligarchy;  but  he  made  his 
second  campaign  for  the  governorship 
of  South  Carolina  on  the  plea  that  he 
could  not  give  his  state  a  reform  ad- 
ministration unless  he  could  have  con- 
trol of  its  legislature.  '  Turn  out  these 
driftwood  legislators,'  he  shouted  from 
every  stump,  'and  send  me  a  legisla- 
ture that  will  do  what  I  say,  and  I'll 
give  you  reform!' 

So  we  come  back  to  the  question : 
What  is  real  representation?  Is  it  rep- 
resentation of  the  intelligence,  or  of  the 
obtuseness  or  folly,  of  the  community? 
Is  it  responsible  representation,  or  pup- 
pet-like? Is  it  what  our  fathers  had  in 
mind,  or  what  we  have  got,  or  what 
our  children  seem  destined  to  receive? 
Which  is  the  better  represented:  the  , 
community  which  commits  its  inter- 
ests freely  to  the  keeping  of  an  able, 
well-trained,  patriotic  man,  who  is  too 
discerning  to  confuse  right  with  wrong 
or  individual  privilege  with  the  general 
good,  and  too  self-respecting  to  be 
afraid  of  his  constituents;  or  the  com- 
munity which  insists  on  leasing  the  soul 
of  its  representative,  as  well  as  his 
hands  and  his  brain,  for  the  price  of 
his  annual  salary,  and  dictating  abso- 
lutely his  conduct  while  in  office?  Or 
at  what  stage  between  these  two  ex- 
tremes can  it  be  said  with  most  truth 
that  our  representatives  represent? 


THE  REASONS  BEHIND  THE  WAR 


BY   ROLAND    G.   USHER 


THE  ostensible  cause  for  Austria's 
declaration  of  war  against  Servia  lay 
in  the  alleged  unsatisfactory  character 
of  the  Servian  reply  to  the  Austrian  de- 
mand for  suppression  of  anti-Austrian 
propaganda  and  societies  by  system- 
atic measures  in  which  Austria  should 
herself  take  an  active  part.  Not  only 
the  nature  of  the  demands,  but  the  lan- 
guage in  which  they  were  couched,  the 
circumstances  of  their  presentation, 
and  of  the  receipt  of  the  reply,  render 
it  probable  that  Austria  wished  to  force 
upon  Servia  the  solution  by  war  of  an 
infinitely  larger  issue  than  that  raised 
by  the  murder  of  the  unfortunate  Arch- 
duke and  his  wife.  Indeed,  the  funda- 
mental antipathies  between  Austria 
and  Servia,  already  centuries  old,  the 
strength  of  national  feeling,  and  the 
scope  of  national  ambition,  are  signifi- 
cant among  the  causes  of  this  war.  To 
settle  by  peaceful  means  such  a  tangle 
of  interests,  racial,  political,  and  com- 
mercial, in  any  fashion  mutually  agree- 
able, has  so  long  proved  futile,  that 
this  present  war  is  tinged  for  the  com- 
batants with  inevitability,  and  almost 
with  divine  sanction. 

To  Americans,  far  from  the  tramp  of 
armies  and  safe  from  the  aggression  of 
covetous  neighbors,  such  militant  en- 
thusiasm, such  driving  force  of  tradi- 
tion and  patriotism,  is  literally  incom- 
prehensible. And  to  explain  a  war 
begun  in  aggression,  couched  in  the 
terms  of  arrogance,  based  upon  the  con- 
sciousness of  vastly  superior  strength, 

444 


to  those  who  have  not  themselves  ex- 
perienced such  emotions  and  ambitions, 
above  all,  to  lend  to  it  the  color  of  in- 
evitability which  is  so  clear  to  Austrian 
and  Serb,  involves  the  explanation  of 
many  factors  not  at  first  obviously 
related  to  the  issue  itself. 


ii 

To  the  Austrian,  the  war  is  literally 
a  war  of  self-preservation.  Austria  has 
probably  the  least  homogeneous  popu- 
lation of  all  the  great  powers,  and  of 
that  heterogeneous  mixture  the  Slavs 
form  a  large  and  unruly  part.  In 
Southeastern  Austria,  in  Styria  and 
Carinthia,  in  Bosnia  and  Herzegovina 
are  millions  of  men,  racial  cousins  of 
the  Servians  so  near  them,  who  have 
long  chafed  under  the  Austrian  yoke 
and  as  constantly  dreamed  of  the  glad 
day  when  they  should  be  liberated  by 
some  great  revolution  of  all  Slavs  to- 
gether in  the  name  of  their  religion  and 
their  nationality. 

The  creation  from  these  Austrian 
subjects  and  their  Balkan  neighbors 
of  a  great  monarchy  has  been  more 
than  an  aspiration  for  many  years, 
and  for  the  last  year  or  two  much 
more  than  a  hope.  The  Emperor  of 
Austria,  Francis  Joseph,  is  old  and  the 
numerous  conspirators  in  his  domin- 
ions have  believed  that  his  death  would 
afford  an  excellent  opportunity  for  the 
great  revolt  and  the  dawn  of  freedom. 
The  Hungarians,  they  believe,  would 
not  elect  his  successor  king;  the  Bo- 
hemians would  likewise  decline  to 


THE  REASONS  BEHIND  THE  WAR 


445 


choose  him;  the  Poles,  the  Ruthenes, 
the  Croatians  and  Slavonians  would  all 
cast  off  the  yoke  together  and  become 
simultaneously  free  and  independent 
nations.  So  successful  has  this  propa- 
ganda been,  so  wide  is  its  support 
among  all  classes  of  the  community, 
and  so  far-reaching  are  its  ramifica- 
tions, that  the  Austrians  have  believed 
their  supremacy  seriously  imperiled 
and  the  continuance  of  the  Hapsburg 
Empire  in  its  present  form  almost  a 
matter  which  superior  force  alone  could 
decide  in  their  favor. 

Needless  to  add,  in  Servia  these  mal- 
contents found  their  natural  leader; 
there  they  found  refuge,  there  they 
obtained  funds.  To  believe  that  the 
Servian  government  would  of  its  own 
volition  do  more  than  avoid  official 
connection  with  these  schemes  was  to 
believe  that  they  would  renounce  their 
national  ambition  and  play  traitor  to 
those  who  looked  to  them  for  leader- 
ship. The  true  inwardness  of  the  Aus- 
trian demands  is  only  too  apparent: 
they  were  such  as  Austria  knew  in  ad- 
vance that  the  Servians  could  not  and 
would  not  accept  in  the  spirit  in  which 
they  were  made.  Yet,  a  war  which 
should  crush  Servia  to  earth,  rob  her  if 
possible  of  political  independence,  of  a 
quantity  of  men  and  treasure,  and 
thus  render  her  incapable  of  leading 
the  malcontents  in  Austria's  own  do- 
mains, seemed  at  this  crisis,  with  the 
Emperor  at  death's  door  and  the  Arch- 
duke dead,  and  an  unknown  quantity 
next  in  succession,  literally  the  only 
chance  of  maintaining  the  Hapsburg 
monarchy  and  of  securing  it  lease  of 
life  for  another  generation. 

From  the  actual  war  the  leaders  ex- 
pect great  results.  It  will  knit  the 
various  peoples  together  and  give  them 
a  common  object  to  strive  for  and  a 
common  victory  to  celebrate.  Already 
the  semi-official  press  at  Vienna  is 
exulting  in  the  'fact,'  now  *  apparent 


to  Europe/  'that  Austria-Hungary  is 
not  only  a  political  and  constitutional 
entity,  but  also  a  national  reality.'  It 
is  a  war  of  self-preservation,  a  war  to 
end  once  for  all  the  attempts  of  Servia 
to  disrupt  the  Empire;  such  is  the  offi- 
cial manifesto  of  the  Emperor. 

It  is  none  the  less  a  war  of  ambition 
and  aggression.  For  centuries  Austria 
has  dreamed  of  dominating  southeast- 
ern Europe,  of  ruling  the  Balkans,  of 
possessing  a  sea-coast  on  the  Adriatic 
and  ^Egean,  where  stately  ships  flying 
the  Austrian  flag  and  laden  with  the 
commerce  of  the  world  should  lie  at 
anchor.  The  economic  backwardness 
of  many  of  her  provinces  has  been  at- 
tributed to  the  difficulty  and  expense  of 
communication  overland  with  the  rest 
of  the  world,  to  the  fact  that  she  is  be- 
hind all  the  other  nations  save  Rus- 
sia. These  nations  buy  and  sell  each 
other's  produce  rather  than  hers,  and 
tax  her  produce  heavily  for  transporta- 
tion. A  direct  outlet  to  the  world's  trade, 
undisputed  control  of  some  really  sig- 
nificant strip  of  sea-coast  possessed  of 
really  fine  harbors,  are  indispensable 
for  development  and  expansion. 

Much  has  already  been  attained :  an 
outlet  to  the  sea,  possession  of  enough 
land  to  control  access  to  it,  but  a  coast 
whose  extent  is  limited  and  whose  ap- 
proaches are  in  large  measure  domi- 
nated by  other  nations.  Control  of 
Albania  and  Montenegro  would  give 
the  Austrians  what  they  wish,  but  only 
the  control  of  Servia  can  assure  their 
peaceful  possession  of  it.  Servia  men- 
aces Austria's  connections  with  Trieste, 
with  the  lower  Adriatic  through  Alba- 
nia; she  controls  the  shortest  and  best 
roads  to  the  ^Egean  at  Salonika  and  to 
the  ports  of  the  lower  Adriatic;  a  canal 
from  the  Danube  to  the  ^Egean  is  re- 
ported perfectly  feasible  but  its  route 
lies  through  Servian  territory. 

When  to  these  facts  we  add  the  lead- 
ership of  the  malcontents  in  south- 


446 


THE  REASONS  BEHIND  THE  WAR 


eastern  Austria,  and  the  possible  es- 
tablishment of  a  strong  Slav  state  in 
control  of  all  Austria's  present  ap- 
proaches to  the  Adriatic,  and  directly 
athwart  the  path  of  all  her  roads  to  the 
Mediterranean,  we  can  begin  to  com- 
prehend the  significance  that  the  pre- 
sent war  has  for  Austrians.  If  on  the 
one  hand  it  is  to  preserve  the  Austria 
that  is  from  disruption,  it  is  on  the 
other  none  the  less  certainly  an  attempt 
to  insure  the  future  of  the  Austria  that 
is  to  be. 

Short  of  Servia's  virtual  annihilation, 
Austria  cannot  rest.  The  protestation 
said  to  have  been  made  to  Russia  that 
no  accessions  of  territory  were  con- 
templated is  probably  true;  the  annex- 
ation of  Servia  would  so  greatly  change 
the  balance  of  power  in  the  Adriatic 
as  to  menace  decidedly  Italy's  interests 
and  risk  the  rupture  of  the  Triple  Alli- 
ance. During  the  Balkan  wars,  Servia, 
despite  her  gain  in  prestige,  suffered 
such  great  losses  in  men  and  resources 
that  Austria  scarcely  risks  failure  in 
the  military  operations,  and  will  cer- 
tainly further  weaken  Servia  in  men 
and  resources  to  a  point  which  will  very 
likely  render  her  impotent  for  harm 
(even  though  independent  and  in  pos- 
session of  her  present  boundaries)  for 
some  generations  to  come.  This  result, 
however,  clearly  cannot  be  assured  by 
negotiations  or  diplomatic  pourparlers. 
War,  destructive  war  alone,  can  ac- 
complish the  desired  result;  and  upon 
that  Austria  has  resolved. 


in 

It  was  obvious  to  the  Austrians  that 
these  considerations  were  familiar  to 
every  diplomatist  in  Europe,  and  that 
in  every  foreign  capital  their  motives 
would  be  only  too  completely  under- 
stood. There  were  states,  as  powerful 
as  they,  whose  interests  would  be  much 
injured  by  the  annihilation  of  Servia. 


Still,  the  Austrians  thought  that  there 
was  a  fair  chance  that  they  might  be  al- 
lowed to  deal  with  Servia  unmolested. 
Not  only  would  the  fears  of  general 
European  war  make  all  other  nations 
slow  to  interfere,  but  it  seemed  almost 
certain  that  the  domestic  difficulties  of 
the  Triple  Entente  would  prevent  Eng- 
land, France,  or  Russia  from  moving, 
while  the  striking  advantages  the  Triple 
Alliance  would  obtain  in  its  general 
position  from  Austria's  control  of  Ser- 
via, and  consequently  of  Albania  and 
Montenegro,  would  insure  the  neutral- 
ity of  Germany  and  Italy,  her  own 
sworn  allies. 

England  has  not  faced  in  many, 
many  years  a  problem  as  difficult  of 
solution  as  the  Ulster  crisis.  So  abso- 
lutely equal  in  size  have  been  the  Eng- 
lish parties  for  some  years  that  neither 
can  single-handed  form  a  majority  and 
control  the  House  of  Commons;  each 
is  dependent  for  ministerial  existence 
on  the  support  of  the  Irish  National- 
ists, some  eighty  in  number,  who  hold 
therefore,  literally,  the  balance  in  Eng- 
lish politics.  Realizing  the  helplessness 
of  both  of  the  great  English  parties,  the 
Nationalists  recently  delivered  their 
ultimatum  to  the  Cabinet :  they  would 
support  no  government  which  did  not 
actually  propose  and  pass  a  Home  Rule 
bill  satisfactory  to  them. 

No  sooner,  however,  did  the  bill  ap- 
proach its  final  stages  than  agitation 
began  in  Ulster  against  it.  Descend- 
ants of  English  colonists  in  Ireland, 
the  titles  to  their  lands  the  result  of 
confiscation,  Protestants  in  religion, 
Orangemen  in  1798,  they  would  not 
trust  the  Nationalist  Catholics  in  the 
face  of  the  accumulated  religious  and 
political  hatreds,  the  legacy  of  Ireland's 
past.  They  declared  that  they  would 
not  accept  Home  Rule,  and  would  make 
good  their  defiance  in  the  field.  A  pro- 
visional government  was  set  up;  troops 
enrolled,  armed,  and  drilled;  money 


THE   REASONS  BEHIND  THE  WAR 


447 


subscribed;  and  for  some  weeks  they 
awaited  with  scant  patience  the  out- 
come of  the  negotiations  at  London. 

The  Nationalists,  for  their  part,  de- 
clined to  allow  the  exclusion  of  Ulster. 
Ireland  is  poor  at  best ;  the  new  govern- 
ment would  have  a  difficult  financial 
problem  to  solve,  even  with  the  aid  of 
English  subsidies;  and  if  Ulster,  the 
richest  and  most  important  commercial 
centre  of  Ireland,  were  to  be  excluded, 
the  experiment  would  become  practi- 
cally unworkable.  Moreover,  Home 
Rule  predicated  the  existence  of  a  na- 
tion in  Ireland,  and  the  Nationalists 
could  not  accept  the  Ulster  doctrine, 
which  contradicted  the  very  premises 
of  Home  Rule.  The  Nationalists  de- 
clined Home  Rule  without  Ulster;  the 
Ulster  men  were  determined  to  accept 
nothing  less  than  the  complete  exclu- 
sion of  the  Ulster  Protestant  area  from 
the  operation  of  the  bill. 

Neither  party  was  willing  to  wait; 
both  were  armed;  both  clamored  for 
an  immediate  end  of  the  long  suspense 
and  the  restoration  of  settled  condi- 
tions. And  now,  when  conferences  and 
compromises  had  failed  to  break  the 
deadlock,  when  the  troops  had  fired 
on  Nationalists  in  Dublin,  when  the 
probability  of  civil  war  in  Ireland  was 
growing  nearer  daily,  Austria  declared 
war  upon  Servia.  If  the  Triple  Alliance 
was  awaiting  a  moment  when  England 
would  be  embarrassed  at  home,  they 
certainly  chose  their  moment  well. 

In  addition,  the  House  of  Commons 
had  manifested  its  hostility  to  the  Bud- 
get and  had  found  fault  with  the  allo- 
cation to  Mr.  Lloyd  George's  social 
legislation  of  funds  which  many  would 
assign  to  the  army  and  navy.  A  cabinet 
crisis  was  impending,  the  government's 
majority  was  restless  and  uneasy  over 
many  things,  and  the  Unionists  seemed 
scarcely  less  divided.  There  had  been 
complaints  from  influential  quarters 
that  the  personnel  of  the  navy  was  in- 


sufficient to  mobilize  the  fleets  England 
possesses.  Recruiting  had  not  been  suc- 
cessful lately,  and  the  quota  of  men  was 
probably  somewhat  smaller  than  it 
should  be.  Naturally  this  reduced  in 
Austrian  eyes  the  apparent  discrep- 
ancy between  the  size  of  the  English 
and  German  fleets. 

Then  out  of  the  difficulties  Hindu 
emigrants  had  recently  experienced  in 
South  Africa  and  Canada,  had  grown 
serious  problems  of  imperial  relation- 
ship. Canada  declared  she  would  not 
have  Hindus  in  Canada  at  all;  South 
Africa  denied  them  equality  of  status; 
the  Hindus  demanded  as  British  sub- 
jects freedom  of  emigration  and  equal- 
ity of  status  in  all  British  dominions. 
So  serious  a  rift  in  the  Imperial  struc- 
ture had  not  appeared  for  years.  Hith- 
erto, England  had  been  able  to  yield 
and  so  relieve  the  tension;  but  to  yield 
to  the  self-governing  colonies  at  this 
time  meant  an  agitation  in  India  at 
a  particularly  critical  period  in  world- 
politics,  an  agitation  which  would  only 
too  obviously  lend  color  and  weight  to 
the  anti-English  movement,  and  might 
even  be  interpreted  to  demonstrate  its 
inherent  justice. 

France,  the  Austrians  saw,  was  also 
less  fitted  than  usual  to  strike  or  resist. 
Recently  most  sensational  disclosures 
of  the  bad  condition  of  the  army  were 
made  in  the  Chamber.  The  artillery, 
supposedly  the  best  part  of  the  French 
army,  was  frankly  stated  to  be  old  or 
defective;  the  ammunition  old  and  in- 
sufficient in  quantity,  or  of  the  wrong 
size.  Frontier  forts  in  strategic  posi- 
tions dated  from  the  Franco-Prussian 
War,  and  had  not  even  been  properly 
repaired,  much  less  rendered  efficient 
from  the  point  of  view  of  modern  war- 
fare. The  aeroplane  squadrons,  on 
which  so  much  reliance  had  been  placed, 
were  said  to  be  only  on  paper:  the  num- 
ber of  machines  very  deficient;  many 
of  old  and  unstable  types;  the  personnel 


448 


THE  REASONS  BEHIND  THE  WAR 


of  the  service  much  ^mailer  than  the 
peace  footing  required,  to  say  nothing 
of  mobilization;  the  landing  places  bad- 
ly selected,  and  insufficient  in  area;  the 
sheds  too  small  and  too  large  a  propor- 
tion of  them  fixed.  These  charges  the 
Minister  of  War  was  compelled  to  ad- 
mit were  in  substance  correct.  Then, 
because  of  the  ministerial  crisis,  the 
Caillaux  scandal  involving  most  of  the 
Parliamentary  leaders,  and  the  strength 
of  the  opposition  to  the  three-years' 
service,  financial  provision  for  the  in- 
crease of  the  French  army  had  not  been 
completed,  and  the  execution  therefore 
of  most  of  the  provisions  of  the  recent 
army  law  was  hardly  more  than  in  a 
preparatory  stage.  The  French  Presi- 
dent, the  Premier,  the  Minister  of  For- 
eign Affairs,  with  other  notables,  and 
the  two  best  units  of  the  fleet,  were  also 
in  the  Baltic  visiting  foreign  potentates 
on  July  23,  when  Austria  delivered  her 
ultimatum.  France  was  thus,  Austria 
thought,  in  many  ways  estopped  from 
taking  prompt  offensive  action.  And 
England's  hands  were  tied! 

Russia,  the  Austrians  believed,  had 
not  yet  recovered  from  the  Japanese 
war  and  was  not  now  capable  of  a  seri- 
ous, sustained  effort  at  a  time  when  her 
allies,  France  and  England,  might  also 
be  compelled  to  make  a  sustained  ef- 
fort. France,  viewing  with  misgiving 
the  magnitude  of  the  expenditures  on 
the  army  (even  though  the  loan  was 
eventually  subscribed  by  the  patriotic 
bourgeoisie  forty  times  over),  would 
view  with  great  reluctance,  thought 
Austria,  the  financing  of  Russia  in  the 
event  of  European  war.  England,  with 
her  own  fleet  to  man  and  supply,  would 
not  single-handed  be  ajale  to  finance 
Russia,  the  Austrians  concluded.  Be- 
sides, the  serious  labor  difficulties  in 
Russia,  and  the  imperative  necessity  of 
gathering  the  coming  harvest,  would 
cause  the  Russians  to  hesitate  long  be- 
fore interfering  on  Servia's  behalf. 


The  probable  and  natural  allies  of 
the  Triple  Entente  were  also  particu- 
larly busy  or  otherwise  incapacitated 
from  action.  The  most  powerful,  if  the 
most  unlikely,  the  United  States,  with- 
out a  really  large  modern  army,  was 
facing  the  possibility  of  trouble  in 
Mexico  which  would  unquestionably 
require  all  her  efforts  for  at  least  a 
twelvemonth,  and  would  also  very 
likely  cause  the  Americans  to  hesitate 
before  joining  in  any  European  im- 
broglio. The  Balkan  States,  long  sworn 
enemies  of  Austrian  expansion,  were 
too  exhausted  from  the  two  recent  wars 
to  be  very  dangerous,  and  Bulgaria, 
smarting  from  her  humiliation  at  Ser- 
via's hands,  might  indeed  actually  join 
Austria  in  the  event  of  a  general  con- 
flagration, and  could  certainly  be  relied 
upon  to  remain  neutral  if  the  war  were 
limited  to  Austria  and  Servia.  Greece 
and  Montenegro,  who  would  very  likely 
join  Servia,  the  Austrians  do  not  fear. 

IV 

Thus  there  was  a  reasonable  chance 
that  the  Powers  would  not  interfere  to 
save  Servia  from  chastisement.  If  they 
did,  and  a  general  European  war  re- 
sulted, there  had  not  been  in  twenty 
years  anything  like  as  favorable  an 
opportunity  for  the  Triple  Alliance  or 
one  as  disadvantageous  for  the  Triple 
Entente.  The  stake  was  so  immense, 
the  results  of  success  would  be  so  stu- 
pendous, so  out  of  proportion,  in  the  case 
of  the  Triple  Alliance,  with  what  they 
might  lose,  that  the  issue  of  war  might 
even  be  courted  with  some  assurance. 
Should  they  win,  substantial  accessions 
of  territory,  money  indemnities,  and  a 
vastly  increased  prestige  would  be  the 
least  they  could  confidently  expect. 

The  schemes  of  the  Pan-Germanists 
indeed  reach  to  the  creation  of  a  vast 
confederation  of  states  including  pres- 
ent Germany,  Holland,  Belgium,  Den- 


THE  REASONS  BEHIND  THE  WAR 


449 


mark,  Austria-Hungary,  Italy,  the  Bal- 
kans, Turkey,  and  Asia  Minor — a  great 
belt  of  territory  reaching  'from  the 
North  Sea  to  the  Persian  Gulf,  from  the 
Baltic  to  the  Mediterranean/  as  one  of 
their  slogans  has  it.  The  Confedera- 
tion would  have  all-rail  connection  with 
the  Persian  Gulf  via  Vienna,  Constan- 
tinople, and  the  Bagdad  Railway.  It 
would  give  the  trade  of  the  East  a  route 
to  the  European  markets  far  quicker 
and  possibly  cheaper  than  the  all-sea 
route  via  Suez.  It  would  be  invulner- 
able to  attacks  from  the  English  fleet, 
and  would  itself  render  the  present 
English  chain  of  communications  with 
the  Far  East  untenable. 

Of  this  great  scheme  (supposing  it  to 
be,  as  many  claim,  the  veritable  secret 
policy  of  the  Triple  Alliance)  the  un- 
disputed possession  of  the  Balkans  by 
the  Triple  Alliance  is  the  most  import- 
ant single  factor.  If  the  Triple  En- 
tente did  not  interfere,  Austria  would 
crush  Servia  and  make  the  Triple  Alli- 
ance the  dominant  influence  in  the 
Balkans.  If  it  did  act,  even  if  it  acted 
promptly,  Austria  could  surely  occupy 
the  Balkans  quickly  enough  to  render 
the  position  of  immense  advantage  in 
the  general  war,  for  the  Balkans  cover 
the  rear  of  the  Triple  Alliance. 

As  to  a  general  assault  upon  the 
Triple  Entente,  the  Triple  Alliance  has 
long  seen  two  obvious  methods,  both  in 
the  opinion  of  many  likely  to  be  suc- 
cessful: the  one,  a  long  waiting  game 
where  the  rapid  growth  of  the  popula- 
tion in  Germany,  Austria,  and  Italy, 
and  the  decline  of  the  rate  of  growth  in 
France,  England,  and  Russia,  would  in 
time  give  the  Alliance  a  real  prepon- 
derance in  numbers;  the  other,  a  short 
quick  blow  at  some  moment  when  the 
Triple  Alliance  could  bring  all  its 
strength  to  bear  and  when  the  Triple 
Entente  could  not.  The  former  meant, 
not  improbably,  many  years  of  waiting, 
and  in  those  years  much  might  happen. 

VOL.  114 -NO.  4 


Thoroughly  alive  to  the  situation,  the 
Triple  Entente  had  already  under  exe- 
cution the  preliminaries  of  so  vast  an 
increase  of  offensive  force,  and  show- 
ed such  a  determination  to  maintain 
a  naval  and  military  preponderance, 
that  there  would  be  no  alternative  but 
waiting,  once  these  schemes  were  per- 
fected. The  French,  and  particularly 
the  Russian,  army  was  to  be  increased, 
not  only  in  size,  but  in  efficiency  and 
equipment;  and  an  influential  minor- 
ity in  England,  with  apparent  popular 
support,  was  agitating  conscription. 
The  English  navy  was  to  be  much  in- 
creased in  fighting  force  by  manning  at 
war  strength  in  the  near  future  a  much 
larger  proportion  of  ships  than  ever  be- 
fore. Chief est  of  all,  the  Russians  were 
building  in  the  Baltic  a  really  formid- 
able fleet,  capable  of  contesting  the 
Baltic  with  Germany  and  of  threaten- 
ing the  rear  of  the  German  fleet  in  the 
Atlantic  to  such  an  extent  that  united 
fleet  action  in  the  North  Sea  would  be- 
come an  impossibility.  This  meant  of 
course  that  the  German  fleet  might  lose 
its  power  of  terrorizing  England,  for, 
once  divided  between  the  Atlantic  and 
Baltic,  it  would  not  be  large  enough 
(under  present  legislation)  to  meet  the 
English  fleet,  and  certainly  could  not 
risk  an  attack  from  the  English  and 
Russian  fleets  in  front  and  rear. 

If  they  were  to  fight  at  all,  they  must 
fight  now.  Next  summer  might  be  too 
late.  Now  the  actual  offensive  force  of 
their  rivals  was  proportionately  less 
than  it  might  be  again  for  ten  years, 
and  their  difficulties  at  home  were 
collectively  and  individually  greater 
than  any  of  the  three  has  seen  for  a 
generation. 

So  far  as  the  fulfillment  of  the  schemes 
of  Pan-Germanism  is  concerned,  the 
moment  is  more  than  opportune  and 
will  not  return.  Part  of  the  objective 
of  the  Pan-Germanists  is  the  control  of 
the  trade  of  the  Far  East  and  the  lion's 


450 


THE  REASONS  BEHIND  THE  WAR 


share  in  the  development  of  China, 
Africa,  and  South  America.  Already 
they  threaten  England's  control  of  the 
Suez  route,  and,  if  a  general  action  with 
Germany  seemed  likely  in  the  North 
Sea,  the  English  might  so  weaken  the 
Mediterranean  fleet  to  insure  a  pre- 
ponderance in  the  Channel,  that  Italy, 
Austria,  and  Turkey  might  sweep  the 
Mediterranean  clear  and  take  Suez. 
Then,  assuming  that  all  went  at  least 
not  badly  in  the  North,  India  and  the 
East  could  be  quickly  overrun  and  con- 
trol so  firmly  established  that  nothing 
short  of  a  catastrophe  in  Europe  could 
undo  it. 

One  thing  alone  might  stand  in  the 
way.  The  opening  of  the  Panama  Canal 
this  coming  year  would  provide  the 
Triple  Entente  with  another  sea  route 
to  the  East,  through  which  third-  and 
fourth-rate  English  ships  could  pass  in 
sufficient  numbers  to  dispose  of  any 
force  which  the  Triple  Alliance  could 
spare  from  the  Mediterranean.  The 
results,  even  of  victory  for  the  Triple 
Alliance,  will  be  limited  to  Europe,  in 
all  probability,  once  the  Panama  gate- 
way to  the  Pacific  is  available. 

Again,  it  seemed  to  Austria  advis- 
able to  move  before  the  Balkan  nations 
had  recovered  from  the  physical  and 
financial  exhaustion  of  the  recent  war. 
Weak,  they  could  easily  be  overrun 
and  were  of  little  advantage  as  allies  to 
the  Triple  Entente;  strong,  they  might 
become  thorns  in  the  flesh,  constantly 
menacing  the  rear.  Turkey  on  the 
other  hand  is  not  by  any  means  so 
much  exhausted  by  the  war,  and  its 
army,  just  reorganized  by  the  new  Ger- 
man military  mission,  should  prove, 
thought  Austria,  of  sufficient  account 
to  keep  Greece  busy.  Then,  for  the  mo- 
ment, the  Turkish  navy  controlled  the 
yEgean  by  virtue  of  the  recent  purchase 
from  Brazil  of  a  first-class  battleship. 
Although  the  Greeks  had  just  bought 
two  battleships  from  the  United  States 


—  of  older  construction  to  be  sure,  but 
still  formidable  —  they  would  not  be 
on  the  scene  ready  for  action  for  some 
weeks. 

For  the  nonce,  factors  at  home  were 
as  favorable  to  the  Triple  Alliance  as 
they  were  unfavorable  to  the  Triple 
Entente.  The  new  German  army  meas- 
ures were  practically  completed;  the 
Austrian  and  Italian  armies  strength- 
ened and  improved.  The  German 
fleet's  efficiency  had  been  enormously 
increased  by  placing  all  the  modern 
ships  on  a  war  footing.  No  domestic 
difficulties  of  importance  hampered  the 
action  of  any  of  the  three  governments. 
They  were,  moreover,  only  too  well 
aware  that  the  situation  was  likely  in 
the  immediate  future  to  change  for  the 
worse. 

First  and  foremost,  the  age  and  ill- 
health  of  the  Emperor  of  Austria  made 
his  death  possible  at  any  time,  and  even 
the  partial  disruption  of  his  Empire 
would  without  question  destroy  the 
offensive  (and  perhaps  the  defensive) 
force  of  the  Triple  Alliance  and  provide 
the  Triple  Entente  with  a  favorable 
opportunity  for  aggression  which  they 
would  not  be  likely  to  let  pass.  The 
Hungarian  plans  for  independence  were 
no  secret;  the  schemes  for  the  creation 
of  a  third  Slav  monarchy  out  of  South- 
ern Austria  were  far  advanced  among 
the  plotters,  and  had  had  support  (as  a 
necessary  compromise)  from  influential 
statesmen  in  Vienna  at  one  time  or 
another.  The  murder  of  the  Archduke 
was,  it  was  feared,  part  of  this  scheme, 
and  prompt  action  against  the  chief 
offenders  was  meant  to  postpone  or 
prevent  its  execution. 

From  the  accession  to  the  throne 
of  a  complicated  empire  like  Austria- 
Hungary —  in  a  few  years  or  perhaps 
months  —  of  a  young  man,  whose  po- 
litical capacity  and  training  were  cer- 
tainly not  above  the  average,  little 
good  could  be  anticipated.  If  he  could 


THE  REASONS  BEHIND  THE  WAR 


451 


hold  together  this  jumble  of  races  and 
religions,  this  tangle  of  political  and 
national  interests,  and  keep  the  Dual 
Monarchy  alive,  he  would  accomplish 
the  maximum  that  could  be  expected 
of  him.  No  doubt  there  were  in  all 
parts  of  the  Empire  able  and  patriotic 
ministers  who  could  govern  for  him, 
yet  the  personal  ability  and  influence 
of  Francis  Joseph  has  alone  harmon- 
ized these  ministers'  views  and  given 
Austria  a  consistent  foreign  policy  and 
the  aspect  of  a  single  nation  in  the 
world's  councils. 

Was  it  to  be  expected  that  a  young 
and  unknown  man  would  be  able  to 
discharge  duties  which  had  constant- 
ly taxed  the  ability  of  a  singularly 
capable  and  unusually  popular  mon- 
arch? In  Austria,  the  Emperor  really 
is  sovereign,  and  must  personally  dis- 
charge functions  requiring  the  utmost 
degree  of  intelligence,  skill,  tact,  and 
information.  Was  it  likely  that  the  heir 
apparent  possessed  these?  There  was 
everything  to  gain,  not  only  for  the 
Triple  Alliance  but  for  Austria  herself, 
if  the  war  could  be  at  least  begun  by 
Francis  Joseph.  Victory  would  insure 
the  future  of  the  monarchy,  and  if  de- 
feat were  the  measure  dealt  by  the 
Fates,  better  far  that  Francis  Joseph 
himself  should  tide  over  the  first  mo- 
ments of  humiliation  and  readjust- 
ment, and  that  he  should  have  charge 
of  diplomatic  negotiations  which  could 
not  fail  to  be  of  the  utmost  delicacy 
and  consequence. 

In  addition  to  these  grave  apprehen- 
sions were  the  fears  that  the  growing 
socialism  in  Germany,  much  of  which 
would  be  elsewhere  simple  political 
discontent  with  autocratic  government 
and  the  class  system  of  voting,  might 
force  the  rulers  to  share  some  of  their 
power  with  *  the  mob.'  Never  has  mili- 
tarism in  Germany  been  as  strong'  as 
it  is  to-day.  Witness  the  white-wash- 


ing and  virtual  acquittal  of  the  of- 
fenders in  the  Krupp  scandals  and  the 
Zabern  incident,  in  the  face  of  an  over- 
whelming chorus  of  disapproval  from 
every  possible  organ  of  public  opinion. 
The  moment  was,  from  this  point  of 
view  also,  favorable. 

These  were  the  real  causes  of  the 
Austro-Servian  war:  the  disadvantage 
of  the  moment  to  the  Triple  Entente, 
its  advantages  to  the  Triple  Alliance; 
the  belief  that  the  balance  might  be- 
fore long  swing  so  decisively  the  other 
way  that  action  might  become  impos- 
sible and  might  even  so  decidedly  favor 
the  Triple  Entente  that  the  latter  could 
take  the  field  with  almost  complete 
assurance  of  success. 

Let  us  beware  of  saying  that  Aus- 
tria advisedly  began  a  general  Euro- 
pean war  or  that  Germany  was  anxious 
to  fight.  They  have  neither  of  them 
ever  been  anxious  to  fight  for  what 
they  are  determined  to  have,  unless 
they  can  obtain  it  in  no  other  way. 

The  crippling  of  Servia  was,  from  the 
point  of  view  of  Austrian  domestic 
politics,  long  decided  upon;  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  interests  of  the 
Triple  Alliance  as  a  whole,  it  was  highly 
desirable,  and,  if  successful,  would  al- 
low them  to  dominate  the  Balkans;  but 
it  was  a  movement  of  such  a  character, 
involving  so  great  a  change  in  the  bal- 
ance of  power  in  Europe  and  affecting 
so  gravely  the  interests  of  other  nations, 
that  it  could  not  be  undertaken,  ex- 
cept at  a  time  when  the  situation  made 
the  Triple  Alliance  willing  to  accept 
the  issue  of  a  general  conflagration 
should  the  Triple  Entente  be  also  will- 
ing to  undertake  it.  Properly  speaking, 
therefore,  the  true  causes  of  the  declar- 
ation of  war  upon  Servia  by  Austria 
lie  less  in  the  domestic  relations  of  the 
two  countries  than  in  the  general  Eu- 
ropean situation  in  the  fourth  week  of 
July,  1914. 


OUR  LADY  POVERTY 


BY   AGNES   REPPLIER 


THE  last  people  to  read  the  literature 
of  poverty  are  the  poor,  and  this  fact 
may  be  cited  as  one  of  the  ameliorations 
of  their  lot.  If  they  were  assured  day 
after  day  that  they  were  degraded  and 
enslaved,  it  would  be  a  trifle  hard  for 
them  to  cherish  their  respectability, 
and  enjoy  their  freedom.  If  their  mis- 
ery were  dinned  into  their  ears,  they 
would  naturally  cease  being  cheerful. 
If  they  were  convinced  that  tears  are 
their  portion,  they  would  no  longer  have 
the  temerity  to  laugh.  Indeed  their 
mirth  is  frankly  repellent  to  the  dolor- 
ous writers  of  to-day. 

A  burst  of  hollow  laughter  from  a  hopeless  heart 

is  permitted  as  seemly  and  in  charac- 
ter; even  the  poet  of  the  slums  grants 
this  outlet  for  emotion;  but  the  rude 
sounds  which  denote  hilarity  disturb 
the  sympathetic  soul.  One  agitated 
lady  describes  with  shrinking  horror 
the  merriment  of  the  scrub-women  go- 
ing to  their  labor.  All  the  dignity,  all 
the  sacredness  of  womanhood  are  de- 
filed by  these  poor  old  creatures  tramp- 
ing through  the  chill  dawn;  and  yet, 
and  yet, —  oh,  mockery  of  nobler  aspi- 
rations! —  'The  scrub-women  were  go- 
ing to  work,  and  they  went  laughing!' 

The  dismalness  of  serious  writers,  es- 
pecially if  humanity  be  their  theme,  is 
steeping  us  in  gloom.  The  obsession  of 
sorrow  seems  the  most  reasonable  of  all 
obsessions,  because  facts  can  be  crowd- 
ed upon  facts  (to  the  general  exclusion 
of  truth)  by  way  of  argument  and  illus- 

452 


tration.  And  should  facts  fail,  there 
are  bitter  generalizations  which  shroud 
us 'like  a  pall. 

Behind  all  music  we  can  hear 
The  insistent  note  of  hunger-fear; 
Beyond  all  beauty  we  can  see 
The  land's  defenseless  misery. 

Mr.  Percy  Mackaye  in  his  preface  to 
that  treatise  on  eugenics  which  he  has 
christened  To-Morrow,  and  humorous- 
ly designated  as  a  play,  makes  this  in- 
spiriting statement :  *  Our  world  is  hide- 
ously unhappy,  and  the  insufferable 
sense  of  that  unhappiness  is  the  conse- 
cration of  modern  leaders  in  art.  Real- 
ism is  splendidly  their  incentive/ 

This  opens  up  a  cheering  vista  for 
the  public.  If  the  dramatists  of  the 
near  future  are  to  have  no  finer  conse- 
cration than  an  insufferable  sense  of 
unhappiness,  we  must  turn  for  amuse- 
ment to  lectures  and  organ  recitals.  If 
novelists  and  poets  are  to  be  hallowed 
by  grief,  there  will  be  nothing  left  for 
light-hearted  readers  save  the  study  of 
political  economy,  erstwhile  called  the 
*  dismal  science,'  but  now,  by  compari- 
son, gay.  No  artist  yet  was  ever  born 
of  an  insufferable  sense  of  unhappiness. 
No  leader  and  helper  of  men  was  ever 
bedewed  with  tears.  The  world  is  old, 
and  the  world  is  wide.  Of  what  use  are 
we  in  its  tumultuous  life,  if  we  do  not 
know  its  joys,  its  griefs,  its  high  emo- 
tions, its  call  to  courage,  and  the  echo 
of  the  laughter  of  the  ages? 

Perhaps  the  only  literature  of  pov- 
erty (I  use  the  word  *  literature'  in  a 
purely  courteous  sense)  which  was  ever 
written  for  the  poor  is  that  amazing 


' OUR  LADY  POVERTY' 


453 


issue  of  tracts,  Village  Politics,  Tales 
for  the  Common  People,  and  scores  of 
similar  productions,  which  a  hundred 
years  ago  were  let  loose  upon  rural 
England.  The  moral  in  all  of  them  is 
the  same,  and  is  expressed  with  engag- 
ing simplicity:  *  Don't  give  trouble  to 
people  better  off  than  yourself.'  The 
fact  that  many  of  these  tracts  had  a 
prodigious  sale  points  to  their  distribu- 
tion —  by  the  rich  —  in  quarters  where 
it  was  thought  that  they  would  do  most 
good.  They  were  probably  read  in  the 
same  spirit  as  that  in  which  a  Sunday- 
school  library  was  read  by  two  small 
and  unregenerate  boys  of  my  ac- 
quaintance, who  worked  through  whole 
shelves  at  a  fixed  rate,  ten  cents  for  a 
short  book,  twenty-five  cents  for  a  long 
one,  •  •  the  money  paid  by  a  pious 
grandmother,  and  a  point  of  honor 
not  to  skip. 

The  smug  complacency  of  Hannah 
More  and  her  sisterhood  was  rudely  dis- 
turbed by  Ebenezer  Elliott,  who  pub- 
lished his  Corn-Law  Rhymer,  with  its 
profound  pity  and  its  somewhat  impo- 
tent wrath,  in  1831.  England  woke  up 
to  the  disturbing  conviction  that  men 
and  women  were  starving, — always  a 
disagreeable  thing  to  contemplate, — 
and  the  Corn  Laws  were  repealed;  but 
the  '  Rhymes '  were  probably  as  little 
known  to  the  laborer  of  1831  as  was 
Piers  Plowman  to  the  laborer  of  1392. 
Langland  —  to  whom  partial  critics 
have  for  five  hundred  years  ascribed 
this  great  poem  of  discontent  —  was 
keenly  alive  to  the  value  of  husbandry 
as  a  theme;  and  his  ploughman  came 
in  time  to  be  recognized  as  the  people's 
suffering  representative;  but  the  poet, 
after  the  fashion  of  poets,  wrote  for '  let- 
tered clerks,'  of  which  class  he  was  a 
shining  example,  his  praiseworthy  pur- 
pose in  life  being  to  avoid  'common 
men's  work.'  In  the  last  century,  Les 
Miserables  was  called  the  *  Epic  of  the 
Poor';  but  its  readers  were,  for  the 


most  part,  as  comfortably  remote  from 
poverty  as  Victor  Hugo  himself,  and 
as  alive  to  the  advantages  of  wealth. 

In  this  age  of  print,  the  literature  of 
poverty  has  swollen  to  an  enormous 
bulk.  Statistical  books,  explicit  and 
contradictory.  Hopeful  books  by  so- 
cial workers  who  see  salvation  in  girls' 
clubs  and  refined  dancing.  Hopeless 
books  by  other  social  workers  who  be- 
lieve —  or,  at  least,  who  say  —  that 
the  employed  are  enslaved  by  the  em- 
ployer, and  that  women  and  children 
are  the  prey  of  men.  Highly  colored 
books  by  adventurous  young  journal- 
ists who  have  masqueraded  (for  copy's 
sake)  as  mill  and  factory  hands.  Gray 
books  by  casual  observers  who  are 
paralyzed  by  the  mere  sight  of  a  slum. 
Furious  books  by  rabid  socialists  who 
hold  that  the  poor  will  never  be  up- 
lifted while  there  is  left  in  the  world  a 
man  rich  enough  to  pay  them  wages. 
Imaginative  books  by  poets  and  novel- 
ists who  deal  in  realism  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  reality.  All  this  profusion  and 
confusion  of  matter  is  thrust  upon  us 
month  after  month,  while  the  working- 
man  reads  his  newspaper,  and  the 
working-girl  reads  A  Coronet  of  Shame, 
or  Lost  in  Fate's  Fearful  Abyss. 

It  was  Mr.  George  Gissing  who,  in 
his  studies  of  the  poor,  first  made  pop- 
ular the  invective  style;  who  hurled  at 
London  such  epithets  as  'pest-strick- 
en,' '  city  of  the  damned,' '  intimacies  of 
abomination,'  'utmost  limits  of  dread,' 
—  phrases  which  have  been  faithfully 
copied  by  shuddering  defamers  of  New 
York  and  Chicago.  Mr.  John  Burns, 
for  example,  after  a  brief  visit  to  the 
United  States,  said  that  Chicago  was 
a  pocket  edition  of  hell;  and  subse- 
quently, without,  we  hope,  any  per- 
sonal experience  to  back  him,  said  that 
hell  was  a  pocket  edition  of  Chicago. 

Americans  have  borrowed  these  flow- 
ers of  speech  from  England,  and  have 
invaded  her  territory.  Was  it  because 


454 


'OUR  LADY  POVERTY' 


he  could  find  no  poverty  at  home  wor- 
thy of  his  strenuous  pen,  that  Mr. 
Jack  London  crossed  the  sea  to  write 
up  the  streets  of  Whitechapel  and  Spit- 
alfields,  already  so  abundantly  exploit- 
ed by  English  authors?  Was  there  any- 
thing he  could  add  to  the  dark  pictures 
of  Mr.  Gissing,  or  to  the  more  convin- 
cing studies  of  Mr.  Arthur  Morrison, 
who  has  lit  up  the  gloom  with  a  grim 
humor,  not  very  mirthful,  but  acutely 
and  unimpeachably  human?  Mr.  Gis- 
sing's  poor  have  money  for  nothing  but 
beer  (it  would  be  a  bold  writer  who 
denied  his  starvelings  beer);  but  Mr. 
Morrison  sees  his  way  occasionally  to 
bacon,  and  tea,  and  tinned  beef,  and 
even,  at  rare  intervals,  to  a  pompous 
funeral,  provided  that  the  money  for 
mutes  can  be  saved  from  the  sick  man's 
diet.  He  is  the  legitimate  successor  of 
Dickens,  and  Dickens  knew  his  field 
from  experience  rather  than  from  ob- 
servation. The  lighthouse-keeper  sees 
the  storm,  but  the  cabin  boy  feels  it. 

In  the  annals  of  poverty  there  are 
few  pages  more  poignant  than  the  one 
which  describes  the  sick  child,  Charles 
Dickens,  taken  home  from  work  by  a 
kind-hearted  lad,  and  his  shame  lest 
this  boy  should  learn  that  'home'  for 
him  meant  the  debtors'  prison.  In  vain 
he  tried  to  get  rid  of  his  conductor,  Bob 
Fagin  by  name,  protesting  that  he  was 
well  enough  to  walk  alone.  Bob  knew 
he  was  not,  and  stuck  to  his  side.  To- 
gether they  pushed  along  until  little 
Charles  was  fainting  with  weakness 
and  fatigue.  Then  in  desperation  he 
pretended  that  he  lived  in  a  decent 
house  near  Southwark  bridge,  and 
darted  up  the  steps  with  a  joyous  air  of 
being  at  last  in  haven,  only  to  creep 
down  again  when  Bob's  back  was 
turned,  and  drag  his  slow  steps  to  the 
Marshalsea. 

Out  of  this  dismal  and  precocious  ex- 
perience sprang  two  results, —  a  pas- 
sionate resolve  not  to  be  what  circum- 


stances were  conspiring  to  make  him, 
and  an  insight  into  the  uncalculating 
habits  which  deepen  and  soften  pov- 
erty. Dickens  —  once  free  of  institu- 
tions —  wrote  of  the  poor,  even  of  the 
London  poor,  with  amazing  geniality; 
but  it  cannot  be  denied  that  his  infal- 
lible recipe  for  brightening  up  the  scene 
is  the  timely  introduction  of  a  pot  of 
porter,  or  a  pitcher  of  steaming  flip. 
If  we  try  to  think  of  him  writing  in  a 
prohibition  state,  we  shall  realize  that 
he  owed  as  much  to  beer  and  punch  as 
ever  Horace  did  to  wine.  Imagination 
fails  to  grasp  either  of  them  in  the  role 
of  a  water-drinker.  The  poor  of  Dick- 
ens are  a  sturdy  lot,  but  they  are  jovial 
only  in  their  cups.  His  wholesome  ha- 
tred of  institutions  would  have  been 
intensified  could  he  have  lived  to  hear 
the  Camberwell  Board  of  Guardians 
decide  —  at  the  instigation,  alas !  of  a 
woman  member  —  that  the  single  mug 
of  beer  which  for  years  had  solaced  the 
inmates  of  Camberwell  Workhouse  on 
Christmas  Day,  should  hereafter  be 
abolished  as  an  immoral  indulgence. 
The  generous  ghost  of  Dickens  must 
have  groaned  in  Heaven  over  that  mel- 
ancholy and  mean  reform. 


ii 

'To  achieve  what  man  may,  to  bear 
what  man  must,' — since  the  struggle 
for  life  began,  this  has  been  the  purpose 
and  the  pride  of  humanity.  We  Amer- 
icans were  trained  from  childhood  to 
believe  that  while,  in  the  final  issue, 
each  of  us  must  answer  for  himself,  the 
country  —  our  country  —  gave  to  all 
scope  for  effort,  and  chance  of  victory. 
This  was  not  mere  Fourth  of  July 
oratory,  nor  the  fervent  utterances 
of  presidential  campaigns.  It  was  a 
serious  and  a  sober  faith,  based  upon 
some  knowledge  of  the  Constitution, 
some  inheritance  of  experience,  some 
element  of  democracy  which  flavored 


4 OUR  LADY  POVERTY' 


455 


our  early  lives.  The  mere  sense  of  space 
carried  with  it  a  profound  and  eager 
hopefulness.  Those  of  us  whose  fathers 
or  whose  grandfathers  had  crossed  the 
sea  to  escape  from  more  cramping 
conditions,  felt  this  atmosphere  of  in- 
dependence keenly  and  consciously. 
Those  of  us  whose  fathers  or  whose 
grandfathers  brought  up  their  families 
in  an  alien  land  with  decent  industry 
and  thrift,  were  aware,  even  in  child- 
hood, that  the  Republic  had  fostered 
our  growth.  Therefore  am  I  pardon- 
ably bewildered  when  I  hear  American 
workmen  called  '  slaves '  and  *  prisoners 
of  starvation,'  and  American  employ- 
ers called  'base  oppressors,'  and  'des- 
pots on  their  thrones.'  This  fantastic 
nomenclature  seems  immeasurably  re- 
moved from  the  temperate  language 
in  which  were  formulated  the  temper- 
ate convictions  of  my  youth. 

The  assumption  that  the  American 
laborer  to-day  stands  where  the  French 
laborer  stood  before  the  Revolution, 
where  the  English  laborer  stood  before 
the  passing  of  the  first  Reform  Bill  and 
the  repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws,  shows  a 
lack  of  historical  perspective.  The'as- 
sumption  that  all  strikes  represent  an 
agonized  protest  against  tyranny,  an 
agonized  appeal  from  injustice,  is  a  per- 
version of  truth.  The  assumption  that 
child-labor  in  the  United  States  is  the 
blot  upon  civilization  that  it  was  in 
England  seventy  years  ago,  denies  the 
duty  of  comparison.  If  the  people  who 
write  verses  about  'Labor  Crucified' 
would  make  a  table  of  the  wages  paid 
to  skilled  and  unskilled  workmen,  from 
the  Chicago  carpenter  to  the  Philadel- 
phia street-cleaner,  they  might  sing  in 
a  more  cheerful  strain.  If  the  people 
who  to-day  echo  the  bitterest  lines^of 
Mrs.  Browning's  'Cry  of  the  Children' 
would  ascertain  and  bear  in  mind  the 
proportion  of  little  boys  and  girls  who 
are  going  to  school  in  the  United  States, 
how  many  years  they  average,  and  how 


much  the  country  pays  for  their  educa- 
tion, they  might  spare  us  some  violent 
invectives.  Even  Mr.  Robert  Hunter 
permits  himself  the  use  of  the  word 
'  cannibalism '  when  speaking  of  child- 
workers,  and  this  in  the  face  of  legisla- 
tion which  every  year  extends  its  area, 
and  grows  more  stringently  protective. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  loose  writing 
on  this  important  theme,  and  it  stands 
in  the  way  of  amendment.  It  is  as- 
sumed that  parents  are  seldom  or  never 
to  blame  for  sending  their  children  to 
work.  The  mill-owner  snatches  them 
from  their  mothers'  arms.  It  is  as- 
sumed that  the  child  who  works  would 
—  if  there  were  no  employment  for 
him  —  be  at  school,  or  at  play,  happy, 
healthy,  and  well-nourished.  No  one 
even  alludes  to  the  cruel  poverty  of  the 
South,  which,  for  generations  before 
the  cotton  mills  were  built,  stunted  the 
growth  and  sapped  the  strength  of 
Southern  children.  They  lived,  we  are 
told,  a  'wholesome  rural  life,'  and  the 
greed  of  the  capitalist  is  alone  respon- 
sible for  the  blighting  of  their  pastoral 
paradise. 

There  is  no  need  to  write  like  this. 
The  question  at  issue  is  a  grave  and 
simple  one.  It  makes  its  appeal  to  the 
conscience  and  the  sense  of  the  nation, 
and  every  year  sees  some  measure  of 
reform.  If  a  baby  girl  in  an  American 
city,  a  child  of  three  or  five,  is  forced 
to  toil  all  day,  winding  artificial  daisy 
stems  at  a  penny  a  hundred,  let  the 
name  of  her  employer  and  the  place  of 
her  employment  be  made  public.  The 
Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty 
to  Children  can  deal  peremptorily  with 
such  a  case.  It  is  not  even  the  privilege 
of  parents  to  work  a  little  child  so  re- 
lentlessly. If  the  pathetic  story  is  not 
supported  by  facts,  or  is  not  in  accord 
with  facts,  it  is  neither  wise  nor  well  to 
publish  it.  Why  should  a  sober  peri- 
odical, like  the  Child-Labor  Bulletin, 
devoted  to  a  good  cause,  print  a  poem 


456 


4 OUR  LADY  POVERTY' 


called  '  A  Song  of  the  Factory,'  in 
which  happy  children  are  portrayed  as 
sporting  in  beautiful  meadows, 

Idling  among  the  feathery  blooms, 

until  a  sort  of  ogre  comes  along,  builds 
a  factory,  drives  the  poor  innocents 
into  it,  and  compels  them  to 

Crouch  all  day  by  the  spindles,  wizened,  and 
wan,  and  old, 

earning  *  his  bread.'  Apparently  —  and 
this  is  the  gist  of  the  matter  —  they 
have  no  need  to  earn  bread  for  them- 
selves. The  accompanying  illustra- 
tions show  us  on  one  page  a  prettily 
dressed  little  girl  sitting  daisy-crowned 
in  the  fields,  and,  on  the  other  page,  a 
ragged  and  tattered  little  girl  with  a 
shawl  over  her  head  going  to  the  work 
which  has  but  too  plainly  impoverished 
her.  Hansel  and  Gretel  are  not  more 
distinctly  within  the  boundaries  of 
fairyland  than  are  these  entrapped 
children.  The  witch  is  not  more  dis- 
tinctly a  child-eating  hobgoblin  than 
is  the  capitalist  of  such  fervid  song. 

The  sickly  and  unreasoning  tone 
which  pervades  the  literature  of  pover- 
ty is  demoralizing.  There  is  nothing 
helpful  in  the  assumption  that  effort  is 
vain,  resistance  hopeless,  and  the  world 
monstrously  cruel.  The  dominating 
element  of  such  prose  and  verse  is  a 
bleak  despair,  unmanly,  unwomanly, 
inhuman.  Out  of  the  abundance  of 
material  before  me,  I  quote  a  single 
poem,  published  in  the  New  York  Call, 
reprinted  in  the  Survey,  and  christened 
mockingly,  — 

THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

They  got  y',  kid,  they  got  y',  just  like  I  said  they 

would; 

You  tried  to  walk  the  narrow  path, 
You  tried,  and  got  an  awful  laugh; 
And  laughs  are  all  y'  did  get,  kid,  they  got  y* 
good! 

They  never  saw  the  little  kid, —  the  kid  I  used  to 

know, 
The  little  bare-legged  girl  back  home. 


The  little  girl  that  played  alone, 
They  don't  know  half  the  things  I  know,  kid; 
ain't  it  so? 

They  got  y',  kid,  they  got  y', — you  know  they  got 
y'  right; 

They  waited  till  they  saw  y'  limp, 

Then  introduced  y'  to  the  pimp, 
Ah,  you  were  down  then,  kid,  and  couldn't  fight. 

I  guess  you  know  what  some  don't  know,  and 
others  know  damn  well, 

That  sweatshops  don't  grow  angel's  wings, 

That  workin*  girls  is  easy  things, 
And  poverty's  the  straightest  road  to  hell. 

And  this  is  what  our  Lady  Poverty, 
bride  of  Saint  Francis,  friend  of  all  holi- 
ness, counsel  of  all  perfection,  has  come 
to  mean  in  these  years  of  grace!  She 
who  was  once  the  surest  guide  to  Hea- 
ven now  leads  her  chosen  ones  to  Hell. 
She  who  was  once  beloved  by  the  de- 
vout and  honored  by  the  just,  is  now 
a  scandal  and  a  shame,  the  friend  of 
harlotry,  the  instigator  of  crime.  Even 
a  true  poet  like  Francis  Thompson 
laments  that  the  poverty  exalted  by 
Christ  should  have  been  cast  down 
from  her  high  caste. 

All  men  did  admire 

Her  modest  looks,  her  ragged,  sweet  attire 
In  which  the  ribboned  shoe  could  not  compete 
With  her  clear  simple  feet. 
But  Satan,  envying  Thee  thy  one  ewe-lamb, 
With  Wealth,  World's  Beauty  and  Felicity 
Was  not  content,  till  last  unthought-of  she 
Was  his  to  damn. 
Thine  ingrate,  ignorant  lamb 
He  won  from  Thee;  kissed,  spurned,  and  made  of 

her 

This  thing  which  qualms  the  air, 
Vile,  terrible,  old, 
Whereat  the  red  blood  of  the  Day  runs  cold. 

These  are  the  words  of  one  to  whom 
the  London  gutters  were  for  years  a 
home,  and  whose  strengthless  manhood 
lay  inert  under  a  burden  of  pain  he  had 
no  courage  to  lift.  Yet  never  was  suf- 
ferer more  shone  upon  by  kindness  than 
was  Francis  Thompson;  never  was  man 
better  fitted  to  testify  to  the  goodness 
of  a  bad  world.  And  he  did  bear  such 


'OUR  LADY  POVERTY' 


457 


brave  testimony  again  and  yet  again, 
so  that  the  bulk  of  his  verse  is  alien  to 
pessimism-, —  *  every  stanza  an  act  of 
faith,  and  a  declaration  of  good  will.' 
The  demoralizing  quality  of  such 
stuff  as  'The  Straight  Road,'  which  is 
forced  upon  us  with  increasing  perti- 
nacity, is  its  denial  of  kindness,  its 
evading  of  obligation.  Temptation  is 
not  only  the  occasion,  but  the  justifier 
of  sin, —  a  point  of  view  which  plays 
havoc  with  our  common  standard  of 
morality.  When  a  vicious  young  mil- 
lionaire like  Harry  Thaw  runs  amuck 
through  his  crude  and  evil  environ- 
ment, we  sigh  and  say,  'His  money 
ruined  him.'  When  a  poor  young  wo- 
man abandons  her  weary  frugalities  for 
the  questionable  pleasures  of  prostitu- 
tion, we  sigh  and  say,  'Her  poverty 
drove  her  to  it.'  Where  then  does  good- 
ness dwell?  What  part  does  honor 
play?  The  Sieur  de  Joinville,  in  his 
memoirs  of  Saint  Louis,  tells  us  that  a 
certain  man,  sore  beset  by  the  pres- 
sure of  temptation,  sought  counsel 
from  the  Bishop  of  Paris,  'whose  Chris- 
tian name  was  William. '  And  thiswise 
William  of  Paris  said  to  him:  'The 
castle  of  Montl'hery  stands  in  the  safe 
heart  of  France,  and  no  invading  hosts 
assail  it.  But  the  castle  of  La  Rochelle 
in  Poitou  stands  on  the  line  of  battle. 
Day  and  night  it  must  be  guarded  from 
assault,  and  it  has  suffered  grievously. 
Which  gentleman,  think  you,  the  King 
holds  high  in  favor,  the  governor  of 
Montl'hery,  or  the  governor  of  La  Ro- 
chelle? The  post  of  danger  is  the  post 
of  glory,  and  he  who  is  sorely  wounded 
in  the  combat  is  honored  by  God  and 


man. 


in 


There  are  those  whose  ardor  for  hu- 
manity finds  a  congenial  vent  in  the  de- 
nouncement of  all  they  see  about  them, 
-  all  the  institutions  of  their  country, 
all  the  laborious  processes  of  civiliza- 


tion. Sociologists  of  this  type  speak 
and  write  of  an  ordinary  American  city 
in  terms  which  Dante  might  have  en- 
vied. Nobody,  it  would  seem,  is  ever 
cured  in  its  hospitals;  they  only  lie  on 
'  cots  of  pain.'  Nobody  is  ever  reformed 
in  its  reformatories.  Nobody  is  reared 
to  decency  in  its  asylums.  Nobody 
is  —  apparently  —  educated  in  its 
schools.  Its  industries  are  ravenous 
beasts,  sucking  the  blood  of  workers; 
its  poor  are  '  shackled  slaves ' ;  its  hum- 
ble homes  are  'dens.'  I  have  heard  a 
philanthropic  lecturer  talk  to  the  poor 
upon  the  housing  of  the  poor.  She 
threw  on  a  screen  enlarged  photographs 
of  narrow  streets  and  tenement  rooms 
which  looked  to  me  unspeakably 
dreary,  but  which  the  working-women 
around  me  gazed  at  in  mild  perplexity, 
seeing  nothing  amiss,  and  wondering 
that  their  residences  should  be  held  up 
to  this  unseemly  scorn.  They  did  not 
do  as  did  the  angry  Italians  of  a  New 
Jersey  town,  —  smash  the  invidious 
pictures  which  shamed  their  homes; 
they  sat  in  stolid  silence  and  discomfit- 
ure, dimly  conscious  of  an  unresented 
insult. 

It  is  hard  to  grasp  a  point  of  view 
immeasurably  remote  from  our  own; 
but  what  can  we  understand  of  other 
lives  unless  we  do  this  difficult  thing? 
Old  women  in  the  out-wards  of  an 
almshouse  (of  all  earthly  abodes  the 
saddest)  have  boasted  to  me  that  their 
floors  were  scrubbed  every  other  day, 
and  their  sheets  changed  once  a  week; 
and  this  braggart  humor  stunned  my 
senses  until  I  called  to  mind  the  floor 
and  the  bed  of  one  of  them  (an  extra- 
ordinarily dirty  old  woman)  whom  I 
had  known  in  other  years.  Last  winter 
the  workers  in  a  settlement  house  were 
called  upon  at  midnight  to  succor  a 
woman  who  had  been  kicked  and  beat- 
en into  unconsciousness  by  a  drunken 
husband.  The  poor  creature  was  all 
one  bleeding  bruise.  When  she  was 


I 


458 


'OUR  LADY  POVERTY 


revived,  her  dim  eyes  traveled  over  the 
horrified  faces  about  her.  '  It 's  pretty 
bad/  she  gasped,  'it's  mighty  bad'; 
and  then,  with  another  look  at  the 
group  of  protecting,  pitying  spinsters, 
*  but  it  must  be  something  fierce  to 
be  an  old  maid.' 

The  city  is  a  good  friend  to  the  poor. 
It  gives  them  day  nurseries  for  their 
babies,  kindergartens  for  their  little 
children,  schools  for  their  boys  and 
girls,  playgrounds,  swimming  pools,  re- 
creation piers,  reading-rooms,  libra- 
ries, churches,  clubs,  hospitals,  cheap 
amusements,  open-air  concerts,employ- 
ment  agencies,  the  companionship  of 
their  kind,  and  the  chance  of  a  friend 
at  need.  In  return,  the  poor  love  the 
city,  and  cling  to  it  with  reasonable 
but  somewhat  stifling  affection.  They 
know  that  the  hardest  thing  in  life  is  to 
be  isolated, —  '  unrelated,'  to  use  Car- 
lyle's  apt  word;  and  they  escape  this 
fate  by  eschewing  the  much-lauded 
fields  and  farms.  They  know  also  that 
in  the  country  they  must  stand  or  fall 
by  their  own  unaided  efforts,  they  must 
learn  the  hard  lesson  of  self-reliance. 
Many  of  them  propose  to  live,  as  did 
the  astute  author  of  Piers  Plowman,  '  in 
the  town,  and  on  the  town  as  well.' 
Moreover,  pleasure  means  as  much  to 
them  as  it  does  to  the  rest  of  us.  We 
hardly  needed  Mr.  Chesterton  to  tell 
us  that  a  visit  to  a  corner  saloon  may 
be  just  as  exciting  an  event  to  a  tene- 
ment-house dweller,  as  a  dinner  at  a 
gold-and-marble  hotel  is  to  the  average 
middle-class  citizen;  and  that  the  tene- 
ment-house dweller  may  be  just  as  mod- 
erate in  his  potations:  — 

Merrily  taking  twopenny  rum,  and  cheese  with  a 
pocket  knife. 

Poverty,  we  are  assured,  is  an '  error,' 
like  ill-health  and  crime.  It  is  an  ana- 
chronism in  civilization,  a  stain  upon 
a  wisely  governed  land.  But  into  our 
country  which,  after  a  human  fashion, 
is  both  wise  and  foolish,  pours  the  pov- 


erty of  Europe.  Hundreds  of  thous- 
ands of  immigrants  with  but  a  few  dol- 
lars between  them  and  want;  with  scant 
equipment,  physical  or  mental,  for  the 
struggle  of  life;  with  an  inheritance  of 
feebleness  from  ill-nourished  genera- 
tions before  them,  —  this  is  the  prob- 
lem which  the  United  States  faces 
courageously,  and  solves  as  best  she 
can.  What  she  cannot  do  is  miracu- 
lously to  convert  poverty  into  plenty, 
—  certainly  not  before  the  next  year 
doubles,  and  the  third  year  trebles  the 
miracle-seeking  multitude.  She  cannot 
properly  house  or  profitably  employ  a 
million  of  immigrants  before  the  next 
million  is  clamoring  at  her  doors.  Nor 
is  she  even  given  a  fair  chance  to  ac- 
complish her  giant  task.  The  dema- 
gogues who  are  employed  in  the  con- 
genial sport  of  railroad  baiting,  and 
who  are  enjoying  beyond  measure  the 
fun  of  chivying  business  interests  into 
dusty  corners,  are  the  ones  to  lift  up 
their  voices  in  shrill  appeal  for  the 
army  of  the  unemployed.  They  refuse 
to  connect  one  phenomenon  with  the 
other.  The  notion  that  crippling  indus- 
tries will  benefit  the  industrious  is  not 
so  new  as  it  seems.  ^Esop  must  have 
had  a  clear  insight  into  its  workings 
when  he  wrote  the  fable  of  the  goose 
that  laid  the  golden  egg. 

The  City  of  New  York  expends,  ac- 
cording to  a  recent  report  of  the  Hos- 
pital Investigating  Committee,  more 
than  a  million  of  dollars  a  year  for  the 
care  of  sick,  defective,  and  otherwise 
helpless  aliens.  It  expended  in  1913 
nearly  four  hundred  thousand  dollars 
for  the  care  of  aliens  who  had  been  in 
this  country  less  than  five  years.  This 
is  the  record  of  our  greatest  city,  the 
one  in  which  the  astute  immigrant  takes 
up  his  abode.  The  education  she  gives 
her  little  foreign-born  children  com- 
prises for  the  most  part  manual  and  vo- 
cational training,  clinics  for  the  defec- 
tive, schools  for  the  incorrigible,  free  or 


'OUR  LADY  POVERTY' 


459 


cost-price  lunches,  doctoring,  dentistry, 
the  care  of  trained  nurses,  and  a  score 
of  similar  attentions  unknown  to  an 
earlier  generation,  undreamed  of  in  the 
countries  whence  these  children  come. 
In  return  for  such  fostering  care,  New 
York  is  held  up  to  execration  because 
she  has  the  money  to  pay  the  taxes 
which  are  expended  in  this  fashion,  be- 
cause she  lays  the  golden  egg  which 
benefits  the  poor  of  twenty  nations. 
Her  unemployed  (reinforced  hugely 
from  less  favored  communities)  riot  in 
her  streets  and  churches,  and  agitators 
curse  her  for  a  thing  of  evil,  a  city  of 
palaces  and  slums,  corroded  with  the 

Shame  of  lives  that  lie 
Couched  in  ease,  while  down  the  streets 
Pain  and  want  go  by. 

The  only  people  who  take  short  views 
of  life  are  the  poor,  the  poor  whose 
daily  wage  is  spent  on  their  daily  needs. 
Clerks  and  bookkeepers  and  small 
tradesmen  (toilers  upon  whose  strug- 
gle for  decency  and  independence  no- 
body ever  wastes  a  word  of  sympathy) 
may  fret  over  the  uncertainty  of  their 
future,  the  narrow  margin  which  lies 
between  them  and  want.  But  the 
workman  and  his  family  have  a  cour- 
age of  their  own,  the  courage  of  the  sol- 
dier who  does  not  spend  the  night  be- 
fore battle  calculating  his  chances  of  a 
gun-shot  wound,  or  of  a  legless  future. 
It  is  exasperating  to  hear  a  teamster's 
wife  cheerfully  announce  the  coming  of 
her  tenth  baby;  but  the  calmness  with 
which  she  faces  the  situation  has  in  it 
something  human  and  elemental.  It  is 
exasperating  to  see  the  teamster  risk 
illness  and  loss  of  work  (he  might  at 
least  pull  off  his  wet  clothes  when  he 
gets  home) ;  but' he  tells  you  he  has  not 
gone  to  his  grave  with  a  cold  yet,  and 
this  careless  confidence  saves  him  as 


much  as  it  costs.  I  read  recently  an 
economist's  sorrowful  complaint  that 
families,  in  need  of  the  necessities  of 
life,  go  to  moving-picture  shows;  that 
women,  with  their  husbands'  scanty 
earnings  in  their  hands,  take  their  chil- 
dren to  these  blithesome  entertain- 
ments instead  of  buying  the  Sunday 
dinner.  It  sounds  like  the  citizens  who 
buy  motor  cars  instead  of  paying  off 
the  mortgages  on  their  homes,  and  it  is 
an  error  of  judgment  which  the  work- 
ingman  is  little  likely  to  condone;  but 
that  the  pleasure-seeking  impulse  — 
which  social  workers  assign  exclusively 
to  the  spirit  of  youth  —  should  mutiny 
in  a  matron's  bones  suggests  survivals 
of  cheerfulness,  high  lights  amid  the 
gloom. 

The  deprecation  of  earthly  anxiety 
taught  by  the  Gospels,  the  precedence 
given  to  the  poor  by  the  New  Testa- 
ment, the  value  placed  upon  voluntary 
poverty  by  the  Christian  Church, — 
these  things  have  for  nineteen  hundred 
years  helped  in  the  moulding  of  men. 
There  still  remain  some  leaven  of  cour- 
age, some  savor  of  philosophy,  some 
echoes  of  ancient  wisdom  (heard  often- 
est  from  uneducated  men) ,  some  laugh- 
ter loud  and  careless  as  the  laughter 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  some  slow  sense 
of  justice,  not  easy  to  pervert.  These 
qualities  are  perhaps  as  helpful  as  the 
*  divine  discontent'  fostered  by  enthu- 
siasts for  sorrow,  the  cowardice  bred 
by  insistence  upon  trouble  and  anxiety, 
the  rancor  engendered  by  invectives 
against  earth  and  heaven.  No  lot  is 
bettered  by  having  its  hardships  em- 
phasized. No  man  is  helped  by  the 
drowning  of  his  courage,  the  destruction 
of  his  good-will,  the  paralyzing  grip  of 

Envy  with  squinting  eyes, 

Sick  of  a  strange  disease,  his  neighbor's  health. 


THE  REVELATION  OF  THE  MIDDLE  YEARS 


BY   CORNELIA   A.    P.    COMER 


DEAR  PETER:  — 

Yesterday  at  luncheon,  when  you 
flourished  your  napkin  and  declared 
vigorously  that  you  could  n't  see  why 
anybody  should  care  about  living  after 
forty,  as,  of  course, '  one  never  had  any 
new  experiences  after  that  age;  it  was 
just  the  same  old  things  over  and  over,' 
—  did  you  notice  that  none  of  your  el- 
ders attempted  to  answer  you  serious- 
ly? Your  mother  was  slightly  shocked, 
your  father  grinned  a  little  grimly,  and 
I  was  so  busy  trying  to  remember 
whether  I  was  nineteen  or  twenty-two 
when  I  made  precisely  that  remark, 
also  at  luncheon,  to  a  slightly  shocked 
and  slightly  amused  family,  that  I, 
too,  let  your  declamation  pass  unchal- 
lenged. 

Thinking  it  over  to-day,  remember- 
ing how  terribly  in  earnest  I  was  in  my 
own  young  belief  that  everything  of 
interest  must  happen  before  one  was 
forty,  probably  even  before  one  was 
thirty,  and  that  the  rest  of  life  was  a 
useless  by-product,  I  began  to  wonder 
if  it  was  possible  to  tell  you  anything 
about  the  real  connotations  of  middle 
age.  Can  I  say  it  so  it  will  reach  you? 
Can  I  'get  it  across'?  Perhaps  not,  but 
I  can  try! 

Why  try?  you  may  ask  disdainfully. 
You  don't  care  a  row  of  pins!  A  fellow 
of  your  age  knows  pretty  well  what  he 
thinks  about  things,  and  it's  as  clear 
as  mud  that  middle  age  is — well,  just 
simply  dull.  Its  eyes  are  on  the  side- 
walk, and  its  nose  to  the  grindstone. 
What  is  there  in  that  to  inspire  a  chap 
or  make  him  look  forward  to  it  with  ex- 

460 


pectation,  not  to  say  enthusiasm?  Old 
age  now  —  one  knows  a  few  pretty  de- 
cent old  fellows  who  seem  to  have  got 
something  out  of  the  game  and  show 
up  as  fairly  contented,  but  middle  age 
— Oh  bosh!  Did  n't  that  man  Osier  say 
there  was  nothing  in  it?  That  shows! 

Well,  Peter-boy,  here's  the  point; 
you  will  learn  for  yourself  in  time  what 
there  is  in  middle  age.  Yet  if  you  could 
understand  it  a  little  now,  you  would 
look  forward  to  the  forties  and  fifties 
with  keen  expectation.  This,  in  itself, 
would  cheat  the  thieving  years  of  the 
one  great  thing  they  do  often  take 
away. 

Did  you  ever  notice  in  what  consists 
the  exact  difference  between  a  young 
face  and  a  face  somewhat  older?  The 
distinction  was  brought  home  to  me 
with  a  shock  in  my  girlhood.  Visiting 
in  a  strange  city,  I  was  told  by  an  ac- 
quaintance that  I  had  a  double  there. 
'  Yes,  she  looks  exactly  like  you.  Older, 
of  course,  but  awfully  similar.  She 
lives  somewhere  out  on  the  Shelburne 
car-line.  Have  n't  you  ever  seen  her? 
Do  look  out  for  her !  It 's  so  amusing  to 
see  replicas  of  one's  self.  Don't  you 
know  the  woman  I  mean?'  This  last 
sentence  was  addressed  to  my  hostess 
who  demurred.  'Ye-es,  I've  seen  her, 
but  I  don't  think  there  is  such  a  start- 
ling likeness.  Still,  there  is  a  little 
something  — ' 

After  that,  of  course,  the  girl  that  I 
was  watched  eagerly  for  her  double, 
hoping  possibly  (the  young  do  have 
these  vanities!)  to  be  a  little  flattered 
and  a  little  inspired  by  the  sight  of  her. 


THE  REVELATION  OF  THE  MIDDLE  YEARS 


461 


She  might  suggest  new  possibilities, 
constitute  a  fresh  ideal. 

Once  that  winter  I  encountered  her 
on  the  Shelburne  car-line,  recognized 
her  at  once  and  —  disapproved  of  her 
at  sight !  Yes,  she  was  very  like.  The 
eyes,  the  chin,  the  shape  of  the  face, 
were  all  as  familiar  as  the  looking- 
glass.  What  was  it  that  was  different 
and  depressing?  The  girl  sat  in  her  cor- 
ner while  the  car  leisurely  jogged  down 
town,  studying  the  face  of  the  woman 
across  the  aisle.  How  did  one  know 
she  was  anywhere  from  seven  to  twelve 
years  one's  senior  since,  at  that,  she 
was  still  young?  What  betrayed  it? 
Her  skin  was  smooth,  her  color  fresh. 
Yet  something,  certainly,  was  very  dif- 
ferent. Slowly  it  dawned  upon  the  girl. 
The  elder  face  showed  no  eagerness;  it 
was  no  longer  avid  of  life  as  was  the 
face  that  met  her  own  in  the  mirror. 
It  was  done  with  expectation. 

'That/  said  the  girl  to  herself,  'is 
the  real  difference  between  us.  That  is 
what  makes  one  grow  old.  But  has  it 
got  to  come?  If  there's  nothing  more 
to  expect  on  earth,  surely  there 's  all  of 
heaven  left  to  hope  for!  Now,  if  one 
could  get  that  into  one's  face  — ' 

I  am  not  defending  this  naive  young 
assumption  that  our  eternal  hopes  are 
worth  while  as  first  aids  to  beauty. 
I'm  only  telling  you  that  youth  is  ex- 
pectation, and  how  I  found  it  out. 

Youth  is  expectation.  In  the  more 
happily  born  and  reared,  it  is  expecta- 
tion of  experience;  in  earthy,  less  for- 
tunate temperaments,  it  is  expectation 
of  pleasure.  With  their  inevitable  dis- 
appointments, we  need  not  deal  here. 

You,  Peter,  think  yourself  clear- 
sighted in  that  you  hope  not  to  live  be- 
yond forty.  Experience  alone  is  so  real 
and  so  dear  to  you  that  you  can  con- 
ceive of  no  value  in  life  without  it,  and 
by  experience  you  rightly  mean  such 
vicissitudes,  such  events,  as  throw  light 


into  dark  places,  enrich  your  inner  life, 
increase  your  perceptions.  You  are  of 
those  who  desire,  above  all  things,  to 
know. 

An  experience  has  two  parts,  the  ob- 
jective happening  and  the  subjective 
reaction  upon  it.  The  wonder  and  de- 
light of  the  latter  gives  value  to  the 
former.  A  real  perception  is  a  kind  of 
act  of  creation.  You  seem  to  be  coop- 
erating with  God  when  you  perceive 
what  He  means.  Your  instinct  that  this 
is  the  priceless  thing  is  surely  right;  as 
surely  wrong  is  your  naive  belief  that 
thirty  or  forty  years  will  drain  you  of 
the  possibility  of  such  reactions.  Yet 
that  belief  is  based,  I  make  no  doubt, 
upon  the  silence  of  your  elders  as  to  the 
actual  content  of  life  between  thirty- 
five  and  fifty. 

We  hear  much  talk  lately  about  the 
'conspiracy  of  silence'  in  regard  to  sex. 
One  might  with  equal  truth  proclaim 
such  a  conspiracy  in  regard  to  soul. 
And  it  would  be  quite  as  just  to  say  a 
'conspiracy  of  disbelief  exists  among 
the  young!  I  asked  some  of  the  wisest 
folk  I  know  about  the  possibility  of 
telling  our  juniors  what  chiefly  endears 
middle-age  to  us  who  possess  it,  and 
they  shook  their  heads.  'Yes,  you  can 
try.  We  all  ought  to  try.  But  they 
won't  believe  it.  One  has  to  learn  these 
things  for  one's  self.' 

What  is  growing  older,  anyhow? 
When  you  and  your  contemporaries 
think  of  it  crudely,  physically,  it  seems 
to  you  the  wearing  out  of  the  body, 
baldness,  wrinkles,  obesity,  a  harden- 
ing of  the  arteries,  a  general  stiffening 
of  the  members  and  the  faculties, 
making  responsiveness  to  life  difficult 
or  impossible. 

Viewing  it  on  a  less  material  plane, 
you  see  in  it  a  wearing-down  of  ideals, 
a  crushing-out  of  the  dreams,  a  loss  of 
the  glory. 

As  I  see  it,  growing  older  is  the  pro- 
cess of  the  reconciliation  of  the  spirit  to 


462 


THE  REVELATION  OF  THE  MIDDLE  YEARS 


life.  Living  is  simply  getting  acquaint- 
ed with  the  world  we  live  in.  The  real 
purpose  of  a  body  is  that  it  shall  be 
used  up,  worn  out  —  and  then  thrown 
away  —  in  feeding  the  spirit.  What- 
ever happens  to  you  in  the  outer  world 
translates  itself,  finally,  into  such  sus- 
tenance. That  is  what  it  is  for,  just  as 
the  purpose  of  food  is  not  to  look  pret- 
ty on  china  plates,  but  to  be  trans- 
formed into  blood  and  muscle.  It  is  in 
the  natural  order  of  things  that  the 
body  should  be  thus  used  and  ex- 
hausted; the  unnatural  and  horrible 
thing  is  that  the  body  should  be  worn 
out  and  yet  the  spirit  remain  unnour- 
ished. 

People  chatter  endlessly  nowadays 
about  *  teaching'  the  young  this  or 
that.  The  problem  is  not  so  simple. 
For,  while  you  all  accept  unquestion- 
ingly  the  scientific  facts  and  theories 
that  are  offered  you,  and  build  upon 
them,  you  also  take  ethical  and  philo- 
sophical statements  with  a  certain  re- 
serve, waiting  for  the  sanctions  of  your 
own  experience.  I  am  far  from  being  a 
defender  of  logic,  but  this  is  surely  il- 
logical. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  ethics  is  far  more 
stable  than  physical  science.  The  lat- 
ter has  recently  had  occasion  to  revise 
its  whole  theory  of  matter,  while  the 
theory  of  conduct  remains  unchanged. 
The  Origin  of  Species  is  already  out  of 
date,  and  monumental  undertakings 
like  the  Synthetic  Philosophy  are  disre- 
garded, but  the  Ten  Commandments 
and  the  Golden  Rule  remain  intact  and 
unassailable.  They  are  being  redis- 
covered daily,  with  much  pomp,  by 
those  brilliant  social  investigators  who 
were  not  brought  up  to  accept  them  as 
basal. 

How  do  we  get  our  obiter  dicta  about 
life,  you  ask?  My  dear  Peter,  it  is  very 
simple;  they  are  as  much  laboratory 
products  as  the  rules  about  reagent 
bottles.  Experience  is  the  laboratory 


of  the  spirit  —  that  very  experience 
which  you  are  already  finding  so  pre- 
cious that  you  assert  that  the  years  can 
have  no  value  without  it. 

You  can  accept  the  statements  of 
thoroughly  qualified  elders  about  what 
life  is  and  teaches  as  absolutely  as  you 
accept  the  statements  of  your  chemis- 
try professor  about  the  reagent  bottles. 
But  first  you  must  make  sure  that  they 
have  passed  their  examinations  and 
taken  their  degrees  summa  cum  laude 
in  the  schools  of  experience. 

You  will  not  have  much  trouble  in 
assorting  people  with  reference  to  their 
ability  as  spiritual  advisers.  The  thing 
sifts  itself  down  finally  to  the  prag- 
matic test,  efficiency  for  the  end  desired. 
Will  it  work? 

Thirty-odd  years  ago  your  grand- 
mother employed  a  German  laundress, 
a  shrewd,  devout,  hard-working  widow. 
By  the  toil  of  her  hands  at  the  current 
wages  of  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  a  day, 
she  acquired  a  comfortable  home  with 
an  orchard,  garden-patch,  and  grass  for 
the  cow,  and  brought  up  four  children 
to  walk  through  life  with  self-respect 
and  industry.  As  a  child  I  used  to  hang 
about  the  steaming  tubs  to  hear  her 
talk  of  the  eternal  verities, — her  favor- 
ite theme,  —  for  I  knew  blindly,  as  chil- 
dren do,  that  here  was  the  real  thing. 
I  can  see  now  the  exultation  shining  in 
her  face  as  she  told  us  about  'my 
Charley  who  went  to  Chicago/  and 
found  himself  up  against  that  particu- 
larly unholy  portion  of  this  wicked 
world.  'But  my  Charley,  he  is  a  good 
boy.  He  goes  straight.  An'  he  writes 
me  an'  says  "  T'ank  God  we  got  a  mud- 
der  who  taught  us  for  why  we  live  an' 
for  why  we  work." 

Her  eyes  were  as  those  of  one  who 
says,  'Lord,  now  lettest  Thou  thy  serv- 
ant depart  in  peace,'  for  she  had  suc- 
ceeded in  passing  her  revelation  on. 
Her  children  had  seasoned  their  loaves 
with  her  leaven  —  and  this  is  parental 


THE  REVELATION  OF  THE  MIDDLE  YEARS 


463 


success.  She  is  living  to-day,  near 
ninety,  an  honored  inmate  in  the  home 
of  'my  Mary  who  married  the  minis- 
ter,' with  grandchildren  worthy  of 
their  blood. 

When  you  find  folk  whose  account  of 
*  for  why  we  live  and  for  why  we  work ' 
gets  results  that  can  be  passed  on  in 
this  way,  it  is  perfectly  safe  to  trust 
their  dicta.  Scrub-women  or  seers, 
they  are  masters  of  the  only  art  that 
matters. 

Few  of  us  are  so  successful  as  this 
woman  in  transmitting  knowledge. 
Daily  there  goes  down  to  the  grave 
unspoken  wisdom  enough  to  run  the 
world  a  thousand  years.  Your  fault, 
Peter,  for  how  can  we  speak  if  you  will 
not  hear? 

Think  of  the  long  procession  of  dull 
people  that  you  pass  daily  on  the 
street,  noticing  them  only  as  the  drab 
background  for  the  young  faces  which, 
to  you,  shine  out  like  stars.  They  seem 
unimportant  folk,  and  you  find  them 
as  stupid  as  babies  do  grown-ups  — 
yet  these  are  they  who  know  the  secrets 
of  the  Seven  Stars  and  Plato's  Year! 
They  have  solved  the  long  problem  of 
work;  they  have  irrigated  deserts, 
washed  down  hills,  tunneled  moun- 
tains, sailed  strange  seas,  controlled 
vast  engines.  They  have  also  fronted 
death  fearlessly  and  been  convinced  of 
immortality.  They  have  looked  at 
Love  aghast  and  found  in  themselves 
infinite  springs  of  tenderness  to  quench 
the  flames  of  lust  and  greed.  They  have 
created  new  bodies  and  new  souls.  Ly- 
ing in  king's  houses  or  fouled  in  the 
mire,  starved,  gorged,  scorched,  frozen, 
lifted  up  to  heaven,  cast  down  to  hell 

-  from  all  this  have  they  learned 
nothing? 

Peter,  the  great  process  which  is  be- 
ing completed  behind  these  countless 
quiet  faces  is  the  same  process  which 
had  begun  in  you  when  you  told  me 
shyly  at  fifteen  that  *  it  was  so  interest- 


ing to  sit  still  and  watch  your  judg- 
ment being  formed.' 

This  was  your  way  of  saying  that  a 
sense  of  the  many-sidedness  of  things 
was  already  born  in  you,  and  that  you 
were  beginning  to  weigh  those  contra- 
dictory aspects  and  find  pleasure  in  the 
process. 

Later  on,  as  your  education  grew 
more  interesting  to  you,  you  confided 
to  me  the  gradual  growth  of  a  cosmic 
theory  that  had  begun  to  outline  itself 
in  your  brain.  In  this,  everything  you 
learned  seemed  miraculously  to  find  a 
place,  as  if  it  were  a  great  picture-puz- 
zle whose  fragments  were  doled  out  to 
you  one  by  one.  You  observed  how 
physics  and  astronomy  and  chemistry 
and  ancient  history,  and  even  mathe- 
matics, fitted  into  one  another's  cor- 
ners. You  got  fleeting  glimpses  of 
other  men's  cosmic  theories,  not  alone 
in  books,  where  they  are  least  convinc- 
ing, but  in  real  life.  Your  professor  of 
physics  accidentally  betrayed  a  deep- 
buried  hope  that  ether  might  be  the 
very  substance  of  the  Eternal,  inclus- 
ive of  all  things.  You  heard  and  re- 
membered an  ardent  mathematician 
saying  that  his  science  was  '  the  short- 
est cut  to  infinity  —  and  God.'  The 
little  assistant  in  geology,  of  whom  you 
thought  patronizingly,  flashed  out  one 
day  and  gave  you  a  glimpse  of  all  cre- 
ation groaning  and  travailing  through 
endless  prehistoric  ages  to  find  and 
bring  forth  Man  —  on  whom  is  laid 
henceforward  the  everlasting  obliga- 
tion to  show  himself  no  less  than  spirit 
and  worthy  the  age-long  struggle  of  his 
making. 

And  so,  by  this  and  by  that,  the  pic- 
ture grew.  It  was  as  if  the  vast  tapes- 
try of  the  cosmos  swung  in  great  folds 
before  you.  Dimly  you  discerned  a 
pattern  that  was  above  your  seeing. 
Flashes  of  wonderful  color,  fragments 
of  great  design,  tantalized  your  vision. 
They  excited  and  uplifted  you,  rein- 


464 


THE  REVELATION  OF  THE  MIDDLE  YEARS 


forcing  all  that  you  would  soonest  be- 
lieve as  to  the  Star-Builder.  Never 
completed,  still  unfolding,  in  the  im- 
mensities of  a  space  that  your  mind 
could  conceive  neither  as  finite  nor  in- 
finite, the  universe  held  you  expect- 
ant. All  knowledge  and  speculation 
were  absorbed  into  this  great  dim  pat- 
tern, that  was  still  more  than  they. 
For  no  matter  how  daring  and  how 
comprehensive  our  cosmic  theory,  we 
fall  short  of  the  audacities  and  subtle- 
ties of  God. 

Into  that  far-hung  cosmic  pattern 
you  also  tried  to  fit  your  individual  life 
and  your  mother's  faith.  You  did  not, 
perhaps,  try  very  hard;  for  at  the  same 
time  you  found  most  sermons  dull  and 
most  dogmas  unintelligible.  The  forms 
in  which  Christianity  was  offered  you 
did  not  suit  the  shape  of  your  mind.  So, 
you  did  not  very  definitely  connect 
your  religious  instruction  with  these 
other  things  it  was  thrilling  you  greatly 
to  learn.  Healthy,  contented,  clean, 
and  only  normally  selfish,  you  have 
not  as  yet  very  greatly  needed  a  reli- 
gion that  will  stand  the  strain  of  life. 
But  I  cannot  give  you  any  satisfactory 
account  of  the  connotations  of  mid- 
dle age  without  talking  about  such  a 
religion. 

Don't  lose  patience  with  me  at  this 
point,  Peter,  because  my  sentences  are 
getting  long  and  my  enthusiasm  is 
mounting  high.  It 's  not  so  easy  as  you 
might  think  to  put  the  deepest  things 
one  knows  into  plain  words  —  for  it 
breaks  a  law  of  being  that  almost  all 
men  keep. 

Let  us  go  back  to  your  desire  to  know; 
it  does  not  mean  that  you  wish  to  be 
either  a  philosopher  or  a  scientist.  Ei- 
ther is  admittedly  unsatisfactory  from 
the  point  of  view  of  that  cosmic  outline 
you  are  so  keen  about.  Scientists  must 
confine  themselves  to  facts  and,  ten- 
tatively, to  such  theories  as  may  best 


explain  facts;  philosophers  have  usually 
felt  that  they  must  be  logical. 

Because  you  are  still  at  school  to 
books,  your  respect  for  facts  and  logic 
is,  deservedly,  immense.  But  outside 
of  fact  and  beyond  logic  there  lies  a 
domain  of  knowledge  as  irrefragable  as 
the  contributions  of  either  to  our  con- 
sciousness, and  more  necessary  to  nor- 
mal existence.  There  have  always  been 
things  that  the  commonest  man  knew. 
When  this  knowledge  is  turned  toward 
everyday  matters  we  call  it  common 
sense,  and  it  is  the  fixative  that  holds 
the  charcoal  sketch  of  civilization  on 
the  map;  when  it  is  turned  toward  the 
things  of  the  spirit,  it  constitutes  that 
natural  religion  which  is  the  basis  of  all 
our  supra-material  life. 

The  common  man  has  never  based 
his  life,  his  dogmas,  his  institutions 
upon  anything  told  him  by  scientist  or 
philosopher.  He  has  based  them  upon 
these  things  he  knew,  these  intuitions, 
these  gifts  of  insight.  There  his  heart 
is  fixed. 

These  gifts  of  insight  have  had 
small  philosophical  recognition.  How- 
ever, you  may  now  classify  them  under 
'data  of  immediacy'  if  you  like.  In 
this  guise  they  have  recently  acquired 
good  standing.  Bergson  is  officially 
best  known  as  a  philosopher  by  the  ro- 
mantic and  exciting  outline  he  suggests 
of  a  universe  spinning  its  own  future 
and  its  own  God  out  of  the  perpetually 
changing  stream  of  time-stuff,  under 
the  compulsion  laid  on  it  of  a  vital  ur- 
gency. But  one  suspects  that  the  real 
reason  why  Creative  Evolution  (which  1 
recommend  you  to  read  and  use  as  a 
basis  for  your  speculations  in  a  field 
which  it  does  not  enter)  sold  like  a  pop- 
ular novel  and  was  dipped  into  and 
tasted  by  thousands  of  readers  usually 
indifferent  to  philosophy,  had  no  con- 
nection with  this  exposition  of  duration. 
Its  popularity  is  due,  rather,  to  its  re- 
habilitation of  intuition,  showing  it 


THE  REVELATION  OF  THE  MIDDLE  YEARS 


465 


as  equally  authoritative  with  intellect. 
Bergson  demonstrated  the  undeniable 
fact  that  our  '  godlike  intellect '  is,  after 
all,  wrought  out  by  the  reactions  of 
matter  upon  our  perception,  is  built 
up,  cell  by  cell,  from  our  contact  with 
the  material  world.  It  is,  therefore,  a 
wonderful  instrument,  indeed,  but  one 
which  can  be  used  to  advantage  only 
upon  such  stuff  as  it  is  wrought  from. 
You  may  safely  use  logic  upon  matter, 
since  matter  shaped  your  thinking- 
machine.  Upon  spirit,  it  follows  that 
you  must  use  intuition,  since  only  so 
is  spirit  apprehended. 

At  the  back  of  his  brain,  the  plain 
man  has  known  this  all  along.  Berg- 
son,  cogent  and  brilliant,  has  shown 
the  philosophers  that  the  plain  man 
was  in  the  right. 

The  common  man  is  not  born  aware 
of  all  the  things  that  he  knows  he 
knows.  He  stumbles  upon  them  as  he 
lives  along.  Typical  experience  runs  in 
this  fashion. 

A  youth  is  told  that  he  has  an  im- 
mortal soul;  that  God  made  the  world 
and  cares  actively  for  it;  that  a  super- 
human exemplar  came  to  rescue  man. 
He  accepts  this  teaching  tentatively. 
He  is  conscious  of  something  that 
seems  to  be  a  soul  and  hopes  it  was  not 
made  to  die.  The  universe  seems  to  de- 
mand a  Creator  who  is  an  indwelling 
spirit  —  but  to  believe  that  God  is  in- 
deed a  Father  seems  to  savor  of  con- 
ceit. He  recognizes  the  value  of  the 
Christ-example. 

He  goes  ahead,  trying  to  be  a  fairly 
decent  sort,  sometimes  having  spiritual 
illuminations  of  his  own  and  sometimes 
not,  sometimes  approximating  Chris- 
tian standards  and  sometimes  not, 
hoping  that  God,  if  there  is  a  God,  will 
see  that  he  is  trying  not  to  impede  the 
Universal  Will. 

Life  does  not  let  him  alone.  Sooner 
or  later  the  big  experiences  come.  Per- 
haps one  loved  by  him  dies.  Beside 
VOL.  114  -  NO.  4 


that  still  figure  he  suddenly  perceives 
that  death  is  not  what  he  thought  it. 
The  peace  in  that  quiet  face  is  so 
absolutely  the  peace  of  clay  which  a 
spirit  has  ceased  to  inform,  that  it  is  a 
revelation.  He  is  not  here,  he  is  risen! 
cries  the  heart  with  such  authority 
that  the  youth  believes  —  because  he 
cannot  do  otherwise.  He  no  longer 
hopes  that  the  soul  lives,  —  he  knows 
with  a  certainty  that,  once  felt,  is  never 
shaken.  Every  human  being  who  has 
undoubting  faith  in  immortality  came 
to  it  thus.  There  is  no  other  road  to 
that  assurance. 

So  it  goes  through  the  years.  Each 
successive  experience  is  equally  a  rev- 
elation; each,  perhaps,  equally  a  re- 
versal of  what  he  expects;  each  un- 
doubtedly discloses  how  the  soul  is 
enmeshed  with  the  body,  eternity  knit 
into  the  web  of  time. 

It  is  impossible  to  over-state  the 
authority,  the  overwhelming  validity 
of  the  great  experiences  of  life.  Death 
— love —  birth  —  work  —  creative  ef- 
fort —  pain,  above  all,  pain !  —  each 
adds  something  definite,  precious,  en- 
during, to  the  soul's  stock  of  treasure. 
These  are  the  things  that  shall  not  be 
taken  away.  They  are  the  bricks  we 
build  into  the  House  of  Life;  they  are 
the  foundation-stones  of  our  Eternal 
City. 

The  quality,  the  character,  of  con- 
viction that  the  great  experiences 
bring  is  of  such  a  nature  as  cannot  be 
foreseen  or  imagined.  As  it  is  impos- 
sible to  imagine  a  taste  or  an  odor 
never  sensed,  so  it  is  impossible  to  fore- 
cast these  gifts  of  experience.  They 
impinge  upon  consciousness,  poignant 
and  wonderful.  They  pass,  and  leave 
you  with  a  conviction  as  much  deeper 
than  an  intellectual  assent  as  the  emo- 
tions are  older  than  the  brain. 

To  tell  you  what  each  one  of  these- 
experiences  makes  clear  would  be  too 
long  a  task.  But  the  whole  structure^ 


466 


THE  REVELATION  OF  THE   MIDDLE  YEARS 


of  society  is  reared  on  them.  Examine 
the  Family,  the  State,  the  Church,  and 
see  this  for  yourself.  Man  has  put  the 
gifts  of  insight  into  institutions  and 
put  them  into  dogmas. 

Each  generation  revamps  the  outer 
garment  of  these  vital  things  a  bit,  to 
suit  itself.  There  is  bound  to  be  some 
misfit  apparent  between  the  style  of 
any  age  and  the  taste  of  its  successor. 
Therefore  to  youth,  which  lacks  en- 
tirely the  basal  experience,  all  dogma 
appears  blind  and  most  institutions 
appear  faulty.  Wherefore  youth  would 
discard  old  doctrines  and  make  the 
world  over  rapidly,  in  utter  ignorance 
of  the  stuff  it  is  handling. 

Forgive  me,  Peter,  if  I  bore  you  by 
talking  about  dogmas  for  a  few  mi- 
nutes. Since  I  learned  what  they  are, 
they  have  interested  me  madly.  Before 
that,  I  was  as  indifferent  as  yourself. 
A  dogma  is  something  cryptic,  a  big  ex- 
perience crammed  into  a  few  words. 
If  you  are  willing  to  put  into  its  unrav- 
eling half  the  enthusiasm  of  an  Assyri- 
ologist  translating  a  difficult  inscrip- 
tion, or  of  a  naturalist  putting  together 
fossil  remains,  you  will  have  your  re- 
ward. You  will  find  out  that,  whatever 
words  the  fathers  used,  they  meant 
what  we  mean,  but  meant  it  more  in- 
tensely. They  were  more  passionately 
spiritual  than  we,  those  old  dogmatists, 
and  less  given  to  expression.  So  they 
packed  each  word  fuller  of  expression 
than  it  would  hold. 

Says  a  recent  essayist,  'Unless  the 
words  "salvation  by  grace"  had  at  one 
time  stood  for  the  most  powerful  con- 
viction of  the  most  holy  minds,  we 
should  never  have  heard  the  phrase.' 1 
It  would  be  possible  to  give  you  the 
exact  equivalent  of  that  doctrine  in 
our  modern  spiritual  life,  but  I  will 
spare  you  —  to-day! 

I  must  not  protract  my  preaching, 
1  John  Jay  Chapman:  Non-resistance. 


but  I  would  like  you  to  know  that 
something  like  this  happens  with  refer- 
ence to  spiritual  development:  if  you 
accept  the  fundamental  statements  of 
our  religion  in  your  youth,  you  will  find 
life  a  long,  painful  and  beautiful  pro- 
cess of  verifying  and  enriching  them. 
If  you  put  aside  those  statements  in 
your  youth  and  yet  have  the  strength 
to  live  uprightly  and  deal  justly,  ac- 
cording to  the  moral  code  which  Chris- 
tianity has  forced  upon  the  world  even 
as  the  sun  forces  spring  on  the  earth, 
—  in  short,  if  you  are  a  Christian  in  all 
but  the  name,  and  face  life  with  an 
open  mind,  you  will  find  it  a  long,  pain- 
ful, but  wonderful  process  of  evolving  a 
religion  which  tallies  in  essentials  with 
that  which  you  put  aside. 

You  may  be  willing  to  accept  the  re- 
ligion that  you  make  yourself;  you  may 
look  askance  at  the  claims  of  revealed 
religion;  yet  they  are  one  and  the  same 
revelation.  The  Light  that  lighteth 
every  man  that  cometh  into  the  world 
is  no  farthing  candle  but  an  illumina- 
tion as  steadfast  as  the  sun. 

Call  yourself  Christian  or  free- 
thinker,—  your  feet  are  within  the 
Way  while  you  accept  life  loyally  and 
get  out  of  it  what  it  holds  in  trust  for 
every  man. 

On  this  point  Christ  himself  was  ex- 
plicit, and  more  liberal  than  his  inter- 
preters. 'If  a  man  do  the  will  of  my 
Father  which  is  in  heaven,  he  sha*ll 
know  of  the  doctrine,  whether  it  be 
true  or  false.'  In  other  words,  salva- 
tion may  begin  at  the  *  works'  end  or 
at  the  'faith'  end  —  it  may  be  proved 
as  readily  from  one  approach  as  from 
the  other  by  those  '  men  of  good  will ' 
to  whom  the  angels  sang. 

Intuition  and  experience  have  built 
up  institutions  as  well  as  doctrines. 
For  a  single  instance :  man  felt  the  sa- 
credness  of  procreation,  the  veritable 
ties  of  blood.  From  these  perceptions 
resulted  marriage  and  family.  Only 


THE  REVELATION  OF  THE  MIDDLE  YEARS 


467 


when  you  look  at  those  institutions 
from  the  outside  do  you  believe  the 
babblers  who  declare  that  they  will 
crumble. 

Seeing  marriage  as  it  can  be  with 
the  eyes  of  your  youth,  a  union  fair 
and  firm  and  sweet,  the  tale  of  its  his- 
torical evolution  may  revolt  you.  It 
will  not,  if  you  have  the  key.  From 
savagery  upward,  through  brutal  ages, 
blind  with  lust,  the  race  has  still  been 
groping  to  express  that  basal  percep- 
tion of  an  enduring  alliance  for  a  won- 
derful end.  Perhaps  it  is  still  done 
clumsily  at  best,  but  the  profound  in- 
tent is  there. 

Needless  to  expound  to  you  all  doc- 
trines or  institutions  as  they  show 
themselves  to  me.  The  thing  to  make 
clear  to  you  is  that,  one  by  one,  as  you 
climb  the  ascent  of  the  years,  these  il- 
luminations arrive;  one  by  one  you  will 
accept  them  and  fit  them  into  that 
cosmic  picture  you  have  already  begun 
to  build  so  enthusiastically  out  of  the 
gifts  of  intellect.  The  completion  of 
that  picture  demands  the  deepest  in- 
sights of  your  spirit  as  well  as  the  keen- 
est energies  of  your  intellect. 

Take  it  from  me,  if  you  can,  that,  at 
long  last,  a  time  comes  when  we  are 
suddenly  conscious  that  we  have  *  gone 
observing  matters'  so  extensively  and 
to  such  purpose  that  we  have  a  certain 
vital  and  dependable  knowledge  of  the 
pattern  of  the  tapestry  so  far  as  this 
earth  and  our  human  existences  are 
concerned.  This  does  not  mean  that  it 
is  clear  to  us  —  but  that  it  is  percept- 
ibly less  obscure.  Out  of  the  mass  of 
detail  emerge  the  great  principles,  the 
salient  things,  the  things  that  make  the 
pattern.  We  have  watched  the  honest 
man  across  the  street  and  the  scoundrel 
next  door  so  long  that  we  have  actu- 
ally seen  with  these  eyes  righteousness 
rewarded  and  iniquity  in  torment. 
Where  we  have  seen  a  son  disappoint 
parents  who  had  a  right  to  expect 


much,  we  have  also  lived  to  see  the 

• 

grandchild  who  more  than  atones  for 
his  father's  failure.  The  world  begins 
to  make  sense. 

This  does  not  mean  that  if  you  have 
been  submerged  in  the  life  of  the  senses 
for  forty  or  fifty  years,  you  will  be  re- 
warded by  heightened  perceptions  of 
things  spiritual.  One  finds  what  one 
seeks.  It  is  the  rule  of  the  game  that 
you  must  do  your  part.  But  if  you 
question  men  and  women  among  those 
roughly  classified  as  right-living  and 
right-thinking,  you  will  find  them  aware 
of  a  time  when  their  insight  into  all 
life  is  quickened  and  enlarged.  The 
bread  they  have  been  casting  on  the 
waters  begins  to  return.  Harvest  ar- 
rives. They  not  only  see  further  into 
other  lives,  but  they  recognize  that 
what  has  happened  to  themselves  in 
the  outer  world  has  been  but  food  for 
their  spirits.  They  begin  to  see,  also, 
that  the  events  which  have  gone  to 
make  their  life  do  not  in  themselves 
matter  greatly.  'Cold  and  damp,  are 
they  not  as  rich  experiences  as  warmth 
and  dry  ness? 'asks  the  sage.  *  Richer!' 
replies  the  spirit  that  has  learned  the 
final  lesson  of  wresting  profit  from 
pain. 

Then  —  then  the  dry  bones  of  the 
thousand  axioms  and  platitudes  which 
foretold  these  events  arise,  take  on 
flesh,  and  go  marching  across  the  plains 
of  life  like  a  conquering  army!  It  is  a 
wonderful  sight! 

To  read  a  face  as  you  pass  it;  to  pre- 
dict the  outcome  of  a  life;  to  rest  confi- 
dently in  the  moral  order  of  things  be- 
cause you  cannot  disbelieve  what  you 
have  seen,  —  -  the  period  when  these 
perceptions  begin  to  arrive  is  perhaps 
the  most  stimulating  and  exciting  of 
our  whole  lives.  For  to  most  of  us 
it  is  undoubtedly  a  surprise  that  the 
things  that  we  have  always  believed 
are  really  true!  We  rub  our  eyes  and 
look  about  us. 


468 


THE  REVELATION   OF  THE    MIDDLE  YEARS 


So — this  is  that  despised  and  dread- 
ed middle  age!  Even  more  than  youth, 
it  is  the  land  of  revelation.  It  is  the 
Shining  Country  if  you  have  chosen  the 
better  part  that  makes  it  so.  I  cannot 
exaggerate  the  wonder  and  delight  of 
seeing  things  *  work  out '  as  they  inevit- 
ably do  work  out.  This  is  the  flowering 
of  our  slow  years  of  struggle  and  of 
growth. 

I  climb,  that  was  a  clod; 
I  run,  whose  steps  were  slow; 
I  reap  the  very  wheat  of  God 
That  once  had  none  to  sow. 

Don't  think  me  complacent  if  I  tell 
you  that  the  revelation  of  the  middle 
years,  *  knocking  a  window  through  to 
eternity '  as  it  does,  is  a  glory  no  less  ex- 
ultant than  the  glory  of  youth  that  you 
know  so  well.  And  to  reach  this  point 
means  that  you  immediately  begin  to 
look  forward  with  confidence.  There  is 
restored  to  you  that  expectation  which 
is  youth's  very  heart. 

With  this  in  mind,  do  you  see  the  im- 
port of  what  you  said  yesterday  about 
not  living  after  forty?  You  were  un- 
consciously exhibiting  the  blind  loy- 
alty, even  to  the  death,  of  young  things 
to  the  conditions  of  their  growth.  If 
experiences  indeed  ceased  just  as  you 
became  able  to  interpret  them  richly, 
you  would  be  justified  in  demanding 
that  life,  too,  should  cease.  What  hap- 
pens is  not  that  they  cease,  but  that 
they  pass  more  and  more  into  the 
sphere  of  the  life  within. 

Of  those  antiquated  doctrines  whose 
phraseology  has  become  meaningless 
to  us,  the  one  I  best  understand  is  ac- 
counted the  blindest  of  all  —  that  of 
the  Unpardonable  Sin! 

The  common  man  is  convinced  from 
within  of  the  foundations  on  which  he 
builds  him  a  world.  All  these  data  re- 
garding God,  the  soul,  the  family,  on 
which  he  builds,  have  been  verified  for 
him  by  the  intuitions  beyond  price 
which  accompany  experience.  In  those 


intuitions  he  so  clearly  feels  the  touch 
of  spirit  on  spirit  that  to  deny  them  in 
action  is  to  defile  them,  and  works  out 
for  him  as  literal  destruction.  He '  goes 
to  pieces'  before  our  very  eyes. 

Thus  the  Holy  Ghost  is  surely  the 
still,  small  voice  that  bides  forever  in 
experience.  We  shut  ourselves  off 
from  it  only  by  denying  the  validity  of 
our  deepest  insights,  and  thereby  au- 
tomatically condemn  ourselves  to  ces- 
sation of  growth  —  which  is  death  and 
damnation.  The  unpardonable  sin, 
then,  is  not,  as  we  childishly  supposed, 
some  irrational  wrath  of  an  offended 
deity  but  a  logical  necessity.  You  can- 
not fill  the  cup  if  you  shut  the  faucet. 
The  universe  cannot  compel  you  to 
grow  if  you  will  not  grow.  The  thing 
is  in  your  hands.  But  your  refusal  is 
irretrievable.  Thus,  for  those  who 
would  know,  it  is  *  worth  while  to  be 
good '  because  their  payment  comes  in 
cosmic  gold  —  in  increased  percep- 
tions, in  deeper  insights. 

In  your  own  phrase,  life  is  no  *  tight 
wad,'  Peter,  nor  is  experience  a  nig- 
gard. The  years  may  give  you  nothing 
else,  neither  homes  nor  friends  nor  gold 
nor  lovers,  but  they  are  lavish  with  the 
stuff  from  which  wisdom  is  distilled.  I 
gather  from  this  that  wisdom  is  the  one 
thing  nominated  in  the  bond  between 
Creator  and  created. 

Now  —  the  sermon  is  over.  Have  I 
made  you  understand  anything  of  the 
attitude  that  lies  behind  wisdom  and 
the  meaning  of  middle  age?  How  can 
one  tell  if  one  has  *  put  it  across'  ?  Per- 
haps my  words  convey  to  you  —  just 
nothing.  The  phrases  and  formulae  that 
seem  luminous  to  me  may  be  as  far 
from  fitting  your  mind  as  those  of  the 
old  dogmatists  and  mystics. 

Out  of  all  possible  aspects  of  middle 
age,  this  most  vital  one  is  that  which 
your  elders  most  desire  you  to  under- 
stand. And  with  all  my  doubts,  I  feel 


HOW  THE  ARMY  WAS  KIDNAPPED 


469 


one  certainty.  Those  who  would  know 
shall  be  satisfied.  I  do  not  know  your 
path,  but  I  know  your  goal,  —  for  each 
man  goeth  to  his  own  place.  Your  cos- 
mic tapestry,  woven,  thread  by  thread, 
from  the  facts  of  science,  from  the  con- 
clusions of  philosophy,  from  the  intu- 
itions of  the  race  verified  by  your  own 
contacts  with  experience,  will  content 
you  at  the  end. 
Most  fundamental  in  the  pattern, 


most  marvelous  in  color,  most  daring 
in  design,  will  be  such  parts  of  it  as 
are  the  gift  of  the  plain  man's  insight. 
He  has  led  the  way.  The  dogmatists 
and  mystics,  the  saints  and  seers,  the 
preachers  and  teachers,  are  all  merely 
aiming  to  express  those  things  which 
the  plain  man  knows  but  never  tells. 
Sacred,  unshared,  unspoken,  they  lie 
at  the  core  of  being;  they  are  the  cen- 
tral flame. 


HOW  THE  ARMY  WAS  KIDNAPPED 


BY   CHARLES   JOHNSTON 


*HUZOOB!'  said  the  corporal  of  the 
Treasury  guard  in  that  ridiculously 
squeaky  voice  of  his,  as  he  saluted  with 
an  air  of  respectful  apprehension;  'the 
men  of  the  Nizam  Bahadur  are  at  the 
door.' 

'  Very  good/ 1  answered.  *  Are  we  all 
ready  for  them,  Babu?' 

*  Quite  ready,  sir/  said  Dinanath 
Babu,  the  Treasurer. 

We  were  seated  at  the  table  in  the 
Treasury  chamber,  which  was  abomin- 
ably hot  and  stuffy,  strongly  smelling 
of  spider-webs  and  bats;  abominably 
hot,  though  it  was  still  only  the  begin- 
ning of  April,  and  the  hot  season  had 
nearly  three  months  to  run,  through 
the  gamut  of  hot,  hotter,  hottest,  be- 
fore we  got  to  the  hot  wet  blanket  of 
the  greater  rains.  Stuffy  and  dingy  and 
abominably  hot;  not  in  the  least  sug- 
gesting Oriental  treasure  or  the  halls 
of  Aladdin.  Merely  a  big,  grubby,  ill- 
lighted  room  on  the  ground  floor,  that 


looked  as  if  it  had  been  last  white- 
washed in  the  days  before  the  Mutiny 
of  1857;  —  and,  by  the  way,  it  was  in 
these  very  barracks,  ever  since  given 
up  to  civil  uses,  that  the  great  Mutiny 
began. 

Nothing  at  all  to  suggest  Oriental 
treasure.  Never  a  bowl  of  rubies  or  a 
cup  of  gold.  But  we  had  plenty  of 
treasure  there,  none  the  less.  There 
were  eight  huge  sea-chests  around  the 
room,  each  with  two  big  padlocks  of 
different  shapes.  One  key  I  had,  as 
Treasury  Officer;  Babu  Dinanath  Chat- 
ter ji,  as  Treasurer,  had  the  other.  It 
was  the  same  with  the  outer  door.  So 
neither  of  us  could  get  into  the  room 
or  the  big  sea-chests,  unless  the  other 
were  present;  and  as  I  was  not  very 
likely  to  assist  Dinanath  Babu  to  loot, 
and  as  Dinanath  Babu  was  not  very 
likely  to  assist  me,  the  paternal  gov- 
ernment felt  reasonably  safe. 

Yet  we  had,  as  I  say,  plenty  of  treas- 
ure, well  worth  any  man's  looting.  For 
in  each  sea-chest,  stacked  around  its 


470 


HOW  THE  ARMY  WAS  KIDNAPPED 


cavernous  inside,  were  thirty  columns 
of  little  bags,  made  of  closely  netted 
whipcord,  ten  bags  to  the  column;  and 
in  each  bag  a  thousand  silver  rupees, 
like  white  fish  glinting  in  the  net.  Ten 
thousand  rupees  to  the  column;  three 
hundred  thousand  —  three  lakhs  —  to 
the  chest;  and  eight  chests  in  all.  Nor 
was  that  all.  We  had  also  a  sheaf  of 
high-denomination  notes,  and  a  bag  of 
gold  mohurs;  say  in  the  neighborhood 
of  three  millions.  And  the  men  of  the 
Nizam  were  at  the  door,  heavily  armed 
with  service  rifles,  and  determined  to 
carry  off  a  substantial  portion  of  our 
treasure. 

The  corporal  with  the  shrill  voice, 
was,  as  I  have  said,  apprehensive. 
Dinanath  Babu  was  perfectly  cool.  I 
was  not;  far  from  it.  I  was  abomin- 
ably hot,  in  spite  of  a  very  light  suit 
of  tussore  silk.  Hot,  and  decidedly  un- 
comfortable. 

Yet  the  cause  of  my  discomfort  was 
not  the  presence  of  these  ferocious 
armed  Moslems  at  the  door,  nor  my 
certain  knowledge  that  they  would 
never  depart  empty-handed,  although 
that  might  seem  cause  enough.  What 
really  fretted  me  was  that  visitation 
of  Providence  called  prickly  heat,  de- 
ployed in  loose  order  on  my  shoulders 
and  spine.  Truth  to  tell,  in  the  face  of 
that  armed  force  I  was  as  little  dis- 
turbed as  Dinanath  Babu  himself;  and 
even  the  timidly  saluting  corporal  was 
nervous  from  quite  other  reasons.  Sud- 
denly wakened  on  guard,  he  had  for- 
gotten part  of  his  accoutrements,  and 
had  come  into  the  presence  incom- 
plete. 

Discipline  must  be  vindicated. 

*  Corporal!   Go  and  get  your  belt!' 

He  went,  very  shamefaced,  and,  re- 
turning, once  more  made  the  announce- 
ment, -  i 

'Huzoor!  The  men  of  the  Nizam 
Bahadur  are  at  the  door.' 

We  were,  as  I  have  said,  altogether 


unafraid,  even  the  corporal.  We  had 
expected  them,  and  were  prepared. 

'Bid  the  Nizam's  sergeant  enter.' 

The  corporal  saluted,  withdrew,  and 
immediately  returned,  escorting  the 
Nizam  Bahadur's  sergeant,  in  his  cu- 
riously irregular-looking  uniform :  dark 
green  tunic,  whitish  trousers,  and  white 
turban  with  a  green  tassel.  Long, 
pointed  shoes  and  a  sword-bayonet 
completed  his  rig. 

The  sergeant  stood  before  the  table 
and  saluted  the  Treasury  Officer  with 
grave  dignity.  He  was  magnificent  in 
his  huge,  fuzzy  whiskers  and  dark,  seri- 
ous eyes.  The  Treasury  Officer  fitly  re- 
sponded to  the  salute. 

'Huzoor!'  said  the  sergeant.  'We 
have  come  for  the  money  for  the  Ni- 
zam Bahadur.' 

'Very  good,  sergeant.  You  have  the 
paper?' 

He  fished  it  out  of  his  breast  pocket. 
The  paper  demanded  so  many  thou- 
sand rupees  in  notes,  so  many  thou- 
sands in  silver,  and  a  few  score  in  cop- 
pers, annas  and  pice :  twenty  thousand 
rupees  in  all,  which  should  go  to  the 
up-keep,  for  the  term  of  one  calendar 
month,  of  the  Palace,  the  Nizamat 
buildings  and  College,  the  maintenance 
of  many  younger  brothers,  nephews, 
nieces,  sisters,  cousins,  and  aunts  of 
the  Nizam.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  pension 
of  His  Highness,  duly  payable  under 
treaty  between  his  family  and  the  pa- 
ternal government.  We  paid  it  to  him 
on  the  first  of  each  month. 

The  counting  of  the  money  was  a 
ritual  in  itself.  We  began  it  in  this  way : 
Dinanath  Babu,  going  to  one  of  the 
sea-chests,  already  opened  by  its  two 
several  keys,  heaved  forth  one  of  the 
network  bags.  Bringing  it  to  the  table, 
behind  which  sat  the  Treasury  Officer, 
and  before  which  stood  the  Nizamat 
sergeant,  he  untied  and  unwound  the 
string  that  confined  its  throat,  and, 
turning  it  about,  poured  a  little  pile  of 


HOW  THE  ARMY  WAS  KIDNAPPED 


471 


silver  rupees  on  the  table.  Thereon 
the  Treasury  Officer  stretched  forth  his 
hand,  and  took,  first,  the  paper  which 
contained  the  history  of  that  partic- 
ular bag,  duly  signed  by  himself,  and 
then  a  big  handful  of  rupees.  From 
these,  with  the  right  hand,  he  counted 
out  little  piles  of  ten,  each  time  taking 
just  five  between  fingers  and  thumb, 
until  five  little  piles  stood  on  the  table, 
the  sergeant  meanwhile  following  with 
alert,  serious  eyes. 

Then  a  big  pair  of  scales  was  set  on 
the  table,  splendid  in  nickel  and  brass, 
and  into  one  scale  'I  put  the  counted 
fifty  rupees,  to  serve  as  a  weight, 
pouring  rupees  into  the  other  from  a 
loose  handful,  until  the  scale-pan  just 
moved  and  remained  evenly  poised. 
That  made  our  first  hundred,  which 
was  then  used  as  a  weight,  against 
which  nine  handfuls  were  successively 
balanced,  until  the  first  thousand  was 
completed.  Satisfactorily,  it  came  out 
exactly  even,  tallying  with  what  was 
written  in  the  bag. 

So  we  weighed  out  the  remaining 
thousands  required  to  be  in  silver,  add- 
ed certain  thousands  in  high-denomin- 
ation notes,  -  -  hundreds  and  fifties,  — 
and  topped  off  with  a  box  of  mint-new 
copper  annas  and  pice,  the  former  six- 
teen to  the  rupee,  the  latter,  four  to  the 
anna.  There  is  a  still  smaller  copper 
coin,  a  tiny  piece  called  a  pie;  of  these 
we  added  a  quart  or  so,  to  be  given  in 
largesse  to  the  needy;  for  the  Nizam 
Bahadur  has  a  charitable  heart,  and 
giving  is  still  one  of  the  cardinal  virtues 
in  India. 

Then  the  sergeant  and  the  Babu  and 
the  corporal,  duly  recalled  to  that  end, 
heaved  the  whole  twenty  thousand  in 
their  arms,  and  we  went  outside  to 
load  it  on  the  bullock- wagon.  As  we 
appeared  in  the  blistering  sunlight,  the 
army  rose  to  its  feet  from  the  grass  and 
saluted,  all  ten  of  it,  with  admirable 
discipline  and  alacrity.  Its  uniform 


was  like  the  sergeant's,  lacking  stripes 
and  sword-bayonet,  and  with  Enfield 
rifles  and  cartridge-pouches  added.  Al- 
together, an  admirable  little  army,  ad- 
equate to  the  responsible  duty  of  con- 
voying twenty  thousand  rupees  up 
the  long  red  road  under  the  cocoanut 
palms  to  the  Nizamat  palace. 

WThen  the  sergeant  had  signed  the 
receipt  in  duplicate,  with  my  own  coun- 
ter-signature and  the  Babu's  pointed 
handwriting  added  in  confirmation, 
the  sergeant  shouted,  "Tshun!'  in  his 
best  English,  followed  immediately  by 
*  Marsh!'  and  the  bullock-cart,  with 
five  of  the  army  on  either  side  and 
the  sergeant  guarding  the  rear,  set 
forth  on  its  northward  march,  herald- 
ed by  a  frightful  shriek  from  an  un- 
greased  axle;  a  horrid,  blood-chilling 
shriek  repeated  with,  damnable  itera- 
tion, though  happily  sinking  to  desper- 
ate feebleness  through  distance,  as  the 
bullock-cart  swung  around  the  corner 
under  the  big  banyan  tree  and  made 
its  way  along  the  Burra  Lai  Dighy, 
which  is  to  say  the  Great  Red  Tank, 
red  corresponding  to  the  primitive 
ideal  of  beauty.  I  am  well  persuaded 
that,  as  soon  as  the  civil  station  was 
out  of  sight,  the  whole  army  mounted 
on  the  bullock-cart,  the  fuzzy  sergeant 
included,  and  that,  thus  arranged,  the 
cortege  crawled  its  leisurely  way  north- 
ward beneath  the  palm  trees.  I  don't 
suppose  the  bullocks  found  this  pro- 
ceeding at  all  out  of  the  ordinary,  or 
to  be  resented.  Their  minds  had  never 
been  disturbed  by  rumors  of  the  Royal 
Humane  Society. 

As  soon  as  things  were  fixed  up  in 
the  Treasury,  we  turned  the  keys  in 
our  double  locks;  and,  metamorphosed 
from  Treasury  Officer  into  Assistant 
Magistrate,  I  went  off  to  another  dingy 
room  to  try  Abkari  cases :  prosecutions 
of  blear-eyed,  brown  persons  charged 
with  distilling  illicit  rice-wine  under  the 
stark  radiance  of  the  Indian  moon. 


472 


HOW  THE  ARMY  WAS   KIDNAPPED 


Tiffin  made  a  pleasing  interlude,  and 
by  five  the  day's  work  was  done.  Sun- 
dry malefactors  were  laid  by  the  heels. 
Sundry  others  were  let  loose,  and  all 
was  well. 

I  strolled  over  to  the  club,  to  watch 
the  tennis,  and  found,  to  my  joy,  that 
the  Collector  Mem-Sahib  was  dispens- 
ing tea.  A  cup  of  her  fine  Darjhiling 
and  a  cigarette  allayed  the  pang  of 
mortality  and  even  soothed  my  prickly 
heat,  and,  finding  a  cool  seat  on  the 
veranda,  I  began  a  spirited  flirtation 
with  little  Madge  Paterson,  youngest 
of  the  four  Paterson  maidens,  and  a 
particular  friend  of  mine. 

*  Watch  Molly ! '  she  said.  '  Is  n't  she 
playing  splendidly!  Golly  1  Look  at 
that  serve!' 

Molly's  partner  was  the  little  Maha- 
raja of  Ghorabazar,  with  sixteen  sum- 
mers to  his  credit,  and  a  pedigree  that 
went  back  to  the  Ramayana.  We  and 
the  Colonnas  and  the  O'Neills  are  all 
parvenus  by  comparison.  A  charming 
boy,  with  light  golden  skin,  smooth  as 
silk,  beautifully  formed  hands,  and 
bright,  devilishly  mischievous  eyes.  A 
ripping  tennis-player,  too,  cool  and 
quick  and  agile  as  steel.  At  receptions 
and  parties  he  wore  pounds  of  gold- 
lace  strewn  thick  as  treacle  over  his 
blue  velvet  tunic,  with  diamond  but- 
tons as  big  as  filberts.  But  now  he  was 
in  plain  white,  save  for  a  jaunty  little 
cap  of  cloth  of  gold. 

He  and  Molly  Paterson  were  knock- 
ing things  about,  all  their  own  way. 
They  were  beating  Jones,  the  Junior 
Police  Sahib,  and  young  Ali  Mirza,  a 
Nizamat  nephew,  into  a  cocked  hat; 
and  it  was  not  the  fault  of  Ali  Mirza. 
In  spite  of  his  superb  clothes,  green 
satin  trousers,  scarlet  satin  jacket,  and 
blue  and  gold  cap,  he  was  all  over  the 
court,  a  cross  between  a  rainbow  and  a 
lightning-flash,  but  it  was  all  no  use. 
Young  Jones  —  a  conceited  young  ass, 
most  of  us  thought  him  —  fumbled 


every  ball  that  came  his  way,  and  lost 
more  points  than  even  his  many-col- 
ored partner  could  make  up.  Watch- 
ing that  party-colored  set,  I  fell  a- 
musing. 

Oh,  most  benevolent  and  wonderful 
British  Indian  Government,  what  a 
miracle  of  assimilation  you  accomplish 
here!  —  a  Hindu  prince  whose  family 
was  old  and  splendid  when  Romulus 
founded  Rome;  one  of  the  wild,  con- 
quering Moslems;  a  fine  and  haughty 
Briton  like  young  Jones  —  a  touch  of 
irony  here;  and,  fourth,  a  Eurasian  girl. 
An  awfully  nice  girl;  everybody  liked 
Molly;  but  a  Eurasian.  Her  grandmo- 
ther was  a  Bhootia  woman;  the  dear 
old  mother's  high  cheek-bones  showed 
it;  and  Paterson  too,  with  his  nice  gray 
whiskers  and  honest  face,  had  at  least 
'a  touch  of  the  tarbrush.'  Truly,  a 
miracle  of  assimilation ! 

'  I  say ! '  Little  Madge  was  speaking. 

'Yes,  Madge?' 

'Don't  they  play  well  together?  — 
Molly  and  the  Maharaja,  I  mean.  I 
say — ?' 

'Yes?' 

Madge  cocked  her  little,  dark  head 
comically  on  one  side. 

'Is  n't  it  a  pity  he  can't  marry 
her?' 

'Who  can't  marry  who,  Madge?' 

'Why,  I've  just  said!  Molly  and 
him,  of  course!' 

'The  Maharaja?'  I  was  genuinely 
taken  aback.  What  a  fancy  the  child 
had! 

'Of  course!'  she  said;  'Molly  and 
him.  And  then  I'd  be  a  princess,  and 
live  in  a  palace,  and,  oh,  yes  — ' 

'Well?' 

'You  could  come  and  visit  me,  and 
—  bring  me  sugar-plums.' 

'Oh,  but  I  could  n't,  Madge.  For 
you'd  be  a  Hindu  princess,  and  you 
know  they  don't  have  visitors  —  ex- 
cept lady  visitors,  of  course.' 

'Yes/  Madge   answered  incisively. 


HOW  THE  ARMY  WAS  KIDNAPPED 


473 


*  Is  n't  that  such  stuff!  But  Molly  'd 
change  all  that.  See  if  she  would  n't! 
And  then  you  could  come.' 

'I've  got  an  idea,  Madge.'  Madge, 
by  the  way,  was  ten. 

'Yes?'  she  queried. 

4 1  'm  sure  he 's  younger  than  Molly, 
and  that,  you  know,  would  never 
do.' 

'Oh,  of  course!'  she  answered.  'I 
never  thought  of  that.  As  Shakespeare 
says,  "Let  the  woman  take — "?' 

'Just  so,  Madge.  Now,  supposing 
you  married  him  yourself,  instead  of 
Molly.  You  'd  be  a  real  princess,  then.' 

'Now  you're  talking  rubbish,'  said 
Madge,  severely. 

It  could  not  be  denied.   I  was. 

The  set  ended  and  we  all  dispersed, 
the  station  folk  going  to  dress  for  din- 
ner, while  the  visitors  drove  off.  The 
little  Maharaja  had  a  high  English  dog- 
cart which  he  drove  himself,  and  he 
went  off  at  a  spanking  trot  behind  a 
big  Australian  horse  —  a  Waler,  as  our 
phrase  goes,  from  New  South  Wales. 
We  saw  him  whirl  off  into  the  twilight 
as  we  turned  toward  our  bungalows, 
some  of  us  walking,  others  driving. 

II 

We  dined  that  evening,  as  it  hap- 
pened, at  the  Collector  Sahib's.  The 
whole  station  was  there,  including 
Paterson  and  Molly.  Paterson,  by  the 
way,  was  our  Civil  Engineer,  of  Rivers 
and  Roads. 

I  sat  next  Molly,  and  was  talking  to 
her  about  Madge;  also  about  the  other 
two  dark  little  dots,  Milly  and  Meg, 
aged  eleven  and  twelve,  when  we  heard 
a  horse  come  thundering  along  the  side 
of  the  square  at  a  hand-gallop,  and 
stop  sharply,  with  a  rush  of  scuffling 
feet,  at  the  Collector  Sahib's  door.  We 
all  stopped  talking,  and  looked  at  the 
Collector  Sahib. 

His  head   chuprassi   came   in   and, 


bending  down,  whispered  something  to 
him  in  Hindustani.  The  Collector  Sa- 
hib started. 

'What?'  he  said.  'The  deuce  you 
say!' 

The  man  repeated.  The  Collector 
Sahib  rose,  rather  hastily  for  a  man  in 
general  so  cool  and  poised,  and  went 
out  into  the  front  room,  a  kind  of  in- 
formal office  opening  by  wide  doors  on 
the  veranda. 

Two  minutes  later,  he  reappeared  at 
the  door  of  the  dining-room.  I  caught 
his  eye.  He  signed  to  me  to  come,  and 
disappeared  again.  Hastily  making 
my  excuses  to  Molly  and  the  Collector 
Mem-Sahib,  I  went  to  the  front  room, 
in  no  small  wonder. 

Was  it  a  murder  or  a  dacoity  or  an 
uprising?  Anything  may  happen,  any- 
thing may  spring  up  to  the  surface  of 
the  still,  dark  river  of  Indian  life  that 
runs  so  unfathomably  deep. 

'I  say!'  the  Collector  Sahib  ejacu- 
lated, in  a  voice  for  him  very  excited, 
though  his  tone  was  low.  'Here's  a 
pretty  pair  of  shoes!  What  do  you 
think  has  happened?' 

I  ventured  no  guesses. 

'The  Nizam's  pay  hasn't  arrived! 
They  waited  two  or  three  hours  beyond 
the  usual  time,  and  then  sent  men 
out  to  look.  Not  a  sign!  So  they've 
sent  a  fellow  here.' 

As  Treasury  Officer,  I  took  that  to 
heart.  Short  of  the  looting  of  the 
Treasury,  nothing  more  serious  could 
have  happened. 

'You  got  it  sent  off  all  right,  did  n't 
you?  Who  came  for  it?' 

'The  usual  chap  —  Khoda  Baksh,  I 
think  his  name  is.  Yes,  Khoda  Baksh, 
the  big  up-country  chap  with  the  fuzzy 
beard.' 

'  I  know.  Well,  he 's  gone.  Sunk  into 
the  earth,  and  the  whole  Nizamat  guard 
with  him — to  say  nothing  of  the  bul- 
lock-cart, and  twenty  thousand  rupees. 
There  were  notes,  of  course?' 


474 


HOW  THE  ARMY  WAS  KIDNAPPED 


'Yes,  about  the  usual  amount.' 

'Well,  we  must  stop  them  at  once. 
You  can  get  the  numbers  first  thing  in 
the  morning.  But  the  silver  —  Better 
take  my  turn-turn  and  drive  to  the 
palace.  See  if  you  can  find  any  traces 
—  and  reassure  the  old  gentleman. 
I  '11  tell  them  to  harness  the  turn- turn. 
Take  these  two  chuprassis  with  you. 
Better  take  this,  too';  and  he  drew  a 
revolver  from  the  drawer  of  the  desk. 
*  Though  it's  inconceivable  to  me  that 
there's  been  violence.  You  have  your 
light  overcoat? ' 

Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  was 
driving,  as  fast  as  the  Collector  Sahib's 
fine  trotter  could  carry  me,  up  that 
long  road  beneath  the  cocoanut  palms, 
where  the  fateful  bullock-cart  had  dis- 
appeared in  the  hour  before  noon. 
There  was  no  moon,  but  the  stars  were 
gleaming  in  the  purple  night,  big  stars, 
like  colored  lamps,  hanging  down  clear 
from  the  background  of  the  sky.  I 
drove  almost  directly  toward  the  Pole 
Star,  hanging  low  among  the  palm 
trees,  covered,  now  and  then,  by  a 
dark,  waving  frond. 

It  was  an  extraordinary  drive.  No 
one  spoke.  The  bare  fact  I  knew,  and 
doubtless  the  Nizam's  messenger  had 
told  it  all,  with  such  embellishments  as 
might  occur  to  him,  to  the  chuprassis 
and  syces.  So  we  were  all  thinking 
about  it  tremendously,  though  no  one 
spoke. 

As  I  have  said,  short  of  revolution, 
nothing  more  catastrophic  could  have 
happened  in  that  quiet  district.  Twen- 
ty thousand  rupees  gone  in  broad 
daylight  I  Even  divided  by  twelve  — 
allowing  a  share  and  a  half  for  the 
sergeant,  and  a  half-share  for  the  bul- 
lock-driver —  it  would  make  the  for- 
tune of  every  man  in  the  Nizamat 
army.  Were  they,  with  Khoda  Baksh 
at  their  head,  making  their  way  across 
country,  under  cover  of  the  night,  to- 
ward the  forests  of  the  Santal  Hills? 


But  those  high-denomination  notes  — 
no  one  in  his  senses  would  try  to  make 
off  with  those!  And  for  the  life  of  me, 
I  could  not  think  of  Khoda  Baksh  as  a 
highway  robber;  no,  nor  those  honest 
Moslems  of  the  army  either.  In  the 
way  of  loot,  yes.  But  when  it  was  en- 
trusted to  them,  never. 

Then  what  the  mischief  could  have 
happened?  A  raid  of  wild  Hillmen 
from  across  the  railroad?  They  used  to 
raid,  in  the  old  days.  But  could  a  suffi- 
cient band  conceivably  get  right  into 
the  very  heart  of  the  district,  without 
our  hearing  of  them?  And  the  Niza- 
mat guard  was  fully  armed,  good  En- 
field  rifles,  with  ten  or  twenty  rounds  of 
ammunition  each;  I  knew  the  details, 
for  I  made  out  their  licenses  'to  have 
and  carry  arms.'  To  knock  out  ten 
men,  well  armed  with  rifles,  even  if  a 
surprise  volley  had  been  poured  into 
them,  would  mean  something  of  a  bat- 
tle. And  a  battle  like  that,  in  broad 
daylight  too,  could  hardly  take  place 
without  some  echo  of  it  reaching  us; 
indeed,  it  would  instantly  start  a  wild 
panic,  a  tornado.  Yet,  until  the  Niza- 
mat outrider  came,  not  a  sound,  not 
a  whisper  even,  on  the  stillness  of  the 
Indian  night!  The  whole  thing  was 
astonishing,  inconceivable. 

So  the  thing  stormed  around  the 
chambers  of  my  mind,  as  I  sent  the 
Collector's  trotter  along  that  arrow- 
straight  road;  red  brick,  pounded  and 
rolled,  what  we  call  a  *  pukka'  road; 

*  baked,'  that  is,  the  Indian  word  for 
anything  matured  and  authentic.    It 
stormed  about  my  mind;  yet  I  remem- 
ber that,  just  as  the  quiet  heavens  with 
the  big,  silent  stars,  looked  down  on  us, 
very  serenely,  so  there  was  that  in  me 
that  looked  down  on  the  turmoil  of 
thoughts   and    guesses,    very    serene: 

*  Why  all  this  stir,  little  man ! ' 

I  made  a  change  of  horses  at  the  half- 
way stable,  drove  past  the  big,  heavy 
gates  of  the  little  Maharaja's  enclosed 


HOW  THE  ARMY  WAS  KIDNAPPED 


475 


courtyard  and  palace,  and  presently 
entered  the  big,  imposing  doorway  of 
the  Nizamat  buildings. 

I  noticed  that  the  guard-house  was 
curiously  empty  and  still.  It  sudden- 
ly flashed  into  my  mind:  *  Of  course! 
The  army  is  gone!' 

It  was  about  ten  by  that  time. 
Lights  were  moving  among  the  build- 
ings, and,  hurrying  up  the  main  stair- 
way, I  found  the  great  reception  room 
brilliantly  lighted.  On  the  ivory-rim- 
med sofas  and  in  gilded  chairs,  dark 
gentlemen,  brilliantly  clad,  were  seat- 
ed, —  inwardly  perturbed,  outwardly 
calm.  In  the  midst  sat  His  Highness 
himself,  grave  as  always,  pensive,  ra- 
ther pathetic,  and,  to-night,  palpably 
discomposed. 

The  words  of  Arjuna  in  the  Bhaga- 
vad  Gita  flashed  into  my  mind — it  was 
not  so  long  since  my  Sanskrit  *  exams ' : 
—  '  I  behold  fathers,  sons,  and  grand- 
sires,  uncles,  fathers-in-law,  wives'  bro- 
thers, kinsmen,'  —  the  wKole  Nizamat 
family  of  the  sterner  sex.  The  sisters, 
cousins,  and  aunts,  being  zenana  ladies, 
were  naturally  missing.  Each  gentle- 
man, saving  only  the  Nizam,  had  a 
little  leather  bag,  like  a  Tyrolese  tobac- 
co-pouch, on  his  knee  or  in  his  hand. 
The  scene  was  eloquent :  they  had  come 
for  their  share  of  the  monthly  pay. 

As  I  stood  in  the  doorway,  while,  led 
by  His  Highness,  they  all  ceremoni- 
ously rose,  it  suddenly  flashed  into  my 
mind  that  I  had  been  so  busy  guessing 
at  the  mystery,  that  I  had  not  given  a 
thought  to  what  I  was  to  say.  It  was, 
in  effect,  'Do  not  be  alarmed,  gentle- 
men. You  will  get  your  money  all 
right.  Never  fear!' 

I  was  very  much  embarrassed  in  face 
of  those  serious  dark  gentlemen,  the 
youngest  of  whom  was  several  years 
my  senior.  And  to  this  day  I  do  not  re- 
member in  what  terms  I  made  the  ex- 
planations and  assurances.  One  thing 
only  emerged  clearly :  the  army  had  not 


arrived;  the  twenty  thousand  rupees 
were  gone. 

Even  before  I  left  the  civil  station, 
the  Collector  Sahib  had  set  the  police 
in  motion  throughout  the  district,  and 
had  sent  a  runner  to  the  nearest  tele- 
graph station,  which  was  fifteen  miles 
away,  to  notify  the  Calcutta  Treasury 
and  the  Bank  of  Bengal.  For  the  Col- 
lector, the  thing  was  serious  in  every 
way.  He  was  answerable  for  every- 
thing within  the  district,  and  particu- 
larly for  the  financial  side  of  things. 
And  twenty  thousand  rupees  meant  a 
full  year's  pay.  But  it  was  inconceiv- 
able—  yes,  of  course!  But  still  the 
money  was  gone.  That  fact  there  was 
no  getting  over. 

Ill 

I  got  back  to  the  station  after  mid- 
night. Early  the  next  morning,  I  set 
forth  to  try  to  get  on  the  track  of  the 
missing  army,  a  thing  impossible  in  the 
darkness  of  the  night  before.  I  found  it 
a  horribly  embarrassing  thing  to  do. 
Of  course  it  was  all  very  easy  to  drive 
leisurely  up  the  red  road  beneath  the 
cocoanut  palms,  carefully  scrutinizing 
the  road  and  its  sides  for  traces  of  a 
scuffle,  or  for  wheel- tracks  going  off  in- 
to the  jungle.  Off  the  pukka  roadbed 
the  ground  was  soft  enough;  the  ruts 
and  footprints  would  have  been  very 
conspicuous.  But  they  were  not  there. 

That  part  of  it,  as  I  say,  was  easy 
enough.  But  when  it  came  to  knocking 
at  the  door  of  a  Bengali  notable,  and 
asking  him  if  he  had  seen  the  missing 
army;  asking  this,  in  a  tongue  one 
spoke  haltingly,  of  people  with  keen, 
sarcastic  eyes,  —  that  was  a  job  that 
made  me  squirm. 

Fortunately,  most  fortunately,  I  had 
the  Collector  Sahib's  head  chuprassi 
with  me.  He  had  all  the  aplomb  I 
lacked.  He  was  a  Moslem.  Bengali 
notables  did  n't  bother  him.  Indeed, 


476 


HOW  THE  ARMY  WAS  KIDNAPPED 


his  assurance,  his  self-confidence,  was 
superb.  He  hammered  lustily  on  doors, 
and  when  they  were  opened,  cleared  his 
throat  with  a  resounding  'Ahem!'  and 
slapped  the  brass  plate  of  office  —  the 
chaprash  —  on  his  red  shoulder-sash, 
and,  brow-beating  and  bullying,  he 
told  his  errand ;  each  time  with  the  air 
of  accusing  his  interlocutor  of  direct 
complicity,  or  at  least  criminal  know- 
ledge of  the  theft.  When  I  add  that  his 
manner  to  me  was  humbly  deferential, 
you  can  realize  what  a  comfort  that 
knavish  chuprassi  was. 

Well,  we  went  carefully  over  the 
road,  up  to  the  Nizamat  palace  and 
back,  and  found  never  a  trace.  Later, 
we  beat  the  by-roads  throughout  the 
district,  meanwhile  anxiously  awaiting 
news  from  up  or  down  the  railway  line. 
But  not  a  word!  Not  a  sign!  The 
whole  thing  was  gone,  cavalcade  and 
buffalo-cart  and  twenty  thousand  ru- 
pees, leaving  no  more  trace  than  a  stone 
dropped  into  deep  water.  We  had  the 
ripples  on  the  pool  when  the  rider  gal- 
loped up,  that  first  evening.  But  after 
that,  never  a  word  or  a  sign. 

It  was  getting  very  serious  for  the 
Collector  Sahib,  and  serious  also  for 
the  rest  of  us,  including  the  Assistant- 
Magistrate-and-Treasury-Officer.  So 
we  very  naturally  set  about  our  remain- 
ing tasks  with  uncommon  diligence  and 
zeal. 

For  weeks  I  had  had  a  detail  of 
work:  a  visit  to  the  Ghorabazar  Ma- 
harani,  the  mother  of  Molly's  young 
tennis-partner,  about  a  disputed  land- 
title.  I  had  to  go  up  and  take  her  evi- 
dence. That,  among  other  bits  of  post- 
poned work,  was  now  brought  hastily 
forth  and  pushed  forward. 

So,  once  more,  I  drove  up  the  red 
road  beneath  the  palm  trees  and,  pre- 
ceded by  my  brazen-faced  chuprassi, 
made  my  way  into  the  reception-room 
of  the  Maharani's  palace,  a  huge,  splen- 
did rppm,  with  costly,  quaint  furniture 


and  flat,  highly  colored  Indian  oil- 
paintings  on  the  walls.  A  curtain  hung, 
across  an  alcove.  There  the  Maharani 
was  installed,  it  being  etiquette  that  I 
might  speak  to  her  only  through  the 
curtain,  not  setting  profane  eyes  upon 
her  at  all. 

Even  then,  I  might  not  speak  to  her 
direct.  She  might  only  whisper,  and 
her  son,  standing  half  behind  the  cur- 
tain, caught  her  words,  and  repeated 
them  aloud  to  me. 

One  of  our  Brahman  deputy  magis- 
trates was  there  before  me,  to  help  out 
with  the  formalities,  and  we  soon  got 
to  work,  thrashing  over  the  question  of 
the  disputed  boundary.  Her  little  lady- 
ship, for  so  I  judged  her  to  be,  by  the 
moderate  stature  of  her  son  and  the 
mouse-like  gentleness  of  her  whispers, 
gave  her  evidence  with  astonishing  lu- 
cidity, considering  that  she  had  never 
seen  the  outer  world  since  the  days 
when,  a  tiny  maid  of  seven,  she  was 
married  to  the  late  Maharaja. 

We  had  come  to  a  halt,  while  I  was 
writing  down  the  details  of  her  de- 
scription, when,  suddenly,  above  the 
squeaking  of  my  quill,  which  was  the 
only  noise  that  broke  the  silence,  there 
came  the  sound  of  a  manly  voice,  muf- 
fled by  distance,  chanting  some  native 
song. 

My  ear  caught  it  before  my  mind 
did,  for  I  was  wrestling  with  a  difficult 
Bengali  phrase,  and  I  particularly  did 
not  wish  to  ask  the  Deputy  Babu.  It 
came  again,  that  muffled  war-chant, 
and  I  found  myself  associating  it,  in 
half-conscious  thought,  with  the  guard- 
house of  the  Nizamat  palace. 

The  little  Maharaja  was  watching 
me  with  half-closed  eyes,  his,  fine  face 
as  still  as  a  god's;  yes,  just  like  a  gold 
statue  of  Gautama  Buddha.  The  Bud- 
dha, by  the  way,  was  a  cousin  of  his 
ancestor's,  so  the  likeness  was  natural 
enough ! 

Once  more  that  muffled   phrase  of 


HOW  THE  ARMY  WAS   KIDNAPPED 


477 


song,  and,  as  background,  the  mind- 
picture  of  the  Nizamat  guard-house. 
What  the  dickens  did  *  Barabareshu ' 
mean  in  Bengali? 

Suddenly  I  sat  bolt  upright,  and 
looked  the  little  Maharaja  full  in  the 
face.  His  lips  were  slightly  compress- 
ed. Otherwise  he  still  wore  the  air  of 
the  Buddha  in  contemplation.  Then, 
from  behind  the  curtain,  came  the 
faintest,  most  ethereal  giggle.  The  Ma- 
harani  was  laughing.  My  suspicions 
were  confirmed. 

'  Prince,'  I  said  rising,  *  I  am — great- 
ly interested — in  that  song.  Will  you 
be  so  good  as  —  to  lead  me  to  the 
singer?' 

There  was  a  little  ripple  of  silvery 
laughter  behind  the  curtain,  and  a  sud- 
den giggling  whisper.  The  young  Ma- 
haraja interpreted:  — 

*  Sir,  my  mother  says  —  my  mother 
begs  you  —  she  says  —  it  is  only  a 
boy's  prank.' 

'Come,  please,'  I  said,  trying  not  to 
smile.  A  prank,  perhaps,  but  pretty 
serious. 

We  went  along  a  passage  and  down 
a  stairway,  finally  entering  a  huge  hall, 
set  with  pillars,  which  seemed  to  fill  the 
basement  of  the  entire  palace.  It  had 
no  windows,  and  was  dimly  lighted  by 
a  few  cocoanut-oil  lamps,  such  as  you 
might  find  in  the  tombs  at  Mycenae. 

There,  on  the  straw  that  covered  the 
floor,  I  saw  —  -  the  whole  Nizamat 
army,  evidently  fuddled,  the  sergeant, 
stripped  of  his  green  tunic,  dreamily 
singing  that  Urdu  war-song  that  I  had 
heard  once,  as  we  drove  past  the  Niza- 
mat guard-house.  The  two  bullocks 
were  there,  snuffling  about  in  the  straw; 
the  bullock- wagon  also;  and  on  it,  to 
my  great  relief,  I  saw  the  box  of  mon- 
eys, its  seals  unbroken,  evidently  un- 
touched. 


I  looked  at  the  little  Maharaja  with 
some  severity. 

'How  did  this  happen,  Prince?' 

The  Buddha-like  serenity  of  his  face 
suddenly  broke  into  a  charming  boy- 
ish smile,  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  lum- 
inous mischief. 

'Well,'  he  explained,  'they  were  just 
opposite  my  gate  when  I  overtook 
them,  and  —  they  seemed  so  thirsty 
—  and  tired.  So  I  asked  them  to  come 
in.  —  I  could  not  ask  my  guests  to  go 
again  I' 

'But  where  are  their  rifles?' 

'I  had  them  put  away,  for  safety, 
while  the  men  slept,'  he  explained, 
again  with  that  delicious  smile. 

'How  did  they  come  to  be  asleep?' 

'I  wonder,'  he  said.  'I  fancy  —  do 
you  know,  I  think  it  was  the  sher- 
bet!' 

Further  investigation  showed  that 
he  had  been  quenching  their  thirst  on 
iced  punch  made  of  green  Chartreuse. 
No  wonder  their  wits  had  fled. 

Well,  we  got  that  army  on  its  feet 
again,  and  I  accompanied  it  to  the 
Nizam's  palace,  making  what  explana- 
tions I  could  on  behalf  of  the  little 
Maharaja. 

The  dear  old  Nizam  listened  to  me 
in  wonder,  then  chuckled,  then  burst 
out  laughing:  — 

'  Tut  tut  tut ! '  he  said, '  to  give  liquor 
to  my  good  Mussulmans!' 

We  had  the  little  Maharaja  up  be- 
fore the  Collector  Sahib,  for  a  wigging, 
bearing  in  mind  his  little  mother's  plea. 
At  first  he  was  obdurate,  his  face  firm 
as  a  gold  statue. 

'Did  not  his  ancestors  rob  mine?' 
he  asked,  with  good  historic  backing. 
Then  suddenly  the  Buddha-face  broke 
into  that  charming,  irresistible  smile. 

'And  besides,'  he  said,  'it  was  Saint 
April's  day.' 


PROSERPINA  AND  THE  SEA-NYMPHS 

BY   GKACE   HAZARD   CONKLING 

PROSERPINA 

I  TIRE  of  these  embroideries. 

Now  I  have  gilded  all  my  stars, 

And  plumed  with  light  my  ilex  trees, 

And  made  the  moon  and  sun,  there  is 

The  sea  to  finish.     Only  this 

Eludes  my  eager  hand  and  mars 

The  beauty  of  my  tapestry. 

Which  color  of  the  changeful  sea 

Would  she  most  love,  my  mother?     Blue 

Superbly  shadowed  like  her  hood, 

Or  blazing,  like  her  peacock?  —  hue 

Of  dawn  or  wine,  or  purple  silk 

With  foamy  fringes  white  as  milk? 

There  is  a  gray-green,  much  her  mood 

In  early  Spring.  —  Nay,  I  must  go 

And  ask  the  sea-nymphs.     They  will  know. 

-     SEA-NYMPHS   SINGING 

Mother  Ceres'  daughter 
Straying  down  the  shore, 

Brings  with  her  a  beauty 
Never  known  before. 

(Who  had  heard,  until  she  came, 

Such  a  ripple  of  a  name?) 

PROSERPINA 

I  hear  them  singing  on  the  shore, 
My  little  .sisters  of  the  sea! 


PROSERPINA  AND  THE  SEA-NYMPHS  479 

Surely  I  can  return  before 
The  golden  lonesome  afternoon 
Leans  toward  the  dusk? 

/  shall  come  soon 
And  weave  a  miracle  for  thee, 
My  mother,  out  of  showered  light 
Upon  great  waters:  and  to-night, 
Give  thee  my  tapestry  of  dreams, 
And  sing  thee  what  the  sisters  sing. 
—  Too  bright  the  sea!     Unreal  it  seems, 
And  so  aloof,  I  hardly  know, 
With  all  its  glory  changing  so, 
How  I  dare  try  embroidering  — 
Oh,  they  are  there,  all  wet  and  cool 
From  out  the  foam,  and  beautiful! 

SEA-NYMPHS   SINGING 

Is  there  any  flower 

Delicate  as  she? 
Only  tender-breathing 

Sea-anemone. 

(Maidens,  was  there  ever  heard 
Such  a  little  limpid  word?) 

PROSERPINA 

Laugh,  laugh  again,  for  I  so  love 
Your  glittering  laughter  in  the  sun, 
Like  sudden  wave-crests  fashioned  of 
Bubbles  and  rainbows!     Did  you  say 
Nobody  knew  you  came  away? 
Then  I  am  not  the  only  one 
Truant  along  these  yellow  sands! 
(How  soft  your  little  starfish  hands!) 
Now  tell  me,  darlings,  is  it  true 
You  travel  far  within  the  sea, 
And  drive  the  dolphins  two  and  two? 


480  PROSERPINA  AND  THE  SEA-NYMPHS 

And  arc  there  islands  rooted  deep, 
That  you  must  scale  like  mountains  steep, 
To  find  out  what  their  names  may  be? 
(/  made  an  island,  once,  a  shore 
Dazzled  with  surf.)  —  Oh,  tell  me  more! 


SEA-NYMPHS 

Fair  the  clustered  islands, 

Deep  the  coral  wells! 
You  who  bring  us  flowers, 

Do  you  like  our  shells? 
These,  all  jeweled,  only  grow 
On  an  island  that  we  know. 

Who  has  felt  its  beauty 

Cannot  go  away. 
It  is  like  a  crystal 

Irised  in  bright  spray  — 
There  is  untold  mystery 
In  the  islands  of  the  sea! 

One  is  all  a  garden, 
One  has  sands  of  gold. 

One  is  built  of  silver: 
One  is  very  old, 

Made  of  coral  and  most  fair. 

One  conceals  the  GORQONS*  lair. 

Shells  of  many  islands 
Blossoming  from  foam, 

See,  they  make  a  necklace! 
Will  you  wear  it  home? 

Asphodels  are  sweet,  but  ours 

Are  the  everlasting  flowers. 


PROSERPINA  AND  THE  SEA-NYMPHS  481 

PROSERPINA 

And  I  shall  keep  them  evermore! 
But  in  the  April-colored  mead 
Beyond  the  crescent  of  the  shore, 
There  are  such  lilies!    Let  me  get 
Enough  of  them,  with  violet 
And  hyacinth  as  I  may  need, 
To  make  you  each  a  coronal ! 
You  will  not  have  to  wait  at  all, 
They  are  so  many,  and  so  sweet! 
Throw  me  your  little  dripping  kiss ! 

I 

Look,  there  are  wings  upon  my  feet, 
Wait  for  me!  — 

(Alone)  (Now,  you  asphodels, 

Rose-lined  and  petaled  like  sea-shells, 
Could  any  fate  be  strange  as  this  — 
The  nymphs'  green  tresses  to  confine, 
And  plunge  full  fathom-deep  in  brine?) 

I  never  thought  to  make  them  say 
The  wisest  color  for  my  sea! 
Corn-flower  blue  it  was  to-day, 
And  veined  with  topaz  —  If  I  go 
Much  farther,  now  the  sun  is  low, 
The  sisters  will  not  wait  for  me. 
But  April  only  once  a  year 
Comes  true!  —  What  loveliness  is  here  — 
These  unknown  flowers  waxen-white, 
That  glimmer  in  a  starry  crowd 
A-shiver  with  their  own  delight? 
Mother  must  tell  me.  —  Are  they  real? 
Whence  the  sharp  terror  that  I  feel? 
Dread  Darkness  —  art  thou  god  or  cloud 
Enfolding  me  f 

My  mother,  oh, 
Hear  thou,  and  make  him  let  me  go! 


VOL.  114  -NO.  4 


482 


PROSERPINA  AND  THE  SEA-NYMPHS 


SEA-NYMPHS   SINGING,    FAR   AWAY 

Do  you  see  her  coming? 

Did  you  hear  her  call? 
There  is  sudden  menace 

In  the  sky,  and  all 
The  bright  waters  have  gone  gray. 
Little  friend ,  we  dare  not  stay! 


THE  FRIENDLESS  MAJORITY 


BY    O.   W.   FIRKINS 


IN  these  days  any  one  with  a  pity 
for  outcasts  cannot  fail  to  sympathize 
with  the  friendless  majority.  Emerson 
with  his  epochal  'Self-Reliance,'  Re- 
nan  with  his  victorious  'Caliban,'  Ibsen 
with  his  scornful  *  Enemy  of  the  Peo- 
ple,' have  made  abuse  of  the  majority  a 
favorite  —  almost  a  popular  —  recrea- 
tion, and  able  speakers  to-day  find  no 
difficulty  in  proving  the  unworthiness 
of  the  larger  human  aggregates  to  the 
satisfaction  of  from  two  thirds  to  nine 
tenths  of  the  responsive  audience.  Per- 
sonally, I  always  disliked  the  majority, 
as  long  as  the  crowd  was  on  its  side, 
but  I  find  that  it  tends  to  grow  inter- 
esting, almost  sympathetic,  in  the  hour 
of  its  rejection  and  abandonment.  I 
still  like  to  hear  our  nobler  youth  urged 
to  rebel  against  the  despotism  of  social 
usage  or  political  inertia,  but,  as  phil- 
osopher, I  suspect  that,  in  the  great 
cyclic  process  of  man  versus  men,  the 
verdict  is  sometimes  given  a  little  too 
hastily  and  absolutely  for  the  plaintiff. 
When  Mrs.  Grundy  herself  is  sent  to 
Coventry,  human  nature  cannot  re- 
press a  smile,  but  society  at  large  is  a 


bigger  thing  than  Mrs.  Grundy,  and 
the  right  of  mankind  to  be  heard  in  its 
own  defense  may  be  conceded  by  the 
most  spleenful  of  individualists. 

I  wonder  if  the  censors  of  the  major- 
ity— commonly  indebted  to  its  homes, 
its  schools,  its  churches,  for  the  train- 
ing of  that  intelligence  and  conscience 
with  which  they  rake  its  institutions 
fore  and  aft  —  have  ever  stopped  to 
imagine  the  consequences  of  the  relax- 
ing on  all  sides  of  that  respect  for  the 
opinions  of  mankind  which  —  let  us 
frankly  confess  —  so  often  obstructs 
and  retards  the  progress  of  particular 
reforms.  Genius  would  be  liberated? 
Yes;  if  we  are  willing  to  compliment 
the  majority  to  the  extent  of  admitting 
its  capacity  to  bridle  even  genius.  But, 
conceding  this  capacity,  let  us  remem- 
ber that  the  fools  would  be  liberated  by 
the  same  act,  and  the  proportion  of  ge- 
niuses to  fools  in  this  inequitable  planet 
is  not  of  a  kind  to  confirm  hope  in  the 
optimistic  reformer.  Open  the  doors  of 
your  penitentiary,  and  you  may  possi- 
bly release  a  Giordano  Bruno  or  John 
Brown  of  Ossawatomie  (though  the 


THE   FRIENDLESS   MAJORITY 


483 


likelihood  of  such  result  is  inappreci- 
able), and  you  will  very  certainly  cast 
out  into  the  world  some  hundreds  of 
forgers,  embezzlers,  and  assassins. 

If  you  wish  to  ignore  that  particular 
embodiment  of  social  opinion  which  is 
called  law  and  has  clubs  and  gallows 
and  electricity  on  its  side,  the  case  is 
quite  as  clear  where  the  application  of 
the  social  influence  is  merely  psycho- 
logical. Release  a  given  social  assem- 
blage from  adherence  to  the  manners  of 
the  day,  and,  for  one  person  in  whom 
an  original  thought  or  generous  act  is 
set  free,  there  will  be  fifty  in  whom 
the  same  license  will  unbind  an  act  of 
greed,  an  ineptitude,  a  frivolity,  or  an 
impertinence. 

These  things  are  interferences  with 
progress,  obstructions  to  true  life,  and 
when  we  reflect  that  the  normal  effect 
of  social  disfavor  is  not  to  prevent  but 
simply  to  defer  the  accomplishment  of 
great  reforms,  it  requires  some  courage 
to  assert  that  the  postponement  of  the 
good  is  too  high  a  price  to  pay  for  the 
suppression  of  the  evil. 

Society  need  not  follow  the  counsel 
of  imbeciles.  Granted:  but  the  time 
lost  in  convincing  them  of  the  hopeless- 
ness of  their  projects  is  time  that  can 
be  ill  spared  from  tillage  and  shoemak- 
ing  and  leechcraft.  You  may  be  proof 
against  the  importunities  of  the  sly 
agent,  but  if  you  had  to  walk  to  your 
threshold  fifty  times  a  day  even  for  the 
purpose  of  shutting  the  door  in  his  face, 
the  consumption  of  your  time  would 
hurt  your  business.  Nuisances  are 
plentiful,  in  spite  of  all  restraints;  most 
of  us  would  like  to  be  *  cranks '  if  the 
social  penalties  were  removed ;  and  the 
one  thing  that  keeps  the  breed  from 
multiplying  to  ten  times  its  present 
strength  is  the  odium  inseparable  from 
the  name. 

The  truth  is  that  imitation,  with  the 
docility  which  is  its  source,  secures  to 
the  dullards  and  the  weaklings  a  vir- 


tual participation  in  the  good  sense  and 
right  feeling  of  the  wiser  few.  Men  are 
kept  orderly,  clean,  and  decent  through 
the  strength  of  this  obsequiousness  to 
social  opinion  which  the  prophets  of 
individualism  are  in  such  haste  to  de- 
plore. The  social  code  no  doubt  al- 
ways involves  much  inadequacy,  much 
stupidity,  some  hypocrisy,  and  some 
wickedness;  but,  taken  by  and  large, 
the  average  of  its  prescriptions  has 
probably  been  higher  in  every  age  than 
the  average  of  undirected  and  unfet- 
tered individual  impulse.  Many  of  the 
things  embodied  in  that  wide-ranging, 
multifarious  thing  called  the  sense  of 
the  community  are  undoubtedly  right, 
since  they  were  once  the  distinctions 
of  heroic  minorities  or  the  discoveries 
of  fearless  individuals. 

It  is  the  poor  scourged  majority  in- 
deed that  supports  the  right  of  free 
speech,  in  the  strength  of  which  its  un- 
grateful assailants  address  themselves 
to  the  task  of  its  flagellation.  While  re- 
formers are  hot  in  affirmations  of  its 
stupidity,  the  purblind  thing  almost 
justifies  their  censures  by  the  absurd 
magnanimity  with  which  it  protects 
their  lives,  defends  their  property, 
counts  their  votes,  or  transports  their 
diatribes  against  itself  with  unerring 
precision  in  its  hospitable  mail-bags. 
The  majority  learns  slowly,  it  is  true, 
and  the  minority  feels  in  its  presence 
the  same  impatience  which  the  bright 
lad  in  the  district  school  exhibits  when 
the  sturdy  bumpkin  at  his  side  spells 
out  his  words  with  stolid  persistence 
from  the  tattered  reading-book.  But 
the  bumpkin  has  an  excellent  memory, 
and  may  be  pardoned  for  a  little  honest 
bewilderment  when  his  teachers  change 
their  mind. 

Men  fail  to  see  the  value  of  consoli- 
dation in  a  race,  a  nation,  or  a  party. 
The  Germans  love  music  as  a  people, 
the  French  literature,  the  English  lib- 
erty, in  the  same  way;  the  nationality, 


484 


THE  FRIENDLESS  MAJORITY 


the  solidarity,  of  the  support  accorded 
to  the  chosen  ideal  reinforces  its  grip 
upon  every  individual.  The  love  of 
music,  of  literature,  of  liberty,  is  forti- 
fied in  each  instance  by  that  much- 
decried  but  mighty  force,  the  love  of 
agreement.  Even  reformers  are  glad  to 
touch  men  on  what  we  may  call  their 
corporate  or  federal  side.  The  aboli- 
tionist, the  single-tax  man,  appeals  to 
common  justice,  to  common  humanity; 
he  invokes  not  merely  the  voice  of  the 
individual  conscience,  but  the  immemo- 
rial concurrence  of  men  in  high  princi- 
ples, in  the  support  of  which  their  wish 
to  stand  well  with  one  another  is  inex- 
tricably bound  up  with  their  personal 
loyalty  to  right  and  justice. 

What  is  the  first  act  of  a  revolting  mi- 
nority? To  organize;  that  is,  to  profit 
by  men's  wish  to  stand  together;  the 
very  principle  which,  incarnate  in  the 
unsympathetic  majority,  is  for  the  mo- 
ment defeating  their  own  project.  In- 
deed, the  closeness  of  the  tie  which  unites 
the  members  of  small  sects  is  common- 
ly the  force  that  nerves  them  to  en- 
dure their  segregation  from  the  people 
at  large.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that,  to 
persuade  men  to  rebel,  the  first  step 
is,  necessarily,  to  render  them  docile. 
Men  are  opportunist  even  in  their  vili- 
fications of  majorities.  What  recogni- 
tion has  the  reformer  for  the  individu- 
alism that  opposes  his  measure?  What 
censures  has  he  for  the  gregariousness 
which  rallies  ultimately  to  its  support? 
The  propagandists  view  the  mental  in- 
dependence of  their  fellows  in  the  same 
light  in  which  the  United  States  view- 
ed the  independence  of  Texas, — as  the 
needful  preliminary  to  annexation. 

The  solidarity  of  mankind  lightens 
the  task  of  the  reformer  by  simplifying 
the  argument  of  his  opponents.  Here 
are  fifty  million  people,  possibly,  com- 
mitted to  the  repression  of  socialism: 
but  among  all  the  fifty  millions  there 
are  not  more  than  half  a  dozen  reasons 


and  two  or  three  feelings.  It  is  clear 
that  the  paucity  of  objections  greatly 
simplifies  the  intellectual  problem  of 
the  socialist  agitator.  If  there  were 
fifty  million  reasons  —  the  mind  shud- 
ders at  the  possibility. 

There  have  been  periods  in  history 
such  as  the  Stephen  Marcel  regime  in 
France,  the  period  of  the  Long  Parlia- 
ment in  England,  and  the  reign  of  Jo- 
seph II  in  Austria,  when  the  bonds  of 
precedent  were  relaxed  and  the  facility 
and  fecundity  of  reform  were  unexam- 
pled. What  was  the  issue  of  this  accel- 
erated progress?  The  reforms  disap- 
peared with  the  celerity  of  a  gamester's 
winnings.  In  these  matters,  you  have 
to  choose  between  the  nail,  hard  to 
drive  but  practically  irremovable,  and 
the  pin,  yielding  itself  equally  to  inser- 
tion or  displacement.  The  abolition  of 
chattel  slavery  is  fixed  with  adamantine 
permanence  to-day  by  that  very  ten- 
acity and  solidarity  of  mankind  which 
offered  such  stubborn  resistance  to  its 
triumph.  Cannot  the  opposition  to  the 
industrial  slavery  of  the  present  hour 
well  afford  to  undergo  a  similar  proba- 
tion in  the  foresight  of  an  equal  guar- 
antee? Is  not  England,  obtuse  and  ob- 
stinate but  unshakable,  better  in  these 
respects  than  France,  responsive  and 
plastic  but  unsure?  Because  removal 
from  one  dwelling-house  to  another  is 
sometimes  necessary  and  always  trou- 
blesome, shall  society  live  in  a  wagon? 
Do  not  be  too  impatient,  O  panting  re- 
former, of  the  stupidity  that  postpones 
the  victory  of  your  plans;  to-morrow  it 
will  be  defending  your  conquest  more 
effectually  than  your  own  wisdom! 

There  is  another  consideration  which 
should  temper  the  complaints  which 
the  meliorists  direct  against  the  inertia 
of  society.  In  a  social  organism  where 
all  the  parts  were  centrifugal,  individ- 
uality would  have  no  significance,  no 
eminence,  no  prestige.  The  heretic 
should  not  cry  out  too  savagely  against 


THE  FRIENDLESS  MAJORITY 


485 


that  orthodoxy  which  supplies  him 
with  a  vocation.  The  leaven  is  more 
active  than  the  dough,  but  it  cannot 
decently  complain  of  the  dough,  which 
provides  both  an  occasion  for  its  use 
and  an  advertisement  of  its  power, 
without  which  indeed  it  would  be  no- 
thing but  an  ineffectual  and  acrid  fer- 
ment. If  it  objects  that  the  dough  is 
too  tardy  and  backward  in  yielding  to 
its  solicitations,  might  not  that  good 
creature  reply  with  some  plausibility 
that  this  delay  was  the  most  caustic  of 
comments  on  the  effectiveness  of  the 
yeast?  The  kindlings  are  slow  to  ig- 
nite: may  it  not  be  the  phosphorus  in- 
stead of  the  shavings  that  is  wet? 

What  is  the  inertness  of  the  major- 
ity but  a  louder  summons  and  more 
insistent  challenge  to  the  energy  and 
constancy  of  the  prophets  of  the  truth? 
In  an  age  of  narrowing  adventure  and 
multiplying  securities,  would  we  re- 
move, even  if  we  could,  any  of  those 
social  rigors  and  asperities  which  con- 
stitute almost  our  sole  remaining  war- 
rant that  heroism  shall  not  perish  from 
the  earth?  Would  we  consent  to  ob- 
literate at  one  stroke  the  long  anguish 
and  infamy  of  the  anti-slavery  conflict 
in  the  United  States,  if  the  act  of  efface- 
ment  embraced  in  its  sweep  the  mem- 


ory of  Garrison  and  Phillips,  of  Love- 
joy  and  John  Brown,  of  the  Gettys- 
burg Address,  the  'Laus  Deo,'  and  the 
*  Commemoration  Ode '  ?  Better  oblo- 
quy with  its  attendant  and  compensa- 
tory glories  than  the  listless  neutrality 
which  effaces  both. 

I  am  not  fond  of  the  companionship 
of  majorities:  they  are  massive,  they 
are  phlegmatic ;  in  social  intercourse 
they  fail  to  shine.  For  personal  delec- 
tation give  me  a  rebel,  —  a  species 
which  I  like  well  enough  to  feel  kindly 
disposed  toward  the  social  conditions 
which  insure  his  emergence  arid  affirm 
his  usefulness.  I  am  angry  with  rebels 
only  when  they  want  to  rebuild  the 
universe  on  a  plan  which  leaves  no 
room  in  the  edifice  for  their  own  ac- 
commodation. Look  at  the  summary 
of  the  desiderata:  namely,  the  virtual 
certainty  of  the  ultimate  success  of  any 
high  cause,  a  virtual  guarantee  of  per- 
manence to  that  success,  a  degree  of 
difficulty  and  delay  which  insures  the 
elimination  of  those  spurious  reforms 
which  fail  to  command  the  persever- 
ance and  fortitude  of  their  adherents, 
and,  lastly,  a  standing  appeal  to  those 
capacities  for  heroism  that  lie  dormant 
in  mankind.  What  more  could  we  ask, 
and  what  else  do  we  have? 


GRANDFATHER  CRANE  INVOKES  THE  AID 

OF  SORCERY 

BY  VIRGINIA  BAKER 


GRANDFATHER  CRANE  sat  beside  the 
kitchen  fire.  It  was  a  midsummer  af- 
ternoon, but  he  was  wrapped  in  a  quilt- 
ed double-gown  of  green  and  yellow 
chintz  and  wore  a  red  bandanna  hand- 
kerchief twisted  about  his  head.  His 
feet  were  encased  in  home-made  moc- 
casins of  thick  felt. 

The  walnut  logs,  piled  high  on  the 
iron  fire-dogs,  blazed  and  sputtered 
merrily,  filling  the  room  with  stifling 
heat.  At  one  side  of  the  fireplace  a 
couple  of  eels  hung  from  a  stout  hook 
driven  in  between  the  bricks.  They 
were  long,  fat  eels  and,  as  they  slowly 
roasted,  they  exuded  drops  of  oil  which 
fell  into  a  skillet  placed  on  the  hearth 
beneath  them.  Every  now  and  then 
Grandfather  Crane  leaned  forward  in 
his  high-backed  chair  and  turned  the 
eels  about. 

'Hey,  Ezry,  what  ye  a-concoctin' 
now?' 

A  man  thrust  his  body  half-way 
through  a  window  at  the  side  of  the 
room.  He  was  a  short,  stout,  elderly 
man  with  a  ruddy,  good-natured  face. 
He  peered  at  the  skillet  curiously. 

'  I  'm  a-tryin'  eel  grease  fer  my  j  'hits,' 
Grandfather  Crane  replied,  moving 
his  chair  so  as  to  face  his  visitor.  'I 
affairm  I  believe  thet  thar's  vartue  in 
it,  Simyun.' 

Simeon  Sims  raised  his  eyebrows. 

'Land  of  Goshen,  Ezry,  I  thought  ye 
was  rubbin'  yerself  with  turkle  ile,'  he 

486 


said.  'Moses  Spicer's  young  ones  told 
me,  a  spell  ago,  thet  they  was  kit  chin' 
mud  turkles  fer  ye  by  the  dozen.' 

'They  was,  but  I've  gin  the  critters 
up,'  Grandfather  rejoined.  'The  tur- 
kle is  a  cold-blooded  animile,  an'  I  af- 
fairm his  juices  wasn'twarmin'  enough 
fer  sech  knees  ez  mine.  I'm  dretful 
stiff  an'  I  need  suthin'  heatin'.  I  've  jest 
begun  ter  try  eels  an'  I  think  they're 
goin'  ter  prove  some  ben'ficial.' 

Mr.  Sims  removed  his  hat  and  fan- 
ned his  face  briskly. 

'By  hicky,  Ezry,'  he  ejaculated, 
'ye 're  hotter 'n  Apollyon's  brims  tun 
porridge  in  thar.  I  dunno  how  Lean- 
der  stan's  it  arfter  workin'  out  in  the 
sun  all  day.  I  dunno  how  ye  stan'  it, 
yerself.' 

'I  ain't  never  warm,'  Grandfather 
answered.  'I  got  a  woolen  weskit  un- 
der this  gownd.  Ez  fer  Leander,  he's 
got  ter  stan'  it.  I  trained  him  ter  re- 
spect the  weakness  of  ole  age.  I  never 
cal'lated  ter  let  him  ride  over  my  head. 
I  afFairm  I  begun  a-dis'plinin'  him 
when  his  payrents  died  an'  he  come  ter 
live  with  me.' 

'Oh,  of  course  Leander '11  put  up  with 
all  yer  notions,'  Simeon  responded. 
'But  hain't  ye  afraid  there'll  be  trou- 
ble when  he  gits  married?  Gran'dar- 
ters-in-law  ain't  jest  like  gran 'sons. 
They're  liable  ter  up  an'  change  things 
round.' 

'  I  ain't  skeered  of  bein'  bothered  by 
no  gran'darters-in-law,'  Grandfather 
returned.  'Leander  is  bound  ter  be  a 


GRANDFATHER  CRANE  INVOKES  THE  AID  OF  SORCERY      487 


bachelder.  He  comes  of  stock  thet 
runs  ter  bachelders.  Ye  know  yerself, 
Simyun,  thet  out  of  five  brothers  I  was 
the  only  one  thet  did  n't  stay  single. 
Ez  fur  back  ez  I  kin  trace  there 's  alwuz 
ben  a  mess  of  bachelders  in  our  fambly . 
Whatever  sot  ye  ter  thinkin'  of  Lean- 
der  marryin'?' 

'Why,  nothinY  answered  Mr.  Sims, 
'only  thet  I  heered  how  he  keeps  a- 
goin'  ter  Freetown  every  week.' 

'A-goin'  ter  Freetown!'  Grandfather 
repeated.  'Why  should  n't  he  go  ter 
Freetown  ?  I ' ve  got  wood-lots  over  thar 
an'  folks  hez  ben  a-cuttin'  hoop-poles 
off 'n  'em  lately.  Leander  goes  ter  look 
arfter  my  propputty.' 

Simeon  whistled  softly. 

'Wai,  I  s'pose  ye  know  best,  Ezry, 
but,  'cordin'  ter  what  I  hear,  he's  look- 
in'  arfter  suthin'  besides  timber  when 
he's  over  thar.  He  spares  time  from 
contemplatin'  trees  an'  breshwood  ter 
visit  thet  Weeden  gal  at  Assonet  Four 
Corners.' 

Grandfather  suddenly  sat  erect. 

'Weeden  gal!'  he  cried  sharply. 
'What  Weeden  gal?  I  dunno  nothin* 
'bout  her.  None  of  ole  Jed  Weeden's 
stock  is  she?' 

'Jed  Weeden's  gran'darter,'  Mr. 
Sims  replied.  'His  son  Rufe's  darter.* 

For  a  moment  Grandfather  re- 
mained motionless.  Then  he  raised  his 
clenched  hands  high  above  his  head. 

'He  shan't  marry  her!'  he  shrilled. 
'I  won't  hev  nary  one  of  Jed  Weeden's 
breed  in  my  fambly.  'T  would  be 
stoopin'!  A  wuthless  tribe,  all  on  'em! 
Pore,  an'  lazy,  an*  shif 'less!  Leander 
hain't  a-goin'  ter  throw  himself  an'  my 
money  away  on  no  sech  folks!' 

'  But  r'port  says  this  'ere  Lucreshy  is 
ez  smart  ez  the  nex'  one,'  expostulated 
Simeon.  'I  ben  told  thet  she  kin  turn 
off  more  work  in  a  day  than  ary  other 
woman  in  Freetown.' 

'I  don't  keer  nothin'  about  what 
r'port  says!'  cried  Grandfather.  'She's 


a  Weeden  an'  thet's  enough.  She'd 
starve  us  ter  death  with  pore  victuals. 
Them  Weedens  never  sot  a  decent  ta- 
ble. They  dunno  what  good  fodder  is. 
Ole  Jed  uster  kitch  skunks,  in  the  fall, 
an'  salt  'em  down  an'  bile  'em  with  cab- 
bage all  winter  fer  his  Sabbath-day 
dinners.  Biled  skunk  hain't  fit  ter  eat, 
even  when  it  hain't  corned.  The  right 
way  ter  cook  a  skunk  is  ter  bake  it.  In 
my  young  days,  we  fellers  uster  hev 
skunk  suppers  at  Swansea  Village,  an' 
the  skunks  was  alwuz  baked.  Ye  can't 
tell  baked  skunk  from  chicken.  I  hain't 
a-goin'  ter  let  Leander  git  dyspepsy 
eatin'  of  salt  skunk  meat.  He  shan't 
marry  her.' 

Mr.  Sims  shifted  uneasily  from  one 
foot  to  the  other. 

'Lurdy,  Ezry,  I  'm  sorry  I  mentioned 
the  gal,'  he  said.  'I  should  n't,  only  I 
kinder  wondered  ef  ye  knowed  about 
her.  I  guess  Leander  won't  thank  me 
fer  pokin'  my  finger  inter  his  pie.' 

'I  hain't  a  fool,  Simyun,'  Grandfa- 
ther retorted  with  some  asperity.  'I 
hain't  a-goin'  ter  let  on  ter  Leander 
thet  I'm  knowin'  ter  his  doin's.  How 
long  hez  he  ben  a-sparkin'  ? ' 

'Oh,  not  sech  a  tumble  long  spell,' 
Mr.  Sims  answered.  'I  only  heered  of 
it  larst  week.  Now  I  would  n't  git  all 
riled  up  ef  I  was  you.  Jest  look  at 
things  ca'mly.' 

'Oh,  I'll  be  ca'm,'  said  Grandfather. 
'Ca'm  ez  a  hornet  in  winter.  But  I'll 
keep  up  a  devil  of  a  thinkin'  all  the 
time.  I  got  considerble  cog'tatin'  ter 
do  in  the  nex'  few  hours.' 

Mr.  Sims  withdrew  his  body  from 
the  window. 

'Wai,  I  did  n't  come  over  here  jest 
ter  peddle  gossip,'  he  rejoined.  '  I  come 
ter  borry  a  scythe.  There 's  one  in  the 
barn.  I  kin  hev  it,  I  s'pose?' 

'Take  ary  thing  ye  need,'  assented 
Grandfather.  'The  hull  kit  an'  bilin' 
of  tools  ef  ye  d'sire  'em.  I'm  mighty 
glad  ye  happened  in  ter-day.  Fore- 


488      GRANDFATHER  CRANE  INVOKES  THE  AID  OF  SORCERY 


warned  is  forearmed.  Ef  ye  hear  any 
more  news  let  me  know.' 

'Sartin,'  answered  Simeon. 

He  nodded  a  farewell  and  trudged 
away  in  the  direction  of  the  barn. 

As  he  disappeared  from  view,  Grand- 
father pushed  his  chair  back  to  the 
fireplace  and  sank  into  a  brooding 
silence.  For  more  than  an  hour  he 
sat  there,  only  moving  once  or  twice 
to  turn  the  eels  mechanically.  It  was 
not  until  the  clock  struck  five  that  he 
roused  from  his  reverie,  his  face  sud- 
denly illumined. 

'Thet's  the  thing  ter  do,'  he  cried 
exultantly.  'Why  did  n't  I  think  of 
Hitty  Sharp  before?  There  hain't  no- 
thin'  airthly  kin  holp  me!  I've  got  ter 
git  afoul  of  unairthly  things  ef  I  don't 
want  my  ole  age  made  misserble!' 

II 

At  six  o'clock  Leander  came  into  the 
house  to  prepare  supper.  He  was  a  tall, 
stalwart  young  fellow,  with  a  bronzed 
face  that  was  pleasant  to  look  at.  He 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise  as 
he  perceived  that  the  tea-table  was  al- 
ready set. 

'Why,  Grandfather,'  he  said,  'you 
must  be  feeling  more  comfortable  than 
you  did  this  noon.' 

'I  affairm  I've  ben  ez  chipper  ez  a 
brown  thrasher  all  the  arfternoon,' 
Grandfather  responded."  'Thet  doset 
of  eel  grease  I  applied  last  night  hez 
limbered  me  up  a  considerble.  Ye 
done  with  the  hay,  Leander?' 

'We  got  in  the  last  load  an  hour 
ago,'  the  young  man  answered. 

'I'm  glad  on't,'  returned  Grand- 
father. '  I  want  ye  should  go  ter  Ta'n- 
ton  fer  me  ter-morrer.  I'm  goin'  ter 
put  thet  money  I  got  fer  thet  ma'sh 
land  at  Touiset  inter  the  bank  thar.  I 
hain't  a-goin'  ter  d'posit  any  more 
money  in  the  Prov'dence  banks  at  pre- 
sent. It  hain't  a  good  plan  ter  put  all 


yer  eggs  in  one  basket,  I  don't  think. 
An'  I  want  ye  should  do  some  tradin' 
fer  me.  I  want  some  neckerchieves, 
an'  some  pins,  an'  some  writin'  paper, 
an'  a  mess  of  other  things.  I've  got  a 
list  of  'em  wrote  down.  An'  I  want  ye 
should  stop  in  Dighton,  on  yer  way 
hum,  an'  call  on  Cousin  David  Jillson's 
folks.  I  ben  hevin'  some  dreams  'bout 
'em,  lately,  thet  I  don't  like.  I  kinder 
think  some  on  'em  is  ailin'.' 

'It'll  be  an  all-day  job,'  said  Lean- 
der hesitatingly.  'I  was  plannin'  to 
mend  the  stone  wall  of  the  Gate  Mea- 
dow to-morrow.' 

'Thet  wall  kin  wait  awhile,'  Grand- 
father rejoined.  'T  won't  do  ye  no 
harm  ter  take  a  leetle  ja'nt,  Leander. 
Ye've  ben  stickin'  ter  work  pretty  clus 
all  summer.  I  think  ye  look  kinder 
peaked.  An'  I  be  worried  regardin' 
them  dreams.  David  Jillson  is  a-git- 
tin'  on  in  years.  He's  considerble  old- 
er then  I  be.' 

'Oh,  of  course  I'll  go/  Leander  said 
hastily.  'Young  Mose  can  do  the 
chores,  and  I'll  get  Augusta  to  help 
you  indoors.  You  must  n't  fret  about 
your  dreams,  because  — ' 

'I  don't  want  Augusty  Spicer  in 
my  kitchen,'  Grandfather  interrupt- 
ed. 'She's  slower  then  a  snail,  an'  ez 
bunglin'  ez  a  beetle.  Ye  speak  fer  Ann 
Julianna.  Ann  Julianna  is  a  faculized 
young  one.  I  want  her  ez  airly  ez  she 
kin  come.' 

After  supper  Leander  walked  down 
to  the  Spicer  farm,  returning  with  the 
welcome  intelligence  that  Mrs.  Spicer 
would  be  able  to  spare  Ann  Julianna  at 
six  o'clock  on  the  morrow. 

Promptly  at  the  appointed  hour  the 
following  morning,  Ann  Julianna  made 
her  appearance  in  the  Crane  kitchen. 
She  was  a  tall,  bony  child  of  eleven, 
with  an  elderly  face  and  a  soldierly  car- 
riage. Immediately  after  hanging  up 
her  sunbonnet,  she  charged  upon  the 
breakfast  table  and,  in  an  incredibly 


GRANDFATHER  CRANE  INVOKES  THE  AID  OF  SORCERY      489 


short  time,  had  the  dishes  washed, 
wiped,  and  placed  on  parade  in  the  clos- 
et. By  eight  o'clock  every  article  in 
the  house  was  under  strict  martial  law, 
and  Ann  Julianna  was  seated  on  the 
porch  steps  grimly  shelling  beans  as  if 
she  were  moulding  bullets. 

In  the  meantime  Leander  had  hitch- 
ed the  black  colt,  'Yankee  Doodle,'  to 
the  ancient,  high-topped  'shay,'  rarely 
used  except  upon  the  Sabbath,  and, 
arrayed  in  his  'meetin'  clothes,'  now 
started  forth  on  his  journey.  From  the 
kitchen  window  Grandfather  watched 
the  venerable  equipage  until  it  disap- 
peared from  view.  Then  he  summoned 
Ann  Julianna  from  her  task. 

'I  want  ye  should  go  up  ter  Sims's 
place  an'  tell  Simyun  ter  fetch  his  team 
here  ez  soon  ez  he  kin,'  he  said.  'Tell 
him  my  need  on't  is  urgent.  I'm 
obleeged  ter  make  a  journey.' 

If  Ann  Julianna  experienced  surprise 
at  this  command  from  the  invalid  she 
evinced  none.  She  sprang  to  her  feet, 
saluted,  wheeled  about  with  a  click  of 
her  heels,  and  stalked  down  the  steps 
carrying  her  folded  sunbonnet  under 
her  arm  like  a  chapeau  bras. 

Grandfather  chuckled  softly. 

'I'll  outwit  them  two  turkle-doves 
yit,  ef  I  be  an  ole  codger/  he  mur- 
mured. 

Three  quarters  of  an  hour  later  Mr. 
Sims  halted  his  ox-team  at  the  gate  of 
the  Crane  barnyard.  Presently  Grand- 
father came  across  the  yard,  followed 
by  Ann  Julianna  bearing  a  kitchen 
chair.  Grandfather  wore  a  thick  brown 
shawl  pinned  over  his  double-gown. 
His  bandanna  handkerchief,  folded 
corner-wise,  was  tied  beneath  his  chin 
and  surmounted  by  an  ancient  hat  of 
white  wool. 

Simeon  mopped  the  perspiration 
from  his  forehead. 

'Cal'latin'  ter  make  a  v'yage  ter 
Greenland?'  he  inquired  jocosely. 

'I'll  tell  ye  where  I'm  goin'  arfter 


we  git  started,'  Grandfather  returned. 
'Set  thet  cheer  clus  ter  the  cart,  Ann 
Julianna.  No,  Simyun,  I  affairm  I  kin 
manage  ter  h'ist  myself  in  without  yer 
holp.' 

'Why  Lurdy  me,  Ezry,  I  sh'd  hope 
ye  could,'  responded  Mr.  Sims.  'Ye 
ain't  ole  enough  ter  be  holpless  quite 

yit.' 

Grandfather  paused,  one  foot  in  the 
chair,  the  other  in  the  cart. 

'Ain't  ole?'  he  cried  indignantly.  'I 
guess  ye  don't  study  yer  Bible,  Simyun. 
Thet  tells  ye  thet  the  days  of  a  man  is 
three-score  year  an'  ten.  How  fur  off 
be  I  from  thet  age?  Ain't  I  goin'  on 
sixty-nine?' 

'Wai,  wal,  don't  less  quarrel,'  said 
Simeon.  'Ef  ye  want  ter  'magine  yer 
Methusaly's  twin  brother  I  dunno  ez  I 
hev  ary  p'ticler  objection.' 

The  invalid  made  no  reply,  but  drew 
his  other  foot  into  the  cart  and  seated 
himself  upon  the  chair  which  Simeon 
lifted  up  to  him.  Dismissed  by  a  wave 
of  his  hand,  Ann  Julianna  again  saluted 
and  marched  back  to  the  house,  where 
she  at  once  commenced  a  deadly  on- 
slaught, with  soft  soap  and  a  very  stiff 
scrubbing-brush,  upon  the  porch  steps. 

'Wal,  now  thet  thar  female  minute- 
man  hez  gone,  mebbe  ye '11  tell  me 
where  ye  want  ter  travel,'  observed 
Mr.  Sims. 

'I  want  ye  should  take  me  over  ter 
Hitty  Sharp's  house,'  said  Grandfather. 
'I  affairm,  ef  anybuddy  kin  break  up 
Leander's  match,  it's  Hitty.' 

Mr.  Sims  surveyed  his  passenger  with 
a  dismayed  countenance. 

'Hitty  Sharp!' he  repeated.  'Why, 
she's  one  third  Nigger,  one  third  Injun, 
an'  t'other  third  devil.  Ef  ye  want  ter 
c'nsult  a  witch,  why  don't  ye  go  ter 
Rehoboth  an  see  Poll  Jinkins?  Polly's 
a  white  woman  ef  she  does  hev  dealin's 
with  the  Ole  Harry.' 

'I  ain't  goin'  a-nigh  Poll  Jinkins,' 
Grandfather  replied.  'She  ain't  wuth 


490      GRANDFATHER  CRANE  INVOKES  THE  AID  OF  SORCERY 


a  bean  ez  a  witch.  When  the  Fiske 
boys  quarreled  'bout  the  ole  man's  will, 
Jerry  hired  Poll  ter  cuss  'Zekiel's  farm. 
But,  Lurdy,  she  could  n't  do  it.  Ev'ry 
bit  of  gardin  truck  thet  'Zekiel  planted 
thet  spring  growed  like  pussley.  Then 
Jerry  went  ter  Hitty  an'  she  done  the 
job  fer  him.  Thar  warn't  a  durned 
thing  on  his  hull  place  thet  she  did  n't 
spile  'cept  his  onions.  But  Hitty  owned 
up  thet  thar  hain't  no  magic  known 
powerful  'nough  ter  kill  onions.  I  tell 
ye  Hitty  onderstan's  her  business.  She 
kin  do  anything.' 

'I  know  she  kin,'  Simeon  responded 
dubiously.  '  Ole  Gineral  Lyman,  down 
ter  Warren,  asked  her  'bout  his  brig, 
the  Peggy  an'  Sally,  which  was  overdue 
a  fortnit,  bein'  she  was  becalmed  in  the 
horse  lat'tudes.  Hit  tuk  the  figger  of 
a  bumble  bee,  an'  off  she  went  ter  sea, 
raisin'  a  devil  of  a  gale  ter  carry  her 
along.  Wai,  the  fust  thing  the  crew  of 
the  Peggy  an'  Sally  seen,  arfter  the 
harricane  struck  'em,  was  thet  mon- 
strous insec'  a-buzzin'  in  the  riggin'. 
They  reckernized  Hit,  ter  once,  by  the 
whites  of  her  eyes.  She  liked  ter  hev 
shipwracked'  em  with  thet  storm.  When 
the  brig  got  back  ter  Warren,  Cap'n 
Hill  tole  the  gineral  thet  he  would  n't 
sail  fer  him  onless  he  'd  promise  never 
ter  send  Hit  humbuzzin'  'round  the 
Atlantic  agin.  Ef  ye '11  hear  ter  me, 
Ezry,  ye '11  keep  clear  of  Hit  Sharp. 
She 's  a  dangerous  critter  ter  hev  deal- 
in's  with.' 

'Ye  start  them  cattle  up,  Simyun,' 
Grandfather  said  calmly.  'I  hain't 
scart  of  Hitty.  I  know  she 's  a  powerful 
sorc'ress,  but  thet's  the  kind  I  need. 
Ef  matches  is  made  in  heaven,  it  fol- 
lers  thet  it  takes  considerble  infloo- 
ence  from  the  other  place  ter  break  'em 
up.  Start  them  cattle  along.' 

Mr.  Sims,  with  visible  unwillingness, 
cracked  the  long  cowhide  lash  of  his 
whip  and  the  oxen,  obedient  to  the  sig- 
nal, began  to  move  slowly  down  the 


winding  road.  Grandfather  settled  back 
in  his  chair  and  surveyed  the  landscape. 
He  had  not  ventured  beyond  the  lim- 
its of  his  farm  for  three  months. 

It  was  a  typical  July  morning.  The 
leaves  hung  motionless  on  tree  and 
shrub.  Bees  hummed  drowsily  among 
the  wayside  flowers.  In  the  distance  a 
solitary  crow  cawed  discontentedly. 
The  white  road  glared  in  the  scorching 
sunlight,  and  little  puffs  of  dust  rose 
under  the  hoofs  of  the  oxen.  Grandfa- 
ther drew  his  shawl  more  closely  about 
him.  He  was  afraid  of  taking  cold. 

Simeon  trudged  along,  swinging  his 
whip,  and  occasionally  uttering  an  ad- 
monitory 'Gee,'  or  'Haw.'  The  cart 
creaked  and  groaned  as  it  lurched  over 
the  uneven  ground.  It  was  a  rather 
lonely  road,  and  the  turnout  attract- 
ed considerable  attention  as  it  passed 
the  few  farms  situated  upon  it.  Men 
at  work  in  the  hay  fields  paused  and, 
leaning  on  their  rakes,  exclaimed,  'I 
swan!  Ef  thar  ain't  Gran'father  Crane!' 
A  round-eyed  urchin,  swinging  on  a 
gate,  called  excitedly  to  his  mother, 
'Ma,  Ma,  Ole  King  Cole  is  a-goin' 
by,  settin'  on  his  throne  an'  drawed 
by  oxen!' 

From  the  Crane  farm  at  'Luther's 
Corners '  to  the  home  of  Hitty  Sharp  at 
'  King's  Rocks '  was  a  distance  of  sev- 
eral miles.  It  was  past  eleven  o'clock 
when  Simeon  brought  his  beasts  to  a 
standstill  before  the  humble  cottage  of 
the  sorceress.  Grandfather  descended 
from  the  cart  to  the  chair,  and  from  the 
chair  to  the  ground,  and  walked  stiffly 
up  the  quahaug-shell-bordered  path 
which  led  to  the  house  door.  As  he 
reached  the  steps  the  witch  appeared 
on  the  threshold. 

She  was  a  little,  strange-looking  old 
woman,  with  keen,  beady  eyes  and  a 
mysterious  smile.  She  might  have  been 
seventy  years  old,  but  appeared  scarce- 
ly less  than  a  hundred,  so  wrinkled  was 
her  dusky  face,  so  bent  and  withered 


GRANDFATHER  CRANE  INVOKES  THE  AID  OF  SORCERY      491 


her  figure.   She  beckoned  to  her  visitor 
with  one  claw-like  hand. 

'I  viewed  ye  in  a  dream  last  night,' 
she  said  solemnly,  'and  so  I  know  ye 
be  in  trouble.  But  fear  not.  I  can  give 
ye  aid.' 

'I'm  mighty  glad  ter  hear  ye  say 
thet,'  Grandfather  replied  in  a  tone  of 
relief,  'fer  I  affairm,  Hitty,  I  need  yer 
holp  the  wuss  kind.' 

He  nodded  reassuringly  to  Simeon 
and  entered  the  house,  the  witch  care- 
fully closing  the  door  after  him.  Mr. 
Sims  sat  down  beneath  the  shade  of  a 
spreading  oak  tree  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  road.  Presently  a  large  black  cat 
established  himself  on  the  cottage  steps 
and  fixed  his  great  yellow  eyes  on  the 
ox-team  and  its  owner.  Simeon  grew 
nervous  under  the  animal's  scrutiny. 

'Now  I  wonder  ef  he's  a-plottin* 
deviltry,'  he  muttered  uneasily.  'Lurd! 
I  never  seen  sech  a  stuny  stare.  I 
b'lieve  the  critter  knows  thet  I  ad- 
vised Ezry  not  ter  c'nsult  Hit.' 

Mr.  Sims  tried  to  whistle  carelessly 
and  to  become  interested  in  the  labors 
of  a  colony  of  black  ants  near  by,  but 
in  vain.  Like  lodes  tones,  the  orbs  of 
the  cat  drew  his  eyes  away  from  other 
objects.  For  three  quarters  of  an  hour 
the  man  and  the  animal  gazed  at  each 
other,  the  one  sphinx-like  and  motion- 
less, the  other  agitated  and  perspiring. 
Simeon  was  greatly  relieved  when,  at 
last,  Grandfather  appeared  in  the  door- 
way and  the  creature  vanished  around 
a  corner  of  the  house. 

Grandfather  bore  a  bottle  in  his 
hand.  He  shook  it  exultantly  as  he 
crossed  the  road. 

'Hey,  Simyun,'  he  cried.  'I  got  the 
stuff  now!  This '11  stop  the  billin'  an' 


cooin'. 


Mr.  Sims  looked  suspiciously  at  the 
yellowish,  transparent  liquid  with 
which  the  phial  was  filled. 

'What's  it  made  of?'  he  queried. 

'I  dunno  what  it's  made  of  an'  I 


affairm  I  don't  keer,'  Grandfather  re- 
plied. 'It's  a  philter  ter  make  Leander 
hate,  instid  of  love,  thet  hussy  over  ter 
Freetown.  Seven  drops  in  Leander's 
coffee,  three  times  a  day,  will  do  the 
job/ 

'  How  d'  ye  know' t  won't  p'ison  him  ? ' 
Simeon  questioned  doubtfully. 

'P'ison  be  durned!'  Grandfather  re- 
torted impatiently.  '  Here,  take  a  smell 
on  't.' 

He  drew  out  the  stopper  and  placed 
the  bottle  under  Mr.  Sims's  nostrils. 
Simeon  sniffed  at  it  hesitatingly.  Then 
he  sniffed  again. 

'Smells  ter  me  like  merlasses  an' 
water,'  he  said. 

'There  is  merlasses  in  it  ter  kill  the 
scent  of  the  other  ingrejents,'  Grand- 
father replied.  'I  s'pose  likely  there's 
powdered  toads,  an'  nightshade,  an' 
sech  stuff,  but  Hitty 's  fixed  it  so 's  it 
won't  kill.  Now  less  be  gittin'  hum. 
Ann  Julianna'll  hev  a  conniption  fit 
ef  them  beans  gits  cold.' 

He  clambered  into  the  cart,  and  Sim- 
eon cracked  his  whip  loudly.  The  oxen 
immediately  started  off  at  such  a  brisk 
pace  that  their  owner  had  difficulty  in 
keeping  up  with  them.  They  were 
young  animals,  not  fully  accustomed 
to  the  yoke.  Moreover  they  were  hun- 
gry and  realized  that  their  faces  were 
turned  homeward.  Presently  they  be- 
gan to  trot.  Simeon  followed  as  rapid- 
ly as  his  heavy  boots  would  permit,  but 
he  was  quickly  outdistanced,  and  his 
loud  shouts  only  served  to  increase  the 
excitement  of  the  pair.  Grandfather 
clung  wildly  to  the  sides  of  the  cart  as  it 
lurched  and  bounced.  Far  ahead,  the 
road  made  a  sudden  turn.  On  and  on 
dashed  the  oxen,  and,  as  they  plunged 
around  the  curve,  the  chair  and  its  oc- 
cupant were  hurled  violently  to  the 
ground. 

When  Simeon,  panting  and  terrified, 
reached  the  scene  of  the  disaster,  he 
found  Grandfather  seated  by  the  road- 


492     GRANDFATHER  CRANE  INVOKES  THE  AID  OP  SORCERY 


side.  A  comely,  middle-aged  woman 
and  a  fair-faced  girl  were  bending  over 
him.  The  woman  was  bathing  his 
forehead  with  water,  while  the  girl 
waved  a  fan  of  turkey  feathers  before 
his  pale  face.  The  oxen  were  nowhere 
visible. 

'I  affairm  I  hain't  hurt  a  mite, 
Simyun,'  Grandfather  exclaimed.  'My 
gownd  and  shawl  bruk  the  force  of  the 
fall.  Whar  them  confounded  critters 
be,  I  dunno.' 

'It's  nothin'  less  then  a  merricle,' 
declared  the  woman.  '  'T  was  his  age 
saved  him,  I'm  shore.  Ef  he'd  ben  an 
ole  man  he'd  likely  hev  broke  suthin'. 
Ole  folks'  bones  is  so  brittle.' 

'H'm,'  said  Grandfather.  'How  be 
we  a-goin'  ter  git  hum?' 

'You  kin  borry  our  hoss  an'  wagon,' 
the  woman  returned.  'Esther  will 
hitch  it  right  up.  We  live  in  thet  house 
down  yander.' 

The  girl  dropped  the  fan  and  started 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  house  indi- 
cated. Mr.  Sims  followed  her.  He  was 
anxious  to  discover  the  whereabouts 
of  his  team.  When  he  and  Esther  re- 
turned with  the  wagon,  they  found 
Grandfather  regaling  himself  with  a 
generous  plate  of  apple  turnovers  and 
cheese.  Another  plate  awaited  Simeon, 
but  he  was  too  greatly  agitated  to  feel 
hunger. 

'I'm  shore  I  can't  tell  how  much 
obleeged  ter  ye  we  be,'  Mis'  Clapp,' 
Grandfather  said  as  he  climbed  into 
the  wagon.  'I'll  send  back  yer  team 
jest  ez  soon's  possible.  I  shan't  fergit 
what  good  S'maritans  ye  an'  yer  darter 
be.' 

He  looked  back  with  a  farewell  smile 
as  Simeon  gathered  up  the  reins  and 
clucked  to  the  ancient  sorrel  horse. 

'Who  be  they?'  inquired  Mr.  Sims. 
'I  heerd  thet  some  women  hed  took 
the  ole  Dorman  place/ 

'She's  a  widder  from  Tiverton,' 
Grandfather  answered,  'an'  thet  gal  is 


her  only  child.  Hiram  Greene  is  a-run- 
nin'  the  farm  fer  her  on  shares.' 

'  The  gal 's  a  mighty  pooty  little  cree- 
tur,'  observed  Simeon. 

'H'm,'  returned  Grandfather.  'I 
affairm  the  mother  must  a-ben  some 
considerble  harnsomer  in  her  young 
days.  A  mighty  pleasant-spoken,  sen- 
sible woman.' 

'Wai,  she  did  n't  take  ye  fer  none 
of  Methusaly's  kin,'  said  Simeon  dryly. 

Grandfather  made  no  reply  to  this 
remark,  and  Mr.  Sims's  thoughts  re- 
verted to  his  team. 

'I  swow  I  b'lieve  thet  cat  of  Hit's 
bewitched  them  cattle,'  he  suddenly 
exclaimed.  'He  sot  an'  eyed  'em  all 
the  time  you  was  par  ley  in'  with  her.  I 
bet  she  sent  him  ter  punish  me  fer 
talkin'  agin  her  ter  you.' 

'Like  ez  not  she  did,'  Grandfather 
assented.  'Injun  blood  is  revengeful. 
But  don't  ye  fret  none.  Ef  ye  s'tain  ary 
loss  on  my  account,  I'll  make  things 
right.  I  affairm  I'd  ruther  spend  my 
larst  dollar  then  hevLeander  git  spliced 
ter  a  Weeden.' 

Mr.  Sims's  gloomy  anticipations 
were,  however,  not  destined  to  be  real- 
ized. As  he  drove  the  sorrel  horse  into 
the  Crane  barnyard,  Ann  Julianna  ap- 
peared, a  stout  cudgel,  borne  musket- 
wise,  across  her  shoulder. 

'They're  down  in  the  lane,'  she  said 
to  Simeon.  '  By  the  time  they  got  here 
they  was  sorter  tuckered  out,  so  I 
headed  of  'em  off.' 

'Is  the  cart  broke?'  Simeon  asked 
anxiously. 

'  'T  ain't  hurt  a  mite,'  Ann  Julianna 
responded. 

'Wai,  I  snummy!'  Simeon  ejacu- 
lated. 'Lurd!'  he  said  to  Grandfather, 
as  Ann  Julianna  withdrew, '  thet  young 
one  is  more  than  a  match  fer  Hit 
Sharp.  The  idee  of  her  tacklin'  a  pair 
of  crazy  cattle ! ' 

'Ann  Julianna  is  sartainly  faculized,' 
Grandfather  responded. 


GRANDFATHER  CRANE  INVOKES  THE  AID  OF  SORCERY      493 


After  Mr.  Sims  had  departed  with 
his  now  docile  team,  Grandfather  and 
his  assistant  had  dinner.  Ann  Juli- 
anna  ate  like  a  true  soldier,  preferring 
a  tin  cup  and  plate  to  china  ware.  She 
swallowed  her  food  hastily,  as  if  she 
expected  to  be  ordered  to  strike  camp 
and  march  at  any  moment. 

'I'm  a-goin'  ter  do  the  dishes/ 
Grandfather  announced  when  the  meal 
was  ended.  'I  want  ye  should  drive 
thet  rig  back  ter  Mis'  Clapp's.  Ye  kin 
hitch  ole  Whitey  ter  the  waggin  an' 
ride  hum  on  her.  An',  now  I  think  on 't, 
I  ruther  guess  we  'd  better  not  mention 
my  journey  ter  Leander.  He's  liable 
ter  worry  ef  he  thinks  I'm  ja'ntin' 
'bout,  gittin'  throwed  outer  teams, 
when  his  back  is  turned.  An',  Ann  Ju- 
lianna,  ye  kin  carry  a  mess  of  rozbrys 
along  with  ye.  Thar  ain't  nary  rozbry 
bush  on  the  Dorman  place.  An'  be 
sure  an'  give  my  compliments  ter  Mis' 
Clapp.' 

Ann  Julianna,  who  had  stood  at  at- 
tention while  her  commanding  officer 
was  speaking,  now  said  abruptly, 

*  Husband 's  ben  dead  a  year.  Drinked 
himself  to  death.   Folks  says  he  was 
a  good  reddance.'  Then,  selecting  a 
basket  from    a    number  hanging  on 
the  kitchen  wall,  she  marched  off  to 
execute  the  commissions  entrusted  to 
her. 

Grandfather  began  to  clear  the  table. 
Suddenly  he  paused  before  a  looking- 
glass  that  hung  above  the  dresser.  For 
some  moments  he  surveyed  critically 
the  reflection  of  his  face. 

'Wai,  I  dunno  ez  I  do  look  my  full 
age,'  he  murmured  as  he  turned  away. 

*  I  've  got  my  front  uppers  and  unders, 
an'  e'en  a'most  the  hull  of  my  ha'r.    I 
b'lieve  the  widder  did  take  me  fer  a 
youngish  sort  of  spark.' 

Leander  returned  home  late  in  the 
afternoon,  bringing  various  purchases, 
and,  also,  news  of  cheer  from  Dighton. 
David  Jillson  was  hale  and  hearty,  and 


all  the  members  of  his  family  were  en- 
joying the  best  of  health. 

*I  declare,  Grandfather,  I  believe  it 
does  you  good  to  have  me  out  of  the 
way  once  in  a  while,'  the  young  man 
said  smilingly.  'You  look  twenty  years 
younger  than  you  did  this  morning.' 

'Eel  grease!  Eel  grease!'  Grandfa- 
ther returned.  'I  hain't  shore  thet  I 
shan't  git  ter  be  ez  spry  ez  ever  I  was  ef 
I  keep  on  usin'  of  it.  I  affairm  I  might 
hev  an'inted  myself  with  turkle  ile  a 
year  an'  not  got  a  quarter  ez  limber  ez 
I  be  arfter  tryin'  eels  these  two  days.' 

Ill 

A  fortnight  elapsed  ere  Mr.  Sims 
again  visited  the  Crane  farm.  Various 
things  conspired  to  detain  him  at  home. 
First  his  hired  man  was  taken  ill,  next 
some  relatives  from  'down  east'  paid 
him  an  unexpected  visit, .then  he  was 
obliged  to  shingle  his  hen-house.  When 
at  last,  one  warm  afternoon,  he  looked 
in  at  the  door  of  Grandfather's  kitchen, 
he  could  scarcely  believe  the  evidence 
of  his  own  senses. 

No  fire  blazed  on  the  ample  hearth. 
Grandfather's  armchair  was  drawn  up 
beside  an  open  window,  and  Grandfa- 
ther, in  his  shirt-sleeves,  was  softly 
whistling  '  Money  Musk '  as  he  sat  bus- 
ily engaged  in  sorting  gayly  colored  pins 
into  little  piles  on  the  window-seat. 

'Wai,  dance  my  buttons! '  ejaculated 
Simeon.  He  leaned  against  the  door 
jamb  overpowered  by  the  spectacle  be- 
fore him. 

Grandfather  looked  up. 

'Hullo,  Simyun,'  he  exclaimed  cheer- 
fully. 'I  begun  ter  think  thet  Kitty's 
cat  hed  kerried  ye  off  ter  the  infarnal 
rejins.' 

'  What  on  airth  be  ye  doin'  ? '  Simeon 
inquired .  '  Goin'  ter  sot  up  ez  a  tailor  ? ' 

'I'm  goin'  ter  fix  a  lemon  fer  luck,' 
Grandfather  answered.  'My  gran'- 
mother  alwuz  uster  keep  a  lemon  stuck 


494      GRANDFATHER  CRANE  INVOKES  THE  AID  OF  SORCERY 


full  of  colored  pins  ter  fetch  her  good 
luck.  I  affairm  it 's  handy  ter  hev  one 
on  'em  in  the  house.' 

Why,  ain't  thet  charm  workin'?'  in- 
quired Mr.  Sims. 

'Oh,  Lurdy,  yes,'  Grandfather  re- 
plied. 'Jest  like  a  merricle.  I  hed  n't 
gin  Leander  but  three  dosetins  afore 
he  up  an'  said  thet  he  was  n't  goin'  ter 
Freetown  no  more.  Said  he'd  made 
'rangements  ter  hev  Tim'thy  Lake, 
over  thar,  notify  him  ef  them  thieves 
cut  down  any  more  hoop-poles.  I  told 
ye  Hitty'd  fix  things  fer  me.' 

Mr.  Sims  opened  his  mouth  and  then 
suddenly  closed  it.  Again  he  opened  it, 
only  to  close  it  once  more. 

Grandfather  surveyed  his  visitor's 
strange  facial  contortions  with  surprise 
not  unmingled  with  impatience. 

'What  be  ye  champin'  yer  teeth 
that-a-way  fer?'  he  demanded.  'I  af- 
fairm I  should  think  thet  I  was  a  mush- 
rat  an'  yer  jaws  was  a  trap  a-tryin'  ter 
kitch  me.  Hev  ye  got  a  jumpin'  mill- 
tooth?' 

'My  teeth  is  all  right,'  Simeon  re- 
turned in  some  embarrassment.  '  I  was 
goin'  ter  r'mark  thet  ye  don't  seem  ter 
be  any  wuss  fer  yer  upset.' 

'Me  wuss?'  Grandfather  chortled 
blithely.  '  I  'm  a  durned  sight  better  'n 
I've  ben  in  twenty  years.  Eel  grease, 
eel  grease,  Simyun!  It's  a-makin'  of 
me  young  agin.' 

'I'm  glad  't  is,'  said  Mr.  Sims.  He 
turned  abruptly.  'Wai,  good  day, 
Ezry.  I'm  on  my  way  ter  the  black- 
smith's shop.  Thought  I'd  stop  an' 
see  how  ye  was  far  in'.'  Not  waiting  for 
a  reply,  he  walked  quickly  away. 

Grandfather  shook  his  head  as  he 
looked  after  him. 

'Should  n't  wonder  ef  he'd  hed  a 
slight  sunstroke,'  he  murmured.  '  Never 
knowed  him  ter  act  so  durned  narvous 
afore.  Whar  in  tarnation  is  Ann  Juli- 
anna?  She's  an  almighty  long  time 
makin'  the  trip  ter-day.' 


Mr.  Sims,  after  his  hasty  departure, 
did  not  return  to  the  highway  by  which 
he  had  reached  the  Crane  farm;  but, 
passing  through  the  barnyard,  struck 
into  a  'cross-lot'  path  which  led  him 
over  a  couple  of  meadows  to  a  tract  of 
woodland.  As  he  reached  the  edge  of 
this  tract,  he  heard  the  sound  of  voices 
and,  peering  through  the  underbrush, 
beheld  Leander  and  Ann  Julianna 
standing  side  by  side  beneath  a  clump 
of  pine  trees. 

Simeon  was  about  to  continue  on  his 
way  when  Ann  Julianna  discharged  a 
volley  of  statements  which,  piercing 
his  comprehension,  held  him  transfixed 
with  amazement. 

'I  jest  come  from  Mis'  Clapp's,'  said 
Ann  Julianna.  '  Kerried  her  yer  gran'- 
father's  best  snuff-box.  The  one  with 
Gin'ral  Washin'ton's  picter  on  the 
kiver.  Thet  box  was  full  of  love-snuff. 
I  got  it,  yisterdy,  from  Hitty  Sharp  fer 
him.  Could  n't  git  a  chance  ter  tell  ye 
'bout  it  las'  night.' 

Leander  bent  forward  eagerly. 

'Did  she  accept  it,  Ann  Julianna?' 
he  demanded. 

Ann  Julianna  gave  a  sniff  that  sound- 
ed like  the  snap  of  a  trigger. 

'Accept  it?  I  ruther  guess  she  did! 
Took  a  pinch  of  it  ter  once.  She 
knowed  what  't  was  well  'nough.  Any 
woman,  'specially  a  widder  woman, 
knows  thet  when  a  man  gives  her  snuff 
it's  gin'rally  love-snuff.' 

Leander  knitted  his  brow  thought- 
fully.  _  I 

'He  probably  won't  pop  the  question 
till  he  thinks  the  snuff  has  had  time  to 
work,'  he  said. 

'Hitty  allowed  't  would  take  a  week 
ter  git  from  the  head  ter  the  heart,' 
rejoined  Ann  Julianna.  'But  bless  yer 
stars,  Leander,  Mis'  Clapp  don't  need 
no  witch-work  ter  make  her  fancy  yer 
gran'father.  She's  ben  ready  ter  marry 
him  ever  sence  them  cattle  dumped 
him  an'  his  kitchen  cheer  head  over 


GRANDFATHER  CRANE  INVOKES  THE  AID  OF  SORCERY      495 


heels  at  her  feet.  Ter-morrer  I  've  got 
ter  go  ter  Hitty  agin.  This  time  it's 
fer  a  charm  ter  make  ye  fall  in  love 
with  Esther.  Yer  gran'father  's  sot  on 
hevin'  her  fer  a  step-darter  an'  a  gran'- 
darter-in-law,  too.' 

Leander  gazed  at  his  companion  in 
astonishment.  Then  he  burst  into  a 
peal  of  hearty  laughter. 

'Sh-h,'  cautioned  Ann  Julianna.  *I 
Ve  ben  gone  a  long  time  an',  like  ez 
not,  he's  out  lookin'  fer  me.  I  better 
go  now.' 

As  she  spoke  she  began  to  creep  cau- 
tiously along  a  narrow  foot  path,  peer- 
ing through  the  bushes  with  the  wary 
eyes  of  a  scout.  Leander  smothered  his 
mirth  and,  shouldering  an  axe  that  lay 
on  the  ground,  strode  away  in  an  oppo- 
site direction. 

Mr.  Sims  sank  down  on  a  fallen  tree 
trunk. 

*  I  knowed  it ! '  he  exclaimed  hoarsely. 
'I  knowed  thet  ef  Ezry  hed  ary  dealin's 
with  Hit  Sharp  she  'd  cut  him  a  caper. 
I  warned  him,  but  he  wouldn't  hear  ter 
me  a  secont.  Massiful  George!  'Ter 
think  of  him  a-plannin'  ter  marry  Mis' 
Clapp.  Eel  grease!  Sweet  ile  of  wid- 
der's  tongue  is  the  name  of  the  rem'dy 
thet's  made  him  young  agin.' 

He  drew  a  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket  and  wiped  the  beads  of  perspir- 
ation from  his  forehead. 

'What'd  I  oughter  do?'  he  rumin- 
ated anxiously.  'I  come  nigh  a-tellin' 
ter-day,  an'  I  should  ef  I  hed  n't  ben 
afeered  Hit  an'  her  cat  might  do  me 
a  harm.  When  I  thought  how  mad 
they  'd  be,  my  tongue  cluv  ter  the  ruff 
of  my  mouth.  An'  yit,  here's  Ezry  a- 
stannin'  right  afoul  of  a  turrible  dan- 
gerous pit,  an'  there  don't  seem  ter  be 
nobuddy  ter  yank  him  off  n  the  aidge 
but  me.  I  dunno  what  I  be  a-goin'  ter 
do/ 

Ie  rose  heavily  to  his  feet  and  again 
plodded  on  his  way. 

During  the  following  week  Simeon 


Sims  was  a  very  unhappy  man.  His 
appetite  deserted  him  and  sleep  refused 
to  visit  his  pillow.  Mrs.  Sims,  consid- 
ering that  he  had  'a  tech  of  hypochon- 
dry,'  brewed  various  doses  of  'arb 
drink,'  all  of  which  he  swallowed  un- 
complainingly, for  not  even  to  his  wife 
could  he  unburden  his  tortured  soul. 
But  a  reaction  came,  at  last,  as  it  usu- 
ally does  come.  On  the  sixth  morning, 
after  a  restless,  nightmare-haunted 
night,  he  arose,  pale  and  haggard,  but 
with  the  exalted  look  of  a  hero  on  his 
face. 

*  I'm  a-goin'  ter  tell  him,'  he  exclaim- 
ed. 'T  ain't  neighborly,  ner  Christian- 
like,  ter  keep  silunt.  An',  ef  Hit  in- 
jures me,  I  got  ter  stan'  it  like  ary 
other  martyr.' 

Leander  had  just  started  down  the 
road  to  pasture  the  cows  when  Simeon 
reached  the  Crane  barnyard.  Long  be- 
fore he  opened  the  gate  he  was  startled 
by  the  deep  bass  tones  of  Grandfa- 
ther's voice  as  they  boomed  melodi- 
ously upon  the  still  summer  air. 

'  Ef  a  buddy  meet  a  buddy 

A-comin'  thr-rough  the  rye, 
Ef  a  buddy  kiss  a  buddy 
Need  a  buddy  cr-ry  ?  ' 

'Gosh  all  hemlock!'  murmured  Sim- 
eon, 'I'm  afeered  I'm  too  late.' 

*  Ev'ry  lassie  hez  her  laddie, 
Nane,  they  say,  hev  — ' 

The  ballad  ceased  suddenly  as  the 
spectre-like  face  of  his  visitor  appeared 
before  Grandfather's  vision. 

'Cricky!'  cried  the  startled  singer. 
'What's  the  matter?  Is  your  barn 
burnt  down?' 

Mr.  Sims  walked  into  the  kitchen. 

'  Ezry,'  he  said  solemnly,  *  I  think  it 's 
my  duty  ter  tell  ye  suthin'  thet  hez 
laid  like  a  stun  on  my  mind  ever  sence 
I  heered  it.  I  tried  ter  tell  ye  las'  week, 
but  I  was  helt  back  from  doin'  it.  Yer 
tryin'  ter  spark  the  Widder  Clapp. 
Wai,  the  Widder  Clapp  is  ole  Jed 


496      GRANDFATHER  CRANE  INVOKES  THE  AID  OF  SORCERY 


Weeden's  youngest  darter.  She  come 
here  from  Tiverton  because  she  mar- 
ried a  Tiverton  man.  An'  her  darter 
Esther  is  the  gal  thet  Leander's  ben 
a-wantin'  all  along.  Folks  said  he  was 
arfter  Rufe  Weeden's  darter  Lucreshy, 
but  they  was  mistaken.  He  was  run- 
nin'  over  ter  Freetown  ter  see  this 
Esther  who  was  visitin'  Lucreshy.  I 
proph'sied  thet  Hit  Sharp  would  work 
more  evil  than  good  on  ye,  an*  my 
proph'cy  hez  come  true/ 

Grandfather  began  to  beat  up  some 
batter  in  a  bowl  that  stood  on  the 
table. 

'  Much  obleeged  ter  ye,  Simyun,  I  'm 
shore,'  he  replied,  'but  I  knowed  all 
this  before/ 

Simeon  sat  down  in  a  chair  suddenly. 

'Knowed  all  this  before!'  he  re- 
peated. 'Knowed  all  this  before!' 

'Sartin,'  said  Grandfather  calmly. 
'Esther  come  an'  told  me  four  or  five 
days  ago.  A  mighty  nice  gran'darter- 
in-law  I  affairm  she'll  make.  She  see 
thet  me  an'  her  ma  was  kinder  carstin' 
sheep's  eyes  ter  one  another,  an'  she 
knowed,  from  Leander,  thet  I  did  n't 
favior  the  Weedens  none.  Leander 
knowed  I  never  had  no  opinion  of  ole 
Jed  So  she  come  over  ter  see  me,  on 
the  sly,  an'  up  an'  out  with  the  hull 
story.  Would  n't  practice  no  deceit 
even  ter  kitch  Leander/ 

Simeon  rubbed  his  bewildered  eyes. 

'An'  yer  a-goin'  ter  marry  Jed  Wee- 
den's darter?'  he  cried. 

'I  be,'  Grandfather  answered,  stir- 
ring the  batter  briskly. 

Mr.  Sims  groaned. 

'Ezry,  yer  bewitched,'  he  said  husk- 
ily. 'Hit  Sharp  hez  d'luded  ye  with 
magic.  Bimeby  ye '11  be  b'wailin'  ter 
me  thet  she's  made  a  fool  of  ye/ 

'I'll  resk  it,'  Grandfather  responded. 
'Clarissy —  thet's'  Mis'  Clapp,  Mis' 
Crane  thet  is  ter  be  —  is  ez  fine  a  wo- 
man ez  ye  '11  find  in  all  Bristol  County, 


or  out  on't.  We're  goin'  ter  hev  a 
double  weddin',  an'  I  want  ye  should 
come,  bein'  ez  ye  hed  a  hand  in  makin' 
the  match/ 

Mr.  Sims  made  a  final  effort  to  break 
the  spell  which  he  was  convinced  sur- 
rounded his  friend. 

'Ezry,'  he  said,  'what  be  ye  a-goin' 
ter  do  ef  yer  wife  should  set  out  ter 
bile  corned  skunk?' 

'Taste  on't  an'  see  how  I  like  it,' 
Grandfather  returned  promptly.  '  Cla- 
rissy says  she  thinks  I'll  relish  it.  Ann 
Julianna  et  some,  once,  an'  she  ad- 
mired it/ 

Simeon's  righteous  wrath  burst  forth. 

'  It 's  a  true  sayin'  thet  thar  ain't  no 
fool  like  an  ole  fool,'  he  exclaimed, 
springing  from  his  chair.  'Hit,  an'  Le- 
ander, an'  thet  Ann  Julianna  hev  all  on 
'em  manoovered  ye  jest  ez  they  want- 
ed ter.  Thet  thar  Ann  Julianna  is  ez 
desateful  a  little  critter  ez  ever  I  run 
acrost.  Ye  think  she's  ben  a-workin' 
in  yer  in'trust,  but  I  kin  tell  ye  thet 
she  was  a-holpin'  Leander  along  all 
she  could/ 

Grandfather  chuckled. 

'Ann  Julianna  is  the  most  faculized 
young  one  thet  I  ever  see,'  he  an- 
swered. '  I  wisht  I  could  send  her  over 
ter  Europe  ter  tackle  ole  Bonnyparty. 
I  ruther  guess  thet  she'd  out-gin'ral 
him.  Ye  don't  onderstand  her  gifts. 
An',  ez  fer  Hitty,  ef  she  hain't  fetched 
me  good  luck  I  dunno  what  — ' 

'I'm  a-goin'  hum/  interrupted  Sim- 
eon grimly,  'an'  the  nex'  time  thet  I 
mix  er  meddle  in  ary  ole  wid'wer's  love 
messes  ye  jest  lemme  know  it.  I'm 
done  with  'em/ 

Grandfather  followed  him  to  the 
door. 

'I  affairm,  Simyun,'  he  said,  'thet's 
the  most  sensible  idee  thet  I've  heerd 
ye  advance  this  mornin'.  Wai,  good- 
bye. The  weddin'  is  sot  fer  the  fust 
day  of  October/ 


LAISSEZ-FAIRE  IN  RELIGION 


BY  WASHINGTON   GLADDEN 


I  HAVE  been  greatly  interested  in  an 
article  with  this  title  in  a  recent  maga- 
zine,1 in  which  the  writer  seeks  to  show 
that  there  is  a  glaring  logical  inconsist- 
ency in  the  conduct  of  those  who  favor 
a  large  measure  of  social  control  in  eco- 
nomic affairs,  and  are  less  disposed  to 
submit  to  such  control  in  matters  of 
religion. 

He  points  out  that  the  change  from 
mediaeval  feudalism  to  modern  indus- 
trialism was  a  change  'from  a  social 
concept  of  life  to  an  individualistic  con- 
cept of  life,'  —  in  Sir  Henry  Maine's 
phrase,  *  from  status  to  contract.'  With 
this  was  evolved  the  doctrine  of  Lais- 
sez-faire, enunciated  by  the  economists 
of  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. Parallel  with  this  he  discovers  a 
similar  tendency  in  religion.  'When 
the  rest  of  thought  became  individ- 
ualistic in  this  way,  religion,  as  one 
who  perceives  the  unity  of  life  might 
expect,  became  individualistic,  too.  .  . . 
The  man  who  thought  that  he  ought  to 
be  allowed  by  society  to  do  as  he  saw 
fit,  also,  as  a  matter  of  course,  thought 
that  he  should  be  permitted  to  believe 
as  he  saw  fit.' 

It  may  perhaps  be  questioned 
whether  the  tendency  to  individualism 
in  religion  was  an  outgrowth  of  the 
economic  tendency.  The  Reformation 
considerably  antedated  the  French  Re- 
volution, and  it  might  be  maintained 
that  the  movement  in  the  world  of 
thought  was  the  cause  rather  than  the 

1  See  the  Atlantic  for  May,  1914. 
VOL.  114  -  NO.  3 


effect  of  the  movement  in  the  indus- 
trial world. 

Not  to  insist  on  this,  however,  it  is 
true  that  both  these  movements  were 
taking  place  simultaneously;  that  the 
individual  found  his  importance  great- 
ly enhanced,  in  both  the  economic  and 
the  religious  realm,  at  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  It  is  also  true  that 
this  has  resulted,  in  the  religious  world, 
in  a  great  multiplication  of  sects;  but 
the  report  of  this  process  which  the  es- 
sayist offers  is  not  accurate.  'The  one 
thing,'  he  says,  'which  held  people  to- 
gether was  their  devotion  to  a  com- 
mon fetich-book,  the  Bible.  When  at 
length  modern  scientific  criticism  had 
torn  the  Bible  from  its  fetich-throne 
and  restored  it  to  its  proper  place,  the 
state  of  religion  became  plain  as  a 
state  of  anarchy.'  The  historical  fact 
appears  to  be  quite  otherwise.  The  de- 
votion to  a  common  fetich-book  has 
been  the  principal  cause  of  the  multipli- 
cation of  sects.  They  are  all  based  on 
Biblical  interpretation,  and  all  assume 
Biblical  infallibility.  Since  modern 
scientific  criticism  has  begun  to  get  a 
hearing,  the  tendency  to  division  has 
been  checked,  and  movements  toward 
unity  have  been  gaining  strength. 

It  is  also  true  that  within  the  last 
quarter  of  a  century  this  individual- 
istic philosophy  has  been  subjected 
to  sharp  criticism  by  economists  and 
publicists,  and  that  Laissez-faire  has 
ceased  to  be  regarded  as  a  panacea  for 
all  social  ills.  It  is  becoming  evident 
that  the  individual  does  not  come  to 
himself  in  isolation;  that,  in  truth,  he 

497 


498 


LAISSEZ-FAIRE   IN  RELIGION 


lives  and  moves  and  has  his  being  in 
the  social  group.  The  philosophy  which 
makes  him  central  is  seen  to  be  a  de- , 
fective  explanation  of  the  facts  of  life. 
For  this  reason  there  has  been  a  move- 
ment toward  a  larger  measure  of  social 
construction.  That  function  of  the 
state  which  in  the  preamble  of  our  na- 
tional constitution  is  described  as  the 
*  promotion  of  the  general  welfare,'  has 
been  greatly  accentuated.  In  our 
closely  packed  urban  populations  the 
fact  is  recognized  that  not  only  health 
and  education,  but  many  of  the  eco- 
nomic needs  of  life  such  as  water,  light, 
and  transportation,  are  common  needs, 
and  can  best  be  supplied  by  the  co- 
operative action  of  the  community. 
There  is,  no  doubt,  a  strong  tendency 
to  increase  the  amount  of  economic  co- 
operation; this  is  the  socialistic  tend- 
ency. That  there  are  limits  to  its  suc- 
cessful extension  is  the  belief  of  many; 
and  if  so,  the  great  question  of  practical 
statesmanship  is  the  question  where 
the  line  should  be  drawn  between  so- 
cial cooperation  and  individual  initia- 
tive. But  that  the  area  of  social  co- 
operation has  already  been  greatly 
extended,  and  is  likely  to  be  still  more 
extended  in  the  future,  is  not  to  be 
disputed. 

This  process  is  described  as  a  reac- 
tion, —  as  *  a  return  to  a  social  empha- 
sis.5 Is  it  a  reaction?  Is  it  a  tendency 
toward  feudalism?  With  Mr.  Ruskin 
the  revolt  from  Laissez-faire  took  that 
form ;  but  is  it  true  of  those  whose  sym- 
pathies are  with  progressive  or  social- 
istic policies?  I  do  not  so  understand 
it.  I  should  doubt  if  the  feudalistic 
state  could  rightly  be  characterized  as 
putting  a  social  emphasis  on  the  facts 
of  life.  At  any  rate  we  are  not  going 
back  to  any  such  forms  of  social  con- 
trol as  those  which  prevailed  in  Europe 
two  hundred  years  ago. 

The  present  social  movement,  as  it 
looks  to  me,  is  not  a  reaction,  but  an 


advance.  We  are  not  going  back  to 
something  we  have  left  behind,  we  are 
going  forward  to  something  better  than 
we  have  ever  known.  Are  we  not,  in- 
deed, proving  the  truth  of  the  Hegelian 
triad,  —  of  a  progress  from  simplicity, 
through  complexity,  to  unity?  The 
status  of  feudalism  has  been  broken  up 
by  the  individualism  of  contract,  and 
that  is  now  being  superseded  by  the 
higher  unity  of  a  true  commonwealth. 
It  may  be  that  there  are  those  among 
the  Socialists  who  would  establish  a 
collectivism  so  rigid  that  all  individual- 
ity would  be  suppressed ;  that  indeed  is 
the  peril  to  which  all  socialistic  schemes 
are  exposed.  That  would  be  practi- 
cally a  return  to  the  status  of  feudal- 
ism. But  we  may  be  sure  that  such  a 
programme  as  this  will  not  succeed ;  we 
shall  never  relinquish  the  substance  of 
the  freedom  we  have  won.  Instead  of 
going  back  to  the  uniformity  which 
was  secured  by  the  suppression  of  the 
individual,  we  shall  go  forward,  through 
the  realization  of  individuality,  to  the 
unity  which  is  won  by  consenting  wills. 
And  the  only  way  in  which  that  unity 
can  be  realized,  is  by  the  free  consent  of 
individuals.  It  cannot  be  established 
by  any  kind  of  pressure.  Neither  the 
militant  suffragettes  nor  the  Industrial 
Workers  of  the  World  can  show  us  the 
way  to  it.  Their  paths  lead  us  straight 
away  from  it.  Their  methods  would, 
indeed,  drive  us  back  to  the  bondage 
from  which  we  have  escaped;  but  we 
shall  not  return. 


n 

Such  seems  to  me  the  rationale  of 
progress  in  the  economic  realm.  Is 
there,  now,  any  analogy  between  the 
movements  in  this  realm,  and  the 
movements  in  the  religious  realm?  It 
is  urged  that  whereas  these  movements 
ought,  logically,  to  go  forward  pari 
passu,  they  are  in  fact  failing  to  keep 


LAISSEZ-FAIRE  IN  RELIGION 


499 


step;  and  that  this  implies,  on  the  part 
of  those  who  are  trying  to  keep  along 
with  both  of  them,  either  muddle- 
headedness  or  insincerity.  I  hear  it 
said  that  while  in  economics  there  is  a 
decided  reversion  to  the  principle  of  so- 
cial control,  in  religion  that  principle  is 
flatly  rejected.  I  read,  for  instance,  in 
a  late  periodical,  these  sentences:  'The 
strange,  the  almost  startling  incongru- 
ity about  our  modern  situation  is  that 
the  same  people  who  insist  on  the  right  of 
democracy  to  control  all  individuals  eco- 
nomically, are  the  very  ones  who  are  loud- 
est  in  their  demands  that  the  democracy 
control  no  individual  religiously.' 

The  italics  are  not  mine.  Let  us  con- 
sider this.  I  find  myself  correctly  de- 
scribed as  holding  in  substance  both 
these  sets  of  opinions,  and  yet  I  have 
been,  hitherto,  wholly  unconscious  of 
any  incongruity  between  them,  and 
was  not  aware  that  I  was  *  indulging  in 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  feats  of 
mental  gymnastics  ever  known  in  the 
history  of  man.' 

I  should  desire,  indeed,  to  phrase 
a  little  differently  the  demand  first 
named.  It  may  be  that  there  are  those 
who  insist  on  the  right  of  democracy  to 
control  all  individuals  in  all  parts  of 
their  economic  action,  but  not  many 
intelligent  Socialists  make  any  such  de- 
mand. We  all  agree  that  the  democra- 
cy shall  control  us  all  in  some  parts  of 
our  economic  action.  The  democracy 
will  insist  on  directing  the  methods 
by  which  some  considerable  part  of  our 
gains  shall  be  spent.  It  will  compel  us 
to  pay  our  taxes.  It  has  always  done 
so.  We  agree  that  it  has  a  right  to  do 
so.  And  most  of  us  agree  that  it  may 
limit  considerably  the  methods  by 
which  our  gains  may  be  made.  It  will 
not  permit  us  to  make  money  by  coun- 
terfeiting or  swindling,  or  highway  rob- 
bery, or  selling  adulterated  food. 

It  is  true,  however,  that  most  of  the 
action  of  the  democracy  referred  to, 


which  touches  our  economic  interests, 
consists  not  so  much  in  controlling  or 
attempting  to  control  our  economic  ac- 
tion, as  in  providing  ways  by  which  we 
may  cooperate,  —  by  organizing  for  us 
methods  of  economic  cooperation.  The 
democracy  provides  for  us  light,  and 
water,  and  schools,  and  parks,  and 
sometimes  transportation,  at  a  very 
reasonable  expense;  it  does  not  seek  to 
control  us  in  the  use  of  these  things;  we 
are  free  to  take  them  or  leave  them. 
Our  individual  rights  do  not  seem  to  be 
in  any  way  impaired  by  such  provision. 
We  are  taxed,  as  I  have  said,  to  pay  for 
them;  but  the  tax  is  only  a  fragment  of 
what  we  should  have  to  pay  if  we  pro- 
vided thern  for  ourselves.  Control  is 
hardly  the  right  word  to  describe  the 
action  of  the  democracy  toward  its  cit- 
izens in  such  matters. 

Still,  I  have  admitted  that  the  de- 
mocracy does  control  and  must  control 
a  considerable  part  of  the  economic  ac- 
tion of  all  its  citizens.  And  I  also  de- 
mand explicitly  and  stoutly  'that  the 
democracy  control  no  individual  reli- 
giously.1 And  I  am  not  conscious  of 
standing  on  my  head  when  I  make  this 
assertion ;  I  rather  suppose  myself  to  be 
standing  on  my  feet  as  solidly  as  I  ever 
stood.  Neither  the  democracy,  nor  the 
aristocracy,  nor  the  monarchy,  nor  the 
hierarchy,  nor  any  other  power,  in  earth 
or  heaven  or  hell,  has  any  right  or  pow- 
er to  control  any  man  religiously.  The 
right  of  every  man  to  give  account  of 
himself  unto  God  is  a  right  which  is 
not  restricted  to  Socialists  or  Progres- 
sives or  Modernists,  but  is  claimed  by 
the  vast  majority  of  intelligent  people 
in  all  Protestant  countries.  There  are 
few,  indeed,  of  the  rulers  of  civilized 
lands  who  do  not  freely  concede  this 
right  to  all  their  subjects.  They  ex- 
pect to  control  every  man,  more  or  less, 
economically,  but  the  wisest  of  them 
do  not  expect  to  control  any  of  them 
religiously. 


500 


LAISSEZ-FAIRE  IN  RELIGION 


'The  State,'  says  Bluntschli,  'is  an 
external  organization  of  the  common 
life.  It  has  organs,  therefore,  only  for 
things  which  are  externally  percep- 
tible, and  not  for  the  inner  spiritual  life 
which  has  never  manifested  itself  in 
words  or  deeds.  It  is  therefore  impos- 
sible for  the  State  to  embrace  all  the 
ends  of  individual  life,  because  many, 
and  those  the  most  important  sides  of 
that  life,  are  concealed  from  its  view 
and  inaccessible  to  its  power.  The 
natural  gifts  of  individuals  are  wholly 
independent  of  the  State,  which  can 
give  neither  intelligence  to  the  fool  nor 
courage  to  the  coward,  nor  sight  to  the 
blind.  The  State  has  no  share  in  kin- 
dling love  within  the  heart;  it  cannot 
follow  the  thought  of  the  student,  or 
correct  the  errors  of  tradition.  As  soon 
as  questions  arise  about  the  life,  and 
especially  the  spiritual  life,  of  individu- 
als, the  State  finds  both  its  insight  and 
its  power  hemmed  in  by  limits  which  it 
cannot  pass.' l 

That  principle  is  firmly  impressed  on 
the  thought  of  the  age,  and  is  not  likely 
to  be  disregarded.  Whatever  the  de- 
mocracy may  do  or  fail  to  do  in  the  way 
of  controlling  individuals  economical- 
ly, it  will  not  venture  on  the  task  of 
controlling  them  religiously.  Nor  will  it 
be  possible  to  convince  any  fairly  well- 
educated  democracy  that  this  action 
involves  any  serious  inconsistency. 


in 

It  is  assumed  by  those  who  make 
this  criticism  that  there  is  also  a  *  de- 
mand for  the  abolition  of  dogma,'  and 
that  this  demand  is  not  consistent  with 
the  demand  for  an  increased  social 
emphasis.  If  by  dogma  is  meant  sim- 
ply a  coherent  and  exact  statement  of 
religious  truth,  it  may  be  questioned 
whether  there  is  any  demand  among 
rational  people  for  the  'abolition'  of  it. 
1  The  Theory  of  the  State,  p.  304. 


Such  statements  are  always  desirable, 
and  all  thoughtful  men  are  interested  in 
studying  and  comparing  them.  Even 
statements  which  disagree  with  our 
own  opinions  are  valuable  as  giving 
the  points  of  view  of  those  who  think 
differently. 

If  by  dogma  is  meant  a  formulary  of 
religious  belief  which  is  imposed  on  us 
by  authority,  and  which  we  are  re- 
quired to  accept  under  pain  of  censure 
or  condemnation,  then  indeed  there  are 
many  who  demand  its  abolition.  The 
imposition,  under  penalty,  of  forms  of 
religious  belief,  is  a  procedure  which 
ought  always  to  be  resisted,  in  the  in- 
terest of  a  sincere  faith.  The  belief 
which  has  been  produced  by  compul- 
sion of  any  sort  is  of  no  religious  value. 
No  faith  but  a  spiritual  faith  can  be  of 
any  use  to  any  man,  and  'where  the 
Spirit  of  the  Lord  is  there  is  liberty.' 
The  divine  mandate  is,  'Let  every  man 
be  fully  persuaded  in  his  own  mind.' 
The  dogma  which  comes  saying,  'Be- 
lieve me  or  be  damned,'  is  an  intruder  in 
whose  face  we  may  well  bar  our  doors. 
That  is  not  the  divine  way  of  leading 
men  into  the  knowledge  of  the  truth. 

If  by  dogma  is  meant  a  system  of 
religious  truth  which  is  fixed,  final, '  ir- 
reformable,'  that,  too,  is  a  pretender 
whose  rule  we  must  defy.  No  such  final 
formulations  are  possible  in  a  growing 
church.  More  light  is  always  breaking 
forth  from  God's  holy  Word,  and  God's 
wonderful  world,  and  the  creeds  must 
always  make  room  for  it. 

The  one  thing  which  no  religious 
man  is  justified  in  believing  is  that  God 
is  making  a  failure  in  the  government 
of  this  world.  If  He  is  not  making  a 
failure,  then  the  ages  as  they  pass  are 
coming  into  a  larger  knowledge  of  his 
truth,  and 

'The  thoughts  of  men  are  widened  with  the  pro- 
cess of  the  suns.' 

And  if  this  is  so,  then  the  present  age 
is  the  one  in  which  his  will  is  most 


LAISSEZ-FAIRE  IN  RELIGION 


501 


clearly  revealed.  Surely  we  ought  not 
to  assume  that  all  that  could  be  made 
known  concerning  him  was  made  known 
in  the  first  century  or  in  the  first  three 
centuries,  or  in  the  sixteenth  century; 
dogmas  which  were  fixed  at  any  of 
those  dates  must  need  restatement. 

It  is  hardly  needful  to  argue  this 
proposition;  a  mere  glance  through  the 
tables  of  contents  of  the  eight  volumes 
of  Harnack's  History  of  Doctrines,  will 
make  it  evident  enough  that  the  ages 
have  been  constantly  modifying  the 
dogmas  of  the  church.  There  is  not 
one  of  them  which  survives  to-day  with 
the  same  significance  that  it  had  in 
the  early  centuries.  And  a  robust  faith 
rejoices  in  this  splendid  development 
of  Christian  doctrine,  and  is  ready  to 
make  the  most  of  it,  and  to  welcome 
new  manifestations  of  it,  as  the  years 
increase. 

For  the  abolition  of  the  dogma  which 
is  an  iron  rule,  or  a  petrified  corpse, 
there  is,  no  doubt,  a  strong  demand 
to-day.  And  there  is  no  more  general 
desire  to  return  to  the  unmodified  be- 
liefs of  the  early  centuries  than  there 
is  to  restore  feudalism  in  the  econo- 
mic realm.  But  I  think  that  in  the  re- 
ligious realm,  as  in  the  economic,  that 
same  triadic  movement  is  in  progress, 

-  thesis,  antithesis,  synthesis,  —  the 
movement  of  religious  thought  from 
a  uniformity  imposed  by  authority, 
through  a  period  of  individualistic 
skepticism  and  denial,  to  a  higher  unity 
of  the  spirit  in  which  the  separated 
bands  will  come  together  with  rejoic- 
ing. This  higher  unity  will  never  be 
secured  by  a  reimposition  of  the  dog- 
matic formularies  of  the  past;  the  faith 
of  the  new  day  will  find  its  own  forms. 


IV 

Yet  that  higher  unity  will  never  be 
achieved  by  a  repudiation  of  all  the 
pieties  of  the  past.  The  substance  of 


the  faith  will  be  kept  and  cherished  as 
a  precious  inheritance.  The  forms  of 
the  spiritual  life  change,  but  the  fact 
abides.  The  generations  are  bound 
together  by  vital  bonds.  Radicalism 
without  roots  is  fruitless.  The  modern- 
ism which  has  no  use  for  the  past  is 
only  a  little  less  absurd  than  the  tra- 
ditionism  which  finds  no  revelation  in 
the  present.  The  man  who  does  not 
know  that  God  in  times  past  spake  unto 
the  fathers,  arid  who  is  not  eager  to 
hear  the  word  that  came  to  them,  and 
to  lay  hold  upon  the  truth  which  they 
treasured  for  us,  is  ill-prepared  to  take 
the  truth  which  at  the  end  of  the  days 
is  spoken  to  us.  To  a  mood  so  shallow 
and  flippant  no  large  revelation  is  like- 
ly to  be  made.  A  religion  which  lacks 
historical  background  is  like  a  culture 
with  the  same  defect;  it  is  apt  to  be 
crude  and  conceited  and  undevout.  The 
reverent  mind  is  well  persuaded 

That  all  of  good  the  past  has  had 
Remains  to  make  our  own  time  glad; 
Our  common  daily  life  divine, 
And  every  land  a  Palestine. 

On  the  other  hand  the  religion  of  the 
past  can  never  be  set  up  as  the  Pro- 
crustean bed  to  which  the  religion  of 
the  present  must  be  adjusted.  This  is 
the  purblind  project  of  most  of  those 
who  shape  the  policy  of  our  conserva- 
tive churches.  Not  content  with  gath- 
ering out  of  the  past  the  good  which  it 
has  saved  for  us,  and  letting  it  blenq! 
fruitfully  with  the  good  which  the  pre- 
sent is  bringing,  they  insist  on  making 
the  thought-forms  of  antiquity  the 
norm  and  the  gauge  of  all  our  thinking; 
and  the  symbols  by  which  piety  found 
expression  fifteen  hundred  years  ago 
the  standards  to  which  all  our  utter- 
ance must  conform.  It  is  pathetic  that 
religion  should  be  subjected  to  such  a 
crippling  regimen.  The  past  is  entitled 
to  our  reverence,  but  when  it  seeks  to 
dominate  our  thought  and  life,  we  are 
compelled  to  remember  that  the  pre- 


502 


LAISSEZ-FAIRE  IN  RELIGION 


sent  and  the  future  also  have  their 
rights  which  must  not  be  ignored,  and 
their  gifts  which  must  not  be  despised. 
We  are  heirs  of  all  the  ages,  and  must 
claim  our  heritage. 

'Is  it  not  time/  we  are  asked,  'for 
some  hardy  souls  who  fear  not  popular 
clamor,  to  insist  that  the  only  kind  of 
religion  which  is  scientific  is  dogmatic 
religion,  and  that  the  reason  that  dog- 
matic religion  is  scientific  is  because 
it  is  based  on  the  fundamental  human 
law  that  the  experience  of  the  race  is 
vastly  more  important  than  that  of 
any  individual  or  of  any  generation 
within  it?' 

This  last  sentence  brings  the  whole 
truth  into  plain  sight.  'The  experience 
of  the  race  is  vastly  more  important 
than  that  of  any  individual  or  of  any 
generation  within  it.'  Nothing  can  be 
truer.  The  experience  of  the  race  sure- 
ly includes  the  experience  of  the  last 
century,  as  well  as  the  first.  If  there 
are  any  who  propose  to  base  their  reli- 
gion wholly  on  the  experience  of  the 
last  century,  ignoring  those  which  have 
preceded  it,  they  are  not  wise  leaders; 
we  need  not  heed  them.  But  we  may 
with  equal  wisdom  turn  a  deaf  ear  to 
those  who  insist  that  the  experience  of 
the  race  was  all  gathered  up  into  dog- 
matic formularies  which  were  shaped 
many  centuries  ago.  What  is  generally 
meant  by '  dogmatic  religion,'  is  a  state- 
ment of  belief  which  was  fixed  far  back 
in  the  centuries,  and  ever  since  has 
been  jealously  guarded  from  change. 
In  this  crystallization  of  dogma  the 
law  of  growth  is  ignored.  The  reason 
why  what  is  commonly  known  as  dog- 
matic religion  is  unscientific  is  that  it 
sets  at  nought  'the  fundamental  hu- 
man law  that  the  experience  of  the  race 
is  vastly  more  important  than  that  of 
any  individual  or  any  generation  with- 
in it.'  The  experience  of  the  race  up  to 
the  time  of  Augustine  or  of  Thomas 
Aquinas  or  Luther  or  Calvin  was  of 


great  value,  and  we  are  fools  to  ignore 
it;  but  the  experience  of  the  race  since 
the  last  of  these  men  passed  to  his  re- 
ward has  been  of  profound  significance, 
and  we  must  find  room  for  it  in  the 
statements  of  our  faith. 

It  is  out  of  the  social  consciousness, 
as  this  argument  rightly  insists,  that 
our  theology  must  come.  It  is  in  and 
through  the  social  consciousness  that 
God  reveals  himself.  And  while  the  so- 
cial consciousness  of  this  generation  is 
not  sufficient  unto  itself,  and  needs  to 
be  corrected  by  the  experience  of  the 
past,  it  is  yet  both  reverent  and  rea- 
sonable to  say  that  it  is  quite  as  well 
worth  searching  for  indications  of  the 
will  of  God,  as  is  the  social  conscious- 
ness of  the  generation  of  Augustine. 
There  have  been  great  and  wonderful 
disclosures  of  the  truth  and  love  of  God 
in  all  the  generations  since  that  day. 
The  ethical  standards  have  been  won- 
derfully elevated  and  purified.  The 
ideas  of  right  and  wrong  have  been 
greatly  revised.  An  ethnic  morality 
has  given  place  to  a  universal  morality. 
Justice  has  a  connotation  unknown  to 
the  builders  of  the  ancient  creeds.  Is  it 
not  evident  that  the  theology  which 
was  framed  by  men  to  whom  the  Ro- 
man principle  of  the  patria  potestas  was 
a  familiar  idea  is  likely  to  need  restate- 
ment in  this  generation? 

Yes,  by  all  means,  let  us  gather  into 
our  statements  of  belief  the  experience 
of  the  race.  Let  us  make  them  express 
what  God  has  revealed  in  the  growth  of 
compassion,  in  the  enlargement  of  lib- 
erty, in  the  spread  of  democracy,  in  the 
realization  of  human  brotherhood.  We 
shall  not  be  content  with  the  forms 
which  sufficed  for  earlier  ages,  though 
we  shall  treasure  these  as  testimonies 
of  the  centuries  which  produced  them, 
and  seek  to  appropriate  the  truth  they 
contain.  Nor  shall  we  be  able  to  dis- 
pense with  statements  of  our  faith.  We 
shall  need  to  put  our  common  beliefs 


OUR  CULTURAL  HUMILITY 


503 


and  convictions  into  forms  of  words, 
which  we  may  repeat  together,  in 
which  we  may  rejoice  to  express  the 
unity  of  our  faith.  But  they  will  prob- 
ably be  very  simple  forms,  because 
such  will  be  the  demand  of  a  generation 
whose  face  is  set  toward  unity. 

The  creeds  of  the  past  have  largely 
been  weapons  of  polemics.  They  have 
recorded  the  differences  between  those 
who  adopted  them  and  those  from 
whom  they  sought  to  withdraw  them- 
selves. The  period  of  differentiation  is 
past,  the  period  of  integration  has  be- 
gun. Henceforth  the  significant  ex- 
pression of  religious  endeavors  after 
unity  must  indicate  a  purpose  to  in- 
clude and  harmonize,  rather  than  to 


discriminate  and  divide.  Instead  of 
being  treated  as  clubs  to  fight  heretics 
with,  they  will  be  olive-branches  to 
welcome  believers. 

Let  no  one  imagine,  then,  that  there 
is  to  be  any  reaction,  in  economics  or 
in  religion.  In  economics  we  are  not 
going  back  from  individualism  to  feu- 
dalism; we  are  going  forward  to  the 
higher  cooperations  for  which  our 
training  in  individual  initiative  has 
prepared  us.  In  religion  we  are  not 
going  back  from  individualism  to  me- 
diaeval dogma  and  sacerdotal  control; 
we  are  going  forward  to  the  unity  of  the 
spirit,  and  to  that  accord  of  consenting 
minds  which  can  be  won  only  through 
liberty. 


OUR  CULTURAL  HUMILITY 


BY  RANDOLPH   S.   BOURNE 


IT  was  Matthew  Arnold,  read  and 
reverenced  by  the  generation  immedi- 
ately preceding  our  own,  who  set  to  our 
eyes  a  definition  and  a  goal  of  culture 
which  has  become  the  common  prop- 
erty of  all  our  world.  To  know  the  best 
that  had  been  thought  and  said,  to  ap- 
preciate the  master-works  which  the 
previous  civilizations  had  produced,  to 
put  our  minds  and  appreciations  in 
contact  with  the  great  of  all  ages,  — 
here  was  a  clear  ideal  which  dissolved 
the  mists  in  which  the  vaguenesses  of 
culture  had  been  lost.  And  it  was  an 
ideal  that  appealed  with  peculiar  force 
to  Americans.  For  it  was  a  democratic 
ideal;  every  one  who  had  the  energy 
and  perseverance  could  reasonably  ex- 
pect to  acquire  by  taking  thought  that 


orientation  of  soul  to  which  Arnold 
gave  the  magic  name  of  culture.  And 
it  was  a  quantitative  ideal;  culture  was 
a  matter  of  acquisition  —  with  appre- 
ciation and  prayerfulness  perhaps,  but 
still  a  matter  of  adding  little  by  little 
to  one's  store  until  one  should  have  a 
vision  of  that  radiant  limit,  when  one 
knew  all  the  best  that  had  been  thought 
and  said  and  pictured  in  the  world. 

I  do  not  know  in  just  what  way  the 
British  public  responded  to  Arnold's 
eloquence;  if  the  prophetic  wrath  of 
Ruskin  failed  to  stir  them,  it  is  not 
probable  that  they  were  moved  by  the 
persuasiveness  of  Arnold.  But  I  do 
know  that,  coming  at  a  time  when 
America  was  producing  rapidly  an 
enormous  number  of  people  who  were 


504 


OUR  CULTURAL  HUMILITY 


'comfortably  off/  as  the  phrase  goes, 
and  who  were  sufficiently  awake  to  feel 
their  limitations,  with  the  broader  ho- 
rizons of  Europe  just  opening  on  the 
view,  the  new  doctrine  had  the  most 
decisive  effect  on  our  succeeding  spir- 
itual history.  The  '  land-of-liberty ' 
American  of  the  era  of  Dickens  still  ex- 
ists in  the  British  weeklies  and  in  ob- 
servations of  America  by  callow  young 
journalists,  but  as  a  living  species  he 
has  long  been  extinct.  His  place  has 
been  taken  by  a  person  whose  pride  is 
measured  not  by  the  greatness  of  the 
*  land  of  the  free,'  but  by  his  own  orien- 
tation in  Europe. 

Already  in  the  nineties,  our  college 
professors  and  our  artists  were  begin- 
ning to  require  the  seal  of  a  European 
training  to  justify  their  existence.  We 
appropriated  the  German  system  of 
education.  Our  millionaires  began  the 
collecting  of  pictures  and  the  endow- 
ment of  museums  with  foreign  works 
of  art.  We  began  the  exportation  of 
school-teachers  for  a  summer  tour  of 
Europe.  American  art  and  music  col- 
onies sprang  up  in  Paris  and  Berlin 
and  Munich.  The  movement  became 
a  rush.  That  mystical  premonition  of 
Europe,  which  Henry  James  tells  us 
he  had  from  his  earliest  boyhood,  be- 
came the  common  property  of  the  tal- 
ented young  American,  who  felt  a 
certain  starvation  in  his  own  land,  and 
longed  for  the  fleshpots  of  European 
culture.  But  the  bourgeoisie  soon  fol- 
lowed the  artistic  and  the  semi-artistic, 
and  Europe  became  so  much  the  fash- 
ion that  it  is  now  almost  a  test  of  re- 
spectability to  have  traveled  at  least 
once  abroad. 

Underlying  all  this  vivacious  emi- 
gration, there  was  of  course  a  real  if 
vague  thirst  for  *  culture,'  and,  in  strict 
accord  with  Arnold's  definition,  the 
idea  that  somehow  culture  could  be  im- 
bibed, that  from  the  contact  with  the 
treasures  of  Europe  there  would  be 


rubbed  off  on  us  a  little  of  that  grace 
which  had  made  the  art.  So  for  those 
who  could  not  travel  abroad,  our  mil- 
lionaires transported,  in  almost  terrify- 
ing bulk  and  at  staggering  cost,  sam- 
ples of  everything  that  the  foreign 
galleries  had  to  show.  We  were  to  ac- 
quire culture  at  any  cost,  and  we  had 
no  doubt  that  we  had  discovered  the 
royal  road  to  it.  We  followed  it,  at 
any  rate,  with  eye  single  to  the  goal. 
The  naturally  sensitive,  who  really 
found  in  the  European  literature  and 
arts  some  sort  of  spiritual  nourishment, 
set  the  pace,  and  the  crowd  followed  at 
their  heels. 

This  cultural  humility  of  ours  as- 
tonished and  still  astonishes  Europe. 
In  England,  where  *  culture'  is  taken 
very  frivolously,  the  bated  breath  of 
the    American,    when    he    speaks    of 
Shakespeare  or  Tennyson  or  Browning, 
is  always  cause  for  amusement.    And 
the  Frenchman  is  always  a  little  puz- 
zled at  the  crowds  who  attend  lectures 
in  Paris  on  'How  to  See  Europe  Intelli- 
gently,' or  are  taken  in  vast  parties 
through  the  Louvre.    The  European 
objects  a  little  to  being  so  constantly 
regarded  as  the  keeper  of  a  huge  mu- 
seum.  If  you  speak  to  him  of  culture, 
you  find  him  frankly  more  interested 
in  contemporaneous  literature  and  art 
and  music  than  in  his  worthies  of  the 
olden  time,  more  interested  in  discrim- 
inating the  good  of  to-day  than  in 
accepting  the  classics.    If  he  is  a  culti- 
vated person,  he  is  much  more  inter- 
ested  usually  in  quarreling  about  a 
living  dog  than  in  reverencing  a  dead 
lion.   If  he  is  a  French  'lettre/  for  in- 
stance, he  will  be  producing  a  book  on 
the  psychology  of  some  living  writer, 
while  the  Anglo-Saxon  will  be  writing 
another  on  Shakespeare.    His  whole 
attitude  toward  the  things  of  culture, 
be  it  noted,  is  one  of  daily  apprecia- 
tion and  intimacy,  not  that  attitude  of 
reverence  with  which  we  Americans 


OUR  CULTURAL  HUMILITY 


505 


approach  alien  art,  and  which  penalizes 
cultural  heresy  among  us. 

The  European  may  be  enthusiastic, 
polemic,  radiant,  concerning  his  culture; 
he  is  never  humble.  And  he  is,  above 
all,  never  humble  before  the  culture  of 
another  country.  The  Frenchman  will 
hear  nothing  but  French  music,  read 
nothing  but  French  literature,  and  pre- 
fers his  own  art  to  that  of  any  other  na- 
tion. He  can  hardly  understand  our  al- 
most pathetic  eagerness  to  learn  of  the 
culture  of  other  nations,  our  humility 
of  worship  in  the  presence  of  art  that 
in  no  sense  represents  the  expression 
of  any  of  our  ideals  and  motivating 
forces. 

To  a  genuinely  patriotic  American 
this  cultural  humility  of  ours  is  some- 
what humiliating.  In  response  to  this 
eager  inexhaustible  interest  in  Europe, 
where  is  Europe's  interest  in  us?  Eu- 
rope is  to  us  the  land  of  history,  of  mel- 
low tradition,  of  the  arts  and  graces  of 
life,  of  the  best  that  has  been  said  and 
thought  in  the  world.  To  Europe  we 
are  the  land  of  crude  racial  chaos,  of 
skyscrapers  and  bluff,  of  millionaires 
and  *  bosses.'  A  French  philosopher 
visits  us,  and  we  are  all  eagerness  to  get 
from  him  an  orientation  in  all  that  is 
moving  in  the  world  of  thought  across 
the  seas.  But  does  he  ask  about  our 
philosophy,  does  he  seek  an  orientation 
in  the  American  thought  of  the  day? 
Not  at  all.  Our  humility  has  kept  us 
from  forcing  it  upon  his  attention,  and 
it  scarcely  exists  for  him.  Our  adver- 
tising genius,  so  powerful  and  universal 
where  soap  and  biscuits  are  concerned, 
wilts  and  languishes  before  the  task  of 
trumpeting  our  intellectual  and  spirit- 
ual products  before  the  world.  Yet 
there  can  be  little  doubt  which  is  the 
more  intrinsically  worth  advertising. 
But  our  humility  causes  us  to  be  taken 
at  our  own  face  value,  and  for  all  this 
patient  fixity  of  gaze  upon  Europe,  we 
get  little  reward  except  to  be  ignored, 


or  to  have  our  interest  somewhat  con- 
temptuously dismissed  as  parasitic. 

And  with  justice!  For  our  very  goal 
and  ideal  of  culture  has  made  us  para- 
sites. Our  method  has  been  exactly 
wrong.  For  the  truth  is  that  the  defin- 
ition of  culture,  which  we  have  accept- 
ed with  such  devastating  enthusiasm, 
is  a  definition  emanating  from  that  very 
barbarism  from  which  its  author  re- 
coiled in  such  horror.  If  it  were  not 
that  all  our  attitude  showed  that  we 
had  adopted  a  quite  different  standard, 
it  would  be  the  merest  platitude  to  say 
that  culture  is  not  an  acquired  familiar- 
ity with  things  outside,  but  an  inner 
and  constantly  operating  taste,  a  fresh 
and  responsive  power  of  discrimination, 
and  the  insistent  judging  of  everything 
that  comes  to  our  minds  and  senses.  It 
is  clear  that  such  a  sensitive  taste  can- 
not be  acquired  by  torturing  our  ap- 
preciations into  conformity  with  the 
judgments  of  others,  no  matter  how 
*  authoritative '  those  judgments  may 
be.  Such  a  method  means  a  hypnotiza- 
tion  of  judgment,  not  a  true  develop- 
ment of  soul. 

At  the  back  of  Arnold's  definition  is, 
of  course,  the  implication  that  if  we 
have  only  learned  to  appreciate  the 
'best,'  we  shall  have  been  trained 
thus  to  discriminate  generally,  that  our 
appreciation  of  Shakespeare  will  some- 
how spill  over  into  admiration  of  the 
incomparable  art  of  Mr.  G.  Lowes 
Dickinson.  This  is,  of  course,  exactly 
to  reverse  the  psychological  process.  A 
true  appreciation  of  the  remote  and 
the  magnificent  is  acquired  only  after 
the  judgment  has  learned  to  discrimi- 
nate with  accuracy  and  taste  between 
the  good  and  bad,  the  sincere  and  the 
false,  of  the  familiar  and  contempo- 
raneous art  and  writing  of  every  day. 
To  set  up  an  alien  standard  of  the  clas- 
sics is  merely  to  give  our  lazy  taste  a 
resting-point,  and  to  prevent  forever 
any  genuine  culture. 


506 


OUR  CULTURAL  HUMILITY 


This  virus  of  the  'best'  rages 
throughout  all  our  Anglo-Saxon  cam- 
paign for  culture.  Is  it  not  a  notorious 
fact  that  our  professors  of  English  lit- 
erature make  no  attempt  to  judge 
the  work  produced  since  the  death  of 
the  last  consecrated  saint  of  the  liter- 
ary canon, — Robert  Louis  Stevenson? 
In  strict  accordance  with  Arnold's  doc- 
trine, they  are  waiting  for  the  judg- 
ment upon  our  contemporaries  which 
they  call  the  test  of  time,  that  is,  an  au- 
thoritative objective  judgment,  upon 
which  they  can  unquestioningly  rely. 
Surely  it  seems  as  if  the  principle  of 
authority,  having  been  ousted  from  re- 
ligion and  politics,  had  found  a  strong 
refuge  in  the  sphere  of  culture.  This 
tyranny  of  the  'best'  objectifies  all  our 
taste.  It  is  a  '  best '  that  is  always  out- 
side of  our  native  reactions  to  the  fresh- 
nesses and  sincerities  of  life,  a  'best* 
to  which  our  spontaneities  must  be  dis- 
ciplined. By  fixing  our  eyes  humbly 
on  the  ages  that  are  past,  and  on  foreign 
countries,  we  effectually  protect  our- 
selves from  that  inner  taste  which  is  the 
only  sincere  'culture.' 

Our  cultural  humility  before  the  civ- 
ilizations of  Europe,  then,  is  the  chief 
obstacle  which  prevents  us  from  pro- 
ducing any  true  indigenous  culture  of 
our  own.  I  am  far  from  saying,  of 
course,  that  it  is  not  necessary  for  our 
arts  to  be  fertilized  by  the  civilizations 
of  other  nations  past  and  present.  The 
culture  of  Europe  has  arisen  only  from 
such  an  extensive  cross-fertilization  in 
the  past.  But  we  have  passed  through 
that  period  of  learning,  and  it  is  time 
for  us  now  to  set  up  our  individual 
standards.  We  are  already  'heir  to  all 
the  ages '  through  our  English  ancestry, 
and  our  last  half-century  of  European 
idolatry  has  done  for  us  all  that  can  be 
expected.  But,  with  our  eyes  fixed  on 
Europe,  we  continue  to  strangle  what- 
ever native  genius  springs  up.  Is  it 
not  a  tragedy  that  the  American  artist 


feels  the  imperative  need  of  foreign  ap- 
proval before  he  can  be  assured  of  his 
attainment?  Through  our  inability  or 
unwillingness  to  judge  him,  through 
our  cultural  humility,  through  our  in- 
sistence on  the  objective  standard,  we 
drive  him  to  depend  on  a  foreign  clien- 
tele, to  live  even  in  foreign  countries, 
where  taste  is  more  confident  of  itself 
and  does  not  require  the  label,  to  be  as- 
sured of  the  worth  of  what  it  appreci- 
ates. 

The  only  remedy  for  this  deplorable 
situation  is  the  cultivation  of  a  new 
American  nationalism.  We  need  that 
keen  introspection  into  the  beauties 
and  vitalities  and  sincerities  of  our  own 
life  and  ideals  that  characterizes  the 
French.  The  French  culture  is  ani- 
mated by  principles  and  tastes  which 
are  as  old  as  art  itself.  There  are  '  clas- 
sics,' not  in  the  English  and  Arnoldian 
sense  of  a  consecrated  canon,  dissent 
from  which  is  heresy,  but  in  the  sense 
that  each  successive  generation,  put- 
ting them  to  the  test,  finds  them  redol- 
ent of  those  qualities  which  are  charac- 
teristically French,  and  so  preserves 
them  as  a  precious  heritage.  This  cul- 
tural chauvinism  is  the  most  harmless 
of  patriotisms;  indeed  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  for  a  true  life  of  civilization. 
And  it  can  hardly  be  too  intense,  or  too 
exaggerated.  Such  an  international 
art  exhibition  as  was  held  recently  in 
New  York,  with  the  frankly  avowed 
purpose  of  showing  American  artists 
how  bad  they  were  in  comparison  with 
the  modern  French,  represents  an  ap- 
palling degradation  of  attitude  which 
would  be  quite  impossible  in  any  other 
country.  Such  groveling  humility  can 
only  have  the  effect  of  making  us  feeble 
imitators,  instead  of  making  us  assert, 
with  all  the  power  at  our  command, 
the  genius  and  individuality  which  we 
already  possess  in  quantity,  if  we 
would  only  see  it. 

In  the    contemporary  talent    that 


OUR  CULTURAL   HUMILITY 


507 


Europe  is  exhibiting,  or  even  in  the  gen- 
ius of  the  last  half-century,  one  will  go 
far  to  find  greater  poets  than  our  Walt 
Whitman,  philosophers  than  William 
James,  essayists  than  Emerson  and 
Thoreau,  composers  than  MacDowell, 
sculptors  than  Saint-Gaudens.  In  any 
other  country  such  names  would  be 
focuses  to  which  interest  and  enthusi- 
asms would  converge,  symbols  of  a 
national  spirit  about  which  judgments 
and  tastes  would  revolve.  For  none  of 
them  could  have  been  born  in  another 
country  than  our  own.  If  some  of 
them  had  their  training  abroad,  it  was 
still  the  indigenous  America  that  their 
works  expressed,  —  the  American  ideals 
and  qualities,  our  pulsating  democracy, 
the  vigor  and  daring  of  our  pioneer 
spirit,  our  sense  of  camaraderie,  our 
dynamism,  the  big-heartedness  of  our 
scenery,  our  hospitality  to  all  the  world. 
In  the  music  of  MacDowell,  the  poetry 
of  Whitman,  the  philosophy  of  James, 
I  recognize  a  national  spirit,  Tesprit 
americain,'  as  superbly  clear  and  grip- 
ping as  anything  the  culture  of  Eu- 
rope has  to  offer  us,  and  immensely 
more  stimulating,  because  of  the  very 
body  and  soul  of  to-day's  interests  and 
aspirations. 

To  come  to  an  intense  self-conscious- 


ness of  these  qualities,  to  feel  them  in 
the  work  of  these  masters,  and  to  search 
for  them  everywhere  among  the  lesser 
artists  and  thinkers  who  are  trying  to 
express  the  soul  of  this  hot  chaos  of 
America,  —  this  will  be  the  attainment 
of  culture  for  us.  Not  to  look  on  rav- 
ished while  our  marvelous  millionaires 
fill  our  museums  with  'old  masters/ 
armor,  and  porcelains,  but  to  turn  our 
eyes  upon  our  own  art  for  a  time,  shut 
ourselves  in  with  our  own  genius,  and 
cultivate  with  an  intense  and  partial 
pride  what  we  have  already  achieved 
against  the  obstacles  of  our  cultural 
humility.  Only  thus  shall  we  conserve 
the  American  spirit  and  saturate  the 
next  generation  with  those  qualities 
which  are  our  strength.  Only  thus  can 
we  take  our  rightful  place  among  the 
cultures  of  the  world,  to  which  we  are 
entitled  if  we  would  but  recognize  it. 
We  shall  never  be  able  to  perpetuate 
our  ideals  except  in  the  form  of  art  and 
literature;  the  world  will  never  under- 
stand our  spirit  except  in  terms  of  art. 
When  shall  we  learn  that '  culture,'  like 
the  kingdom  of  heaven,  lies  within  us, 
in  the  heart  of  our  national  soul,  and 
not  in  foreign  galleries  and  books? 
When  shall  we  learn  to  be  proud?  For 
only  pride  is  creative. 


UNION   PORTRAITS 


IV.    GEORGE  B.  McCLELLAN 


BY   GAMALIEL   BRADFORD 


GOOD  fortune  seemed  to  wait  on  Mc- 
Clellan's  early  career.  He  graduated 
from  West  Point  in  1846,  just  at  the 
beginning  of  the  Mexican  War,  and 
plunged  into  active  service  at  once.  In 
Mexico  every  one  spoke  well  of  him. 
He  showed  energy,  resource,  and  un- 
questioned personal  courage.  He  was 
handsome,  thoroughly  martial  in  ap- 
pearance, kindly,  and  popular.  After 
his  return  from  Mexico  he  taught  at 
West  Point,  took  part,  as  an  engineer, 
in  Western  exploration,  then  served  as 
one  of  the  government's  military  com- 
mission in  the  Crimea,  and  so  acquired 
a  technical  knowledge  much  beyond 
that  of  the  average  United  States  offi- 
cer. In  the  later  fifties  he  resigned 
from  the  service  and  went  into  railroad 
management,  which  probably  gave  him 
practical  experience  more  valuable  than 
could  have  been  gained  by  fighting 
Indians. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  war,  in  1861, 
McClellan  seems  to  have  been  gener- 
ally looked  upon  as  a  most  competent 
soldier.  He  was  decidedly  successful  in 
his  first  campaign  in  Ohio  and  West 
Virginia,  and  when  he  was  called  to 
Washington  to  command  the  Army  of 
the  Potomac,  it  appeared  as  if  a  bril- 
liant and  distinguished  future  were  be- 
fore him.  During  more  than  a  year  he 
commanded  that  army,  through  two 
great  campaigns.  Then  the  President, 

508 


anxious  and  impatient  for  more  deci- 
sive results,  dismissed  his  subordinate 
to  the  obscurity  from  which,  as  a  sol- 
dier, he  never  reemerged. 

In  studying  the  man's  career  and  his 
character  in  relation  to  it,  it  will  be  in- 
teresting to  begin  by  getting  his  own 
view.  This  is  easily  done.  He  was  one 
who  spoke  of  himself  quite  liberally 
with  the  pen,  though  reticent  in  con- 
versation. In  his  book,  McClellan' s 
Own  Story,  he  gives  a  minute  account 
of  his  experiences,  and  the  editor  of  the 
book  added  to  the  text  an  extensive  se- 
lection from  the  general's  intimate  per- 
sonal letters  to  his  wife.  The  letters 
are  so  intimate  that,  in  one  aspect,  it 
seems  unfair  to  use  them  as  damaging 
evidence.  It  should  be  pointed  out, 
however,  that  while  the  correspond- 
ence amplifies  our  knowledge  and  gives 
us  admirable  illustration,  it  really 
brings  out  no  qualities  that  are  not  im- 
plied for  the  careful  observer  in  the 
text  of  the  book  itself,  and  even  in  the 
general's  formal  reports  and  letters. 

What  haunts  me  most,  as  I  read  these 
domestic  outpourings,  is  the  desire  to 
know  what  Mrs.  McClellan  thought  of 
them.  Did  she  accept  everything  loyal- 
ly? Was  she  like  the  widow  of  the  regi- 
cide Harrison,  of  whom  Pepys  records, 
with  one  of  his  exquisite  touches, '  It  is 
said  that  he  said  that  he  was  sure  to 
come  shortly  at  the  right  hand  of  Christ 
to  judge  them  that  now  had  judged 
him;  and  that  his  wife  do  expect  his 


GEORGE  B.  McCLELLAN 


509 


coming  again'?  Or  had  Mrs.  McClel- 
lan,  in  spite  of  all  affection,  a  little 
critical  devil  that  sometimes  nudged 
ler  into  smiling?  I  wonder.  General 
Meade  says  that  she  was  a  charming 
\ ^oman.  'Her  manners  are  delightful; 
full  of  life  and  vivacity,  great  affability, 
and  very  ready  in  conversation.  ...  I 
came  away  quite  charmed  with  her 
esprit  and  vivacity.*  Remember  this 
when  you  read  some  of  the  following 
extracts,  and  you  will  wonder  as  I  do. 

But  as  to  the  general  and  his  view  of 
himself.  He  considered  that  he  was 
humble  ai  ^  modest,  and  very  fearful 
of  elation  and  vainglory.  There  can 
be  no  doubt  that  he  was  absolutely  sin- 
cere in  this,  and  we  must  reconcile  it 
with  some  other  things  as  best  we  can. 
How  genuinely  touching  and  solemn  is 
his  account  of  his  parting  with  his  pre- 
decessor, Scott,  whom,  nevertheless,  he 
had  treated  rather  cavalierly.  'I  saw 
there  the  end  of  a  long,  active,  and  am- 
bitious life,  the  end  of  the  career  of  the 
first  soldier  of  his  nation;  and  it  was 
a  feeble  old  man  scarce  able  to  walk, 
hardly  any  one  there  to  see  him  off  but 
his  successor.  Should  I  ever  become 
vainglorious  and  ambitious,  remind 
me  of  that  spectacle.  I  pray  every 
night  and  every  morning  that  I  may 
become  neither  vain  nor  ambitious, 
that  I  may  be  neither  depressed  by  dis- 
aster nor  elated  by  success,  and  that  I 
may  keep  one  single  object  in  view  — 
the  good  of  my  country.' 

The  self-denying  patriotism  here  sug- 
gested is  even  more  conspicuous  in  Mc- 
Clellan's  analysis  of  himself  than  hu- 
mility or  modesty,  and  again  no  one 
can  dispute  that  his  professions  of  such 
a  nature  are  absolutely  sincere.  How- 
ever one  may  criticize  the  celebrated 
letter  of  advice  written  to  Lincoln  from 
Harrison's  Landing,  it  is  impossible  to 
resist  the  impetuous  solemnity  of  the 
closing  words.  'In  carrying  out  any 
system  of  policy  which  you  may  form 


you  will  require  a  Commander-in-Chief 
of  the  Army  —  one  who  possesses  your 
confidence,  understands  your  views, 
and  who  is  competent  to  execute  your 
orders  by  directing  the  military  forces 
of  the  nation  to  the  accomplishment  of 
the  objects  by  you  proposed.  I  do  not 
ask  this  place  for  myself.  I  am  willing 
to  serve  you  in  such  position  as  you 
may  assign  me,  and  I  will  do  so  as 
faithfully  as  ever  subordinate  served 
superior.  I  may  be  on  the  brink  of 
eternity,  and  as  I  hope  forgiveness 
from  my  Maker  I  have  written  this 
letter  with  sincerity  towards  you  and 
from  love  for  my  country.' 

It  is  necessary  to  bear  these  pass- 
ages —  and  there  are  many  similar 
ones  —  in  mind,  as  we  progress  with 
McClellan;  for  the  leadership  of  one  of 
the  most  splendid  armies  in  the  world 
through  the  great  campaigns  of  the 
Peninsula  and  Antietam  fostered  a 
temper  that  often  seems  incompatible 
with  modesty  and  sometimes  even  with 
patriotism.  We  must  remember  that 
he  found  the  whole  country  looking  to 
him  with  enthusiasm.  We  must  re- 
member that  he  was  surrounded  —  to 
some  extent  he  surrounded  himself  — 
by  men  who  petted,  praised,  and  flat- 
tered him.  We  must  remember  that  in 
the  war,  from  the  first,  he  never  had  the 
wholesome  discipline  of  subordinate 
position,  but  was  one  of  the  few  gen- 
erals who  began  by  commanding  an  in- 
dependent army.  We  must  remember 
especially  the  fortunate — or  unfortun- 
ate —  circumstances  of  his  earlier  life. 
As  Colonel  McClure  says,  he  would 
have  been  a  different  man,  'had  he 
been  a  barefoot  boy,  trained  to  tag 
and  marbles,  jostling  his  way  in  the 
world/ 

The  explanation  of  many  things  is 
well  given  by  a  passage  in  one  of  his 
earlier  letters.  'I  never  went  through 
such  a  scene  in  my  life,  and  never  ex- 
pect to  go  through  such  another  one. 


510 


GEORGE  B.   McCLELLAN 


You  would  have  been  surprised  at  the 
excitement.  At  Chillicothe  the  ladies 
had  prepared  a  dinner,  and  I  had  to  be 
trotted  through.  They  gave  me  about 
twenty  beautiful  bouquets  and  almost 
killed  me  with  kindness.  The  trouble 
will  be  to  fill  their  expectations,  they 
seem  to  be  so  high.  I  could  hear  them 
say,  "  He  is  our  own  general";  "Look 
at  him,  how  young  he  is  ";  "He  will 
thrash  them'*;  "He '11  do!'  etc.,  etc., 
ad  infinitumJ 

Doubtless  there  are  cool  and  critical 
heads  that  can  stand  this  sort  of  thing 
without  being  turned,  but  McClellan's 
was  not  one  of  them.  Even  in  his  Mex- 
ican youth  a  certain  satisfaction  with 
his  own  achievements  and  capacity  can 
be  detected  in  his  letters.  *  I  have  work 
enough  before  me  to  occupy  half  a  do- 
zen persons  for  a  while;  but  I  rather 
think  I  can  get  through  it.'  In  the  full 
sunshine  of  glory  this  satisfaction  rose 
to  a  pitch  which  sometimes  seems  ab- 
normal. 

Let  us  survey  its  different  manifesta- 
tions. As  the  organizer  of  an  army  it  is 
generally  admitted  that  McClellan  had 
few  superiors.  He  took  the  disorderly 
mob  which  fled  from  the  first  Bull  Run 
and  made  it  the  superb  military  in- 
strument that  broke  Lee's  prestige  at 
Gettysburg  and  finally  strangled  the 
Confederacy.  In  achieving  this  his 
European  studies  must  have  been  of 
great  help  to  him,  as  setting  an  ideal  of 
full  equipment  and  finished  discipline. 
Some  think  his  ideal  was  too  exacting 
and  involved  unnecessary  delay.  He 
himself  very  sensibly  denies  this  and 
disclaims  any  desire  for  an  impossible 
perfection.  In  short,  praise  from  others 
as  to  his  organizing  faculty  would  be 
disputed  by  few  or  none.  Yet  even  on 
this  point  one  would  prefer,  to  hear 
others  praise  and  not  the  man  himself. 
*I  do  not  know  who  could  have  or- 
ganized the  Army  of  the  Potomac  as  I 
did.' 


It  has  a  strange  sound.  And  this  is 
not  a  private  letter,  but  a  sentence  de- 
liberately penned  for  posterity. 

II 

And  how  did  he  judge  himself  in 
other  lines  of  military  achievement? 
What  was  McClellan's  opinion  of  Mc- 
Clellan as  a  strategist  and  thinker? 
From  the  beginning  of  the  war  he  was 
ever  fertile  in  plans,  which,  as  he  as- 

9  •*• 

serted,  would  ensure  speedy  success  and 
the  downfall  of  the  Confederacy,  plans 
involving  not  only  military  movements 
but  the  conduct  of  politics.  He  sent 
these  plans  to  Scott  in  the  early  days, 
and  was  snubbed.  Later  he  submit- 
ted them  to  Lincoln,  and  the  last 
was  snubbed,  by  silence,  even  more 
severely  than  the  first  had  been.  Mc- 
Clellan worked  out  these  plans  in  lov- 
ing and  minute  detail.  Every  contin- 
gency was  foreseen  and  every  possible 
need  in  men,  supplies,  and  munitions, 
was  figured  on.  As  a  consequence,  the 
needs  could  never  be  filled  —  and  the 
plans  could  never  be  executed.  The 
very  boldness  and  grasp  of  the  concep- 
tion made  the  execution  limited  and 
feeble.  And  the  plans  were  so  exquis- 
itely complete  that  in  this  stumbling 
world  they  could  never  be  put  into 
practical  effect.  I  have  seen  such  men. 
And  so  have  you. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  fact  that  the 
plans  were  never  realized  left  them  all 
the  more  attractive  in  their  ideal  beau- 
ty. 'Had  the  Army  of  the  Potomac 
been  permitted  to  remain  on  the  line  of 
the  James,  I  would  have  crossed  to  the 
south  bank  of  the  river,  and  while  en- 
gaging Lee's  attention  in  front  of  Mal- 
vern,  would  have  made  a  rapid  move- 
ment in  force  on  Petersburg,  having 
gained  which,  I  would  have  operated 
against  Richmond  and  its  communica- 
tions from  the  west,  having  already 
gained  those  from  the  south.'  Oh,  the 


GEORGE  B.   McCLELLAN 


511 


charm  of  that  'would  have,'  which  no 
man  can  absolutely  gainsay !  Or  take  a 
more  general  and  even  more  significant 
passage:  'Had  the  measures  recom- 
mended been  carried  into  effect  the 
war  would  have  been  closed  in  less  than 
one  half  the  time  and  with  infinite  sav- 
ing of  blood  and  treasure.'  What  a 
balm  is  in  'would  have'  for  an  aching 
memory  and  a  wounded  pride!  And 
there  is  comfort,  also,  in  repeating  to 
one's  self  —  and  others  —  the  acknow- 
ledgment of  courteous  enemies,  'that 
they  feared  me  more  than  any  of  the 
Northern  generals,  and  that  I  had 
struck  them  harder  blows  in  the  full 
prime  of  their  strength.' 

Well,  a  general  should  be  a  leader  as 
well  as  a  thinker,  should  not  only  plan 
battles  but  inspire  them.  How  was  it 
with  McClellan  in  this  regard?  Those 
who  fought  under  him  have  some  fault 
to  find.  Without  the  slightest  question 
of  their  commander's  personal  courage, 
they  think  that  he  was  too  absorbed 
in  remote  considerations  to  throw  him- 
self with  passion  into  direct  conflict. 
'He  was  the  most  extraordinary  man 
I  ever  saw,'  says  Heintzelman.  'I  do 
not  see  how  any  man  could  leave 
so  much  to  others  and  be  so  confident 
that  everything  would  go  just  right.' 
With  which,  however,  should  be  com- 
pared Lee's  remark :  '  I  think  and  work 
with  all  my  power  to  bring  the  troops 
to  the  right  place  at  the  right  time; 
then  I  have  done  my  duty.  As  soon  as 
I  order  them  forward  into  battle,  I 
leave  my  army  in  the  hands  of  God/ 
But  McClellan  himself  had  no  doubts 
about  his  leadership.  There  can  be  no 
question  but  that  his  grandiloquent 
proclamations  spoke  his  whole  heart. 
'Soldiers!  I  have  heard  that  there  is 
danger  here.  I  have  come  to  place  my- 
self at  your  head  and  to  share  it  with 
you.  I  fear  now  but  one  thing —  that 
you  may  not  find  foemen  worthy  of  your 
steel.  I  know  that  I  can  rely  upon  you.' 


In  his  belief  that  he  had  the  full  con- 
fidence of  his  men,  McClellan  has  the 
world  with  him.  They  loved  him  and 
he  loved  them.  One  of  the  most  charm- 
ing things  about  him  is  his  deep  inter- 
est in  the  welfare  of  his  soldiers,  his 
sympathy  with  their  struggles  and 
their  difficulties,  though  some  think  he 
carried  this  so  far  as  to  spare  them  in 
a  fashion  not  really  merciful  in  the  end. 
When  he  is  temporarily  deprived  of 
command  and  his  army  is  fighting,  he 
begs  passionately  to  be  allowed  at  least 
to  die  with  them.  When  he  is  restored 
to  them,  he  portrays  their  enthusiastic 
delight  in  perhaps  the  most  curious  of 
many  passages  of  that  nature.  'As 
soon  as  I  came  to  them  the  poor  fellows 
broke  through  all  restraints,  rushed 
from  the  ranks  and  crowded  around 
me,  shouting,  yelling,  shedding  tears, 
thanking  God  that  they  were  with  me 
again,  and  begging  me  to  lead  them  back 
to  battle.  It  was  a  wonderful  scene, 
and  proved  that  I  had  the  hearts  of 
these  men.' 

The  most  singular  instance  of  Mc- 
Clellan's  excessive  confidence  in  his 
own  judgment  is  his  perpetual,  haunt- 
ing, unalterable  belief  that  the  enemy 
were  far  superior  to  him  in  numbers. 
No  evidence,  no  argument,  no  represen- 
tation from  subordinates  or  outsiders 
could  shake  him  in  this  opinion.  Send 
more  men,  more  men,  more  men,  the 
rebels  outnumber  me,  was  his  unceas- 
ing cry.  The  curious  force  of  this  pre- 
possession, as  well  as  the  man's  charac- 
teristic ingenuity,  shows  in  his  reply  to 
Lincoln's  suggestion  that  as  Lee  had 
sent  away  troops,  it  must  be  a  good 
time  to  attack.  Ah,  says  McClellan,  in 
effect,  can't  you  see  that  if  he  has  troops 
to  spare,  his  numbers  must  be  too  pro- 
digious for  me  to  cope  with? 

This  illusion  as  to  numbers  natur- 
ally made  negative  success  seem  tri- 
umph, and  magnified  really  great 
things  into  even  greater.  The  general 


512 


GEORGE  B.   McCLELLAN 


writes  during  Antietam,  'We  are  in 
the  midst  of  the  most  terrible  battle  of 
the  war  —  perhaps  of  history.  Thus 
far  it  looks  well,  but  I  have  great  odds 
against  me.'  In  fact,  Lee's  force  was 
far  less  than  McClellan's. 

All  of  the  general's  undeniably  great 
achievements  are  thus  made  much 
of,  until  impatient  critics  are  strongly 
inclined  to  depreciate  them.  He  an- 
nounces that  he  has  'secured  solidly 
for  the  Union  that  part  of  West  Vir- 
ginia north  of  the  Kanawha  and  west 
of  the  mountains.'  No  doubt  he  had; 
but  —  Of  the  battle  of  Malvern  Hill 
he  says,  'I  doubt  whether,  in  the  an- 
nals of  war,  there  was  ever  a  more  per- 
sistent and  gallant  attack,  or  a  more 
cool  and  effective  resistance.*  And 
again,  'I  have  every  reason  to  believe 
that  our  victory  at  Malvern  Hill  was  a 
crushing  one  —  one  from  which  he 
[the  enemy]  will  not  readily  recover.' 
The  last  words  McClellan  wrote  were  a 
laudation  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac 

—  and  its  commander — in  reference  to 
the  retreat  from  the  Peninsula.  '  It  was 
one    of    those    magnificent     episodes 
which  dignify  a  nation's  history,  and 
are  fit  subjects  for  the  grandest  efforts 
of  the  poet  and  the  painter.'    Hooker 

—  to  be  sure,  a  somewhat  prejudiced 
witness  —  says  of  the  same  event :  '  It 
was  like  the  retreat  of  a  whipped  army. 
We  retreated  like  a  parcel  of  sheep; 
everybody  on  the  road  at  the  same 
time;  and  a  few  shots  from  the  rebels 
would  have  panic-stricken  the  whole 
command.'   Finally,  of  his  last  battle, 
Antietam,  the  general  says,  '  Those  on 
whose  judgment  I  rely  tell  me  that  I 
fought  the  battle  splendidly  and  that 
it  was  a  masterpiece  of  art.* 

I  ask  myself  how  the  witty  and  vi- 
vacious woman  who  charmed  Meade 
received  such  words  as  these.  Did  that 
little  critical  devil  nudge  her,  or  did  she 
loyally  'expect  his  coming  again'? 

A  commander  who  took  this  view 


of  what  he  had  accomplished  almost 
necessarily  developed  an  extraordinary 
sense  of  his  importance  to  the  cause 
and  to  the  country.  McClellan  was  im- 
portant. We  should  never  forget  it. 
Only,  perhaps  no  one  was  so  important 
as  he  deemed  himself  to  be.  His  deep 
sense  of  responsibility  is  delightfully 
blended  with  other  marked  elements  of 
his  character  in  a  brief  telegram  to  Lin- 
coln, shortly  before  Antietam.  '  I  have 
a  difficult  task  to  perform,  but  with 
God's  blessing  will  accomplish  it.  ... 
My  respects  to  Mrs.  Lincoln.  Received 
enthusiastically  by  the  ladies.  Will  send 
you  trophies.' 

Over  and  over  again  he  repeats  that 
he  has  saved  the  country.  '  Who  would 
have  thought  when  we  were  married, 
that  I  should  so  soon  be  called  upon  to 
save  my  country?'  'I  feel  some  little 
pride  in  having,  with  a  beaten  and  de- 
moralized army,  defeated  Lee  so  utter- 
ly and  saved  the  North  completely.' 
And  in  the  solemn  preface  to  his  book 
he  proclaims  to  an  expectant  world: 
'Twice  at  least,  I  saved  the  capital, 
once  created  and  once  reorganized  a 
great  army.' 

The  most  striking  example  of  this 
self-exaltation,  amounting  almost  to 
mania,  is  the  letter  written  to  Burnside, 
in  May,  1862.  'The  Government  have 
deliberately  placed  me  in  this  position. 
If  I  win,  the  greater  the  glory.  If  I  lose, 
they  will  be  damned  forever  both  by 
God  and  men.'  And  the  tone  in  which 
he  continues  shows  that  his  situation 
had  taken  hold  of  him  with  an  approach 
to  religious  ecstasy : '  I  sometimes  think 
now  that  I  can  almost  realize  that 
Mahomet  was  sincere.  When  I  see  the 
hand  of  God  guarding  one  so  weak  as 
myself,  I  can  almost  think  myself  a 
chosen  instrument  to  carry  out  his 
schemes.  Would  that  a  better  man  had 
been  selected.' 

It  is  no  wonder  that  the  bee  of  dicta- 
torship buzzed  in  a  brain  so  feverishly 


GEORGE  B.   McCLELLAN 


513 


overwrought.  That  it  entered  and  was 
considered,  if  not  entertained,  there 
can  be  no  question.  Flatterers  urged  it, 
and  circumstances,  viewed  as  McClel- 
lan  viewed  them,  seemed  to  suggest  it. 
'The  order  depriving  me  of  the  com- 
mand created  an  immense  deal  of  deep 
feeling  in  the  army  —  so  much  so  that 
many  were  in  favor  of  my  refusing  to 
obey  the  order,  and  of  marching  upon 
Washington  to  take  possession  of  the 
government.'  The  general  is  said  to 
have  remarked  to  one  very  near  him, 
'How  these  brave  fellows  love  me  and 
what  a  power  their  love  places  in  my 
hands!  What  is  there  to  prevent  my 
taking  the  government  in  my  hands?' 
The  man's  own  fund  of  native  com- 
mon sense  was  there  to  prevent  it.  But 
it  is  evident  that  he  lovingly  consid- 
ered the  possibility.  Only,  we  must  re- 
member that  such  consideration  was 
not  prompted  by  personal  motives,  but 
by  genuine  patriotism.  He  says  so  and 
we  must  believe  him.  If  no  one  else  but 
he  could  save  the  country,  it  was  his 
duty  to  save  it.  'I  receive  letter  after 
letter,  have  conversation  after  conver- 
sation, calling  on  me  to  save  the  nation, 
alluding  to  the  presidency,  dictatorship, 
etc.  As  I  hope  one  day  to  be  united 
with  you  forever  in  heaven,  I  have  no 
such  aspiration.  I  would  cheerfully 
take  the  dictatorship  and  agree  to  lay 
down  my  life  when  the  country  was 
saved.' 

in 

All  this  time  there  was  a  govern- 
ment in  Washington  —  existing  chiefly 
to  annoy  him,  so  McClellan  thought. 
The  worst  effect  of  the  general's  serene 

-  or  perturbed  —  self-confidence  was 
that  it  bred  an  entire  disbelief  in  the 
judgment  of  others.  He  was  impatient 
with  his  subordinates  where  they  dif- 
fered from  him,  —  did  not  seek  their 
advice  or  trust  their  ability.  '  In  hea- 
ven's name  give  me  some  general  offi- 

VOL.114-N0.4 


cers  who  understand  their  profession,' 
he  writes  in  the  early  days.  With  his 
superiors  —  his  few  superiors,  Hal- 
leek,  Stanton,  Lincoln  —  and  with  the 
government  they  represented,  he  en- 
deavored to  be  civil,  but  he  felt  that 
they  knew  nothing  about  war,  and 
where  they  could  not  be  coaxed,  they 
must  be  disciplined.  Among  Lincoln's 
many  difficulties  none,  perhaps,  were 
greater  than  McClellan.  The  president 
argued  patiently,  remonstrated  gently, 
reproved  paternally,  submitted  to  ne- 
glect that  seemed  like  impertinence, 
kicked  his  heels  like  a  messenger  boy 
in  the  general's  waiting-room,  declar- 
ed, with  his  divine  self-abnegation, 
that  he  would  hold  McClellan's  horse, 
if  that  would  help  win  victory.  In  re- 
turn, the  general  patronized  his  titular 
commander-in-chief,  when  things  went 
well,  satirized  him  when  they  went 
doubtfully,  — '  I  do  not  yet  know  what 
are  the  military  plans  of  the  gigantic 
intellects  at  the  head  of  the  govern- 
ment,'— and  when  they  went  ill,  ut- 
tered unequivocal  condemnation : '  It  is 
the  most  infamous  thing  that  history 
has  recorded.' 

Ropes's  analysis  of  McClellan's  atti- 
tude in  this  connection  is  so  penetrat- 
ing and  so  suggestive  that  I  cannot 
pass  it  by.  *  There  are  men  so  peculiar- 
ly constituted  that  when  they  have 
once  set  their  hearts  on  any  project, 
they  cannot  bear  to  consider  the  facts 
that  militate  against  their  carrying  it 
out;  they  are  impatient  and  intolerant 
of  them;  such  facts  either  completely 
fall  out  of  their  minds,  so  to  speak,  as 
if  they  had  never  been  heard  of,  or, 
if  they  subsequently  make  themselves 
felt,  they  seem  to  men  of  this  temper 
to  have  assumed  an  inimical  aspect, 
and,  what  is  worse,  inasmuch  as  it  is 
impossible  for  any  man  to  get  angry 
with  facts,  such  men  instinctively  fix 
upon  certain  individuals  whom  they 
associate  in  some  way,  more  or  less 


514 


GEORGE  B.  McCLELLAN 


remote,  with  these  unwelcome  facts, 
and  whom  they  always  accuse,  in  their 
own  thought,  at  least,  of  hostility  or 
deception.  Such  a  mind  we  conceive  to 
have  been  that  of  General  McClellan.' 

It  is  only  thus  that  we  can  explain 
the  extreme  bitterness  of  a  nature 
otherwise  kindly  and  generous.  The 
perturbed  and  anxious  spirit  saw  ene- 
mies everywhere,  magnified  real  hostil- 
ity and  imagined  hostility  where  there 
was  none.  Political  opposition  becomes 
malignant  hatred.  'You  have  no  idea 
of  the  undying  hate  with  which  the 
abolitionists  pursue  me,  but  I  take  no 
notice  of  them.'  Anger  with  Halleck 
and  Stan  ton  was  perhaps  natural. 
Many  men  got  angry  with  Halleck  and 
Stan  ton.  It  is  not  the  place  to  judge 
either  of  them  here;  but  it  will  be  gen- 
erally admitted  that  their  different 
ways  of  dealing  with  subordinates  were 
not  such  as  to  inspire  a  happy  frame  of 
mind.  Certainly  they  did  not  in  Mc- 
Clellan. Yet  it  may  be  questioned 
whether  either  Stanton  or  Halleck  con- 
sidered the  general  an  object  of  per- 
sonal spite  or  quite  deserved  the  fierce 
abuse  which  he  showered  upon  them 
freely.  'Of  all  the  men  I  have  encoun- 
tered in  high  position  Halleck  was  the 
most  hopelessly  stupid.  It  was  more 
difficult  to  get  an  idea  through  his  head 
than  can  be  conceived  by  any  one  who 
never  made  the  attempt.'  And  to  Stan- 
ton,  'who  would  say  one  thing  to  a 
man's  face  and  just  the  reverse  behind 
his  back,'  was  addressed  probably  the 
most  impertinent  sentence  ever  written 
by  a  soldier  to  his  military  superior. 
'If  I  save  this  army  now,  I  tell  you 
plainly  that  I  owe  no  thanks  to  you  or 
to  any  other  persons  in  Washington. 
You  have  done  your  best  to  sacrifice 
this  army.' 

But  the  same  bitterness  was  mani- 
fested toward  men  much  less  deserving 
of  it  than  the  commander-in-chief  or 
the  secretary  of  war.  Few  of  the  North- 


ern generals  were  more  hardly  used  by 
Fortune  than  McDowell,  and  impartial 
judges  declare  him  to  have  been  a  sol- 
dier and  a  gentleman.  McClellan  tries 
to  treat  him  well,  but  finds  it  hopeless. 
'He  never  appreciated  my  motives,  and 
felt  no  gratitude  for  my  forbearance 
and  kindness.  ...  I  have  long  been 
convinced  that  he  intrigued  against  me 
to  the  utmost  of  his  power.'  Burnside, 
again,  was  McClellan's  devoted  friend 
and  admirer,  until,  apparently  against 
his  inclination,  he  allowed  himself  to 
be  forced  into  McClellan's  place.  This 
is  what  he  gets  for  it.  '  I  cannot,  from 
my  long  acquaintance  with  Burnside, 
believe  that  he  would  deliberately  lie, 
but  I  think  that  his  weak  mind  was 
turned;  that  he  was  confused  in  action; 
and  that  subsequently  he  really  did  not 
know  what  had  occurred  and  was  talked 
by  his  staff  into  any  belief  they  chose.' 
To  such  an  extent  can  a  sturdy  confi- 
dence in  self  poison  minds  of  a  really 
noble  and  magnanimous  strain. 


IV 

So  we  have  examined  carefully  Mc- 
Clellan's own  judgment  on  his  own  ca- 
reer and  achievements.  Now  let  us  see 
what  others  thought  of  them.  If  the 
discrepancy  at  times  is  startling,  we  can 
remember  the  remark  of  Lee  to  a  sub- 
ordinate who  was  trying  to  draw  him 
out  about  another  subordinate.  'All  I 
can  say  is,  if  that  is  your  opinion  of 

General ,  you  differ  very  widely 

from  the  general  himself.' 

Not  all  critics  agree  in  their  judg- 
ment, however,  in  this,  any  more  than 
in  other  cases.  McClellan  has  many 
admirers  who  speak  almost  as  enthusi- 
astically of  what  he  did  and  what  he 
might  have  done,  as  he  could.  The  less 
discreet  of  these  are  not  perhaps  always 
very  fortunate  in  their  commendation, 
exonerating  their  favorite  at  the  ex- 
pense of  others  whom  we  do  not  care 


GEORGE  B.   McCLELLAN 


515 


to  have  abused.  Thus,  George  William 
Curtis  asserts  that  *  from  the  President 
down,  through  the  various  ranks  of 
politicians  and  soldiers  by  whom  he 
was  surrounded,  all  knew  in  their 
hearts  that  the  only  reason  why  Mc- 
Clellan  had  failed  to  reach  Richmond, 
and  been  obliged  to  execute  his  flank 
movement  to  the  James,  was  because 
McDowell  had  been  arrested  by  ex- 
press orders  from  Washington  on  his 
march  to  effect  a  junction  with  Mc- 
Clellan's  right.'  And  Hillard  declares 
that '  General  McClellan's  communica- 
tions to  the  President  were  generally  in 
reply  to  inquiries  or  suggestions  from 
the  latter,  whose  restless  and  meddle- 
some spirit  was  constantly  moving  him 
to  ask  questions,  obtrude  advice,  and 
comment  on  military  matters,  which 
were  as  much  out  of  his  sphere  as  they 
were  beyond  his  comprehension.'- 

But  McClellan  has  defenders  of  more 
weight.  The  Comte  de  Paris,  influ- 
enced no  doubt  partly  by  social  rela- 
tions, but  clear-sighted  in  all  his  judg- 
ments, holds  decidedly  that  his  friend 
would  have  achieved  far  more  if  the 
government  had  not  thwarted  him. 
Lee,  a  generous  adversary,  declared 
with  emphasis  that  McClellan  was  the 
best  of  the  generals  to  whom  he  was  op- 
posed; and  an  impartial  judge  of  the 
highest  standing,  von  Moltke,  is  said 
to  have  remarked  that  if  the  American 
commander  had  been  supported  as  he 
should  have  been,  the  war  would  have 
ended  two  years  sooner  than  it  did. 
Best  of  all  friendly  judgments  are  the 
sober  and  discriminating  words  of 
Grant.  'It  has  always  seemed  to  me 
that  the  critics  of  McClellan  do  not 
consider  this  vast  and  cruel  responsi- 
bility -  -  the  war  a  new  thing  to  all  of  us, 
the  army  new,  everything  to  do  from 
the  outset,  with  a  restless  people  and 
Congress.  McClellan  was  a  young  man 
when  this  devolved  upon  him,  and  if 
he  did  not  succeed,  it  was  because  the 


conditions  of  success  were  so  trying. 
If  McClellan  had  gone  into  the  war 
as  Sherman,  Thomas,  or  Meade,  had 
fought  his  way  along  and  up,  I  have  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  he  would  not 
have  won  as  high  distinction  as  any  of 
us.' 

Even  those  who  are  inclined  to  find 
fault,  find  much  to  praise.  As  to  the 
general's  organizing  faculty  there  is 
but  one  verdict.  Only  genius  of  the 
highest  order  in  this  line  would  have 
made  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  the 
magnificent  instrument  which  others 
were  afterwards  to  use  so  effectively. 
Further,  both  Ropes  and  Henderson, 
though  feeling  that  McClellan  accom- 
plished much  less  than  he  should  have 
done  with  the  means  at  his  disposal, 
are  inclined  to  agree  with  him  in  the 
belief  that  he  was  unduly  hampered 
and  thwarted  by  the  Washington  au- 
thorities ;  and  Palfrey,  who,  beginning 
with  enthusiastic  admiration,  was  forced 
in  the  end  to  recognize  his  chieftain's 
many  faults,  yet  declares  that  *  there 
are  strong  grounds  for  believing  that 
he  was  the  best  commander  the  Army 
of  the  Potomac  ever  had,'  and  that  *a 
growing  familiarity  with  his  history  as 
a  soldier  increases  the  disposition  to  re- 
gard him  with  respect  and  gratitude, 
and  to  believe,  while  recognizing  the 
limitations  of  his  nature,  that  his  fail- 
ure to  accomplish  more  was  partly  his 
misfortune  and  not  altogether  his 
fault.5 

It  will  be  observed  that  most  of  the 
praise  is  in  the  form  of  apology  and 
lacks  entirely  the  trumpet  tone  with 
which  McClellan  proclaims  his  own 
feats  of  arms.  Much  of  the  criticism 
of  him  has  no  flavor  of  apology  what- 
ever. Nor  is  this  confined  to  the  later 
reflection  of  cool  military  judges.  At 
the  height  of  his  popularity,  when  the 
army  and  the  country  idolized  him, 
outsiders  like  the  grumbling  Gurowski 
refused  to  believe  in  his  gifts,  or  his 


516     . 


GEORGE  B.  McCLELLAN 


judgment,  or  his  future.  W.  H.  Rus- 
sell, meeting  him  in  September,  1861, 
foresaw,  with  singular  acuteness,  that 
he  was  not  a  man  of  action  or  not  likely 
to  act  quickly,  and  felt  that  he  dallied 
too  much  in  Washington,  instead  of  be- 
ing among  his  troops,  stimulating  them 
in  victory  and  consoling  or  reprimand- 
ing them  after  defeat. 

Among  the  general's  own  subordin- 
ates there  was  anything  but  a  concert 
of  enthusiasm  about  his  person  or  his 
achievements.  Fighters  like  Kearny 
and  Hooker  were  naturally  dissatisfied. 
The  latter  did  not  hesitate  to  express 
his  opinion  freely  at  all  times,  telling 
the  Committee  on  the  Conduct  of  the 
War  that  the  Peninsula  campaign  fail- 
ed simply  because  of  lack  of  general- 
ship in  the  commander.  While  Kearny 
wrote,  in  August,  1862,  'McClellan  is 
the  failure  I  ever  proclaimed  him.  He 
will  only  get  us  into  more  follies  — 
more  waste  of  blood — fighting  by  drib- 
lets. He  has  lost  the  confidence  of  all. 
.  .  .  He  is  burnt  out/  And  Meade,  a 
far  saner  and  more  reasonable  judge, 
expresses  himself  almost  as  strongly. 
'He  was  always  waiting  to  have  every- 
thing just  as  he  wanted  before  he  would 
attack,  and  before  he  could  get  things 
arranged  as  he  wanted  them  the  enemy 
pounced  on  him  and  thwarted  all  his 
plans.  There  is  now  no  doubt  he  al- 
lowed three  distinct  occasions  to  take 
Richmond  to  slip  through  his  hands, 
for  want  of  nerve  to  run  what  he  con- 
sidered risks.' 

This  contemporary  judgment  of 
Meade 's  may  be  said,  on  the  whole,  to 
anticipate  the  conclusion  of  nearly  all 
historians.  Some  dwell  more  than 
others  on  what  might  have  happened  if 
McClellan  had  met  with  fewer  difficul- 
ties; but  there  is  general  agreement 
that  the  result  of  his  efforts  is  as  disap- 
pointing when  viewed  now  calmly  in 
the  light  of  all  known  facts  as  it  was 
to  Lincoln  and  the  country  in  1862. 


Swinton,  certainly  no  personal  enemy 
of  McClellan,  sums  up  the  matter  in 
fairly  final  fashion.  'He  was  not  a  great 
general;  for  he  had  the  pedantry  of  war 
rather  than  the  inspiration  of  war.  .  .  . 
His  talent  as  a  tactician  was  much  in- 
ferior to  his  talent  as  a  strategist,  and 
he  executed  less  boldly  than  he  con- 
ceived/ 

So  we  recur  to  the  remark  of  Lee. 
'Well,  if  that  is  your  opinion  of  Gen- 
eral   ,  all  I  can  say  is  that  you  differ 

very  widely  from  the  general  himself/ 
For  what  is  of  interest  to  us  is  not  Mc- 
Clellan's generalship,  but  McClellan's 
character. 


Thus,  after  our  review  of  criticism 
and  hostile  judgments,  we  ask  our- 
selves, what  impression  did  all  this 
make  on  the  subject  of  it?  He  heard 
the  criticism.  He  was  well  aware  of  the 
judgments.  Did  they  produce  any  ef- 
fect on  him?  Did  he  say  to  himself, 
after  all,  I  may  be  mistaken;  after  all, 
I  may  have  blundered?  Did  he  have 
strange  doubts  and  tormenting  anxi- 
eties, as  to  whether,  possibly,  a  great 
opportunity  may  have  come  to  him  and 
he  may  not  have  been  equal  to  it?  I 
have  read  his  writings  carefully  and  I 
find  nothing  of  the  sort.  There  were 
moments  of  trouble,  as  when  Cox  noted 
that '  the  complacent  look  which  I  had 
seen  upon  McClellan's  countenance  on 
the  17th  [of  September]  .  .  .  had  dis- 
appeared. There  was  a  troubled  look 
instead/  There  were  moments  of  an- 
guish. 'Franklin  told  me  that  Mc- 
Clellan said  to  him,  as  they  followed 
Lander's  corpse,  that  he  almost  wished 
he  was  in  the  coffin  instead  of  Lander/ 
Moments  of  self-distrust  there  were 
not,  or  they  left  no  traces. 

It  is  true,  as  Mr.  Rhodes  points  out, 
that  with  adversity  McClellan's  let- 
ters, even  to  his  wife,  grew  somewhat 
humbler  and  less  assured;  yet  in  his 


GEORGE  B.   McCLELLAN 


517 


book,  written  twenty  years  later,  the 
tone  is  much  what  it  was  at  first.  It  is 
true  that  in  many  places  he  recognized 
generally  that  he  was  human  and  that 
humanity  is  always  liable  to  err.  He 
even  goes  so  far  as  to  admit  —  gener- 
ally—  that  *  while  striving  conscienti- 
ously to  do  my  best,  it  may  well  be  that 
I  have  made  great  mistakes  that  my 
vanity  does  not  permit  me  to  perceive.' 
But  as  to  particular  action  in  particular 
circumstances,  he  cannot  feel  anything 
but  thorough  contentment.  His  much- 
complained-of  delays  he  justifies  entire- 
ly. 'Nor  has  he  [the  general  is  using 
the  third  person],  even  at  this  distant 
day,  and  after  much  bitter  experience, 
any  regret  that  he  persisted  in  his  de- 
termination.' His  most  singular  error, 
that  as  to  the  numbers  of  the  enemy, 
was  probably  never  shaken,  to  the 
end.  In  short,  one  brief  sentence  sums 
up  his  complicated  character  in  this 
regard  with  delightful  completeness: 
'That  I  have  to  a  certain  extent  failed 
I  do  not  believe  to  be  my  fault,  though 
my  self-conceit  probably  blinds  me  to 
many  errors  that  others  see.' 

Not  satisfied  with  impugning  Mc- 
Clellan's  generalship,  his  enemies  went 
further  and  attacked  his  loyalty.  His 
known  dislike  of  radical  abolitionism, 
and  his  long-cherished  hope  that  the 
war  might  be  ended  with  little  blood- 
shed, constantly  suggested  charges  of 
indifference  to  Union  success.  It  was 
said  that  he  delayed  purposely.  It  was 
said  that  he  showed  traitorous  friendli- 
ness to  Southerners.  It  was  said  that 
he  did  not  wish  the  war  to  come  to  a  too 
speedy  close.  Lincoln  himself,  in  a  mo- 
ment of  despair  after  the  second  Bull 
Run,  said  to  a  member  of  his  house- 
hold, 'He  has  acted  badly  towards 
Pope;  he  really  wanted  him  to  fail.' 
And  the  sum  of  all  these  charges  is 
given  in  the  remarkable  scene  between 
President  and  general  which  has  been 
recorded  for  us  by  McClellan  himself. 


On  the  8th  of  March,  1862,  McClellan 
was  in  the  President's  office  and  Lin- 
coln intimated  in  very  plain  terms  that 
he  had  heard  many  rumors  to  the  ef- 
fect that  the  general  was  removing  the 
defenders  from  Washington  for  the 
purpose  of  giving  the  city  over  to  the 
enemy.  The  President  concluded  by 
saying  that  such  a  course  would  cer- 
tainly look  like  treason. 

Lincoln  must  have  been  deeply 
moved  indeed  when  he  took  such  a  step 
as  this,  and  no  one  can  blame  McClel- 
lan for  resenting  it  bitterly  and  de- 
manding an  instant  retraction,  for  we 
know,  as  well  as  he  did,  that  the  charge 
was  utterly  and  preposterously  false. 
Whatever  dispute  there  may  be  about 
McClellan's  generalship,  however  one 
may  question  the  wisdom  and  even  the 
propriety  of  his  conduct  toward  his 
superiors,  no  one  who  has  read  his  in- 
timate letters  can  doubt  for  a  moment 
that  he  was  thoroughly  and  sincerely 
patriotic,  desired  only  the  welfare  of 
his  country,  and  worked  in  the  very 
best  way  he  knew  for  the  complete  and 
speedy  restoration  of  the  Union.  His 
way  may  not  have  been  Lincoln's  way, 
may  not  have  been  the  best  way;  but 
such  as  it  was,  he  was  ready  to  give  his 
life  for  it.  'The  unity  of  this  nation, 
the  preservation  of  our  institutions,  are 
so  dear  to  me,  that  I  have  willingly  sac- 
rificed my  private  happiness  with  the 
single  object  of  doing  my  duty  to  my 
country.  When  the  task  is  accom- 
plished, I  shall  be  glad  to  return  to 
the  obscurity  from  which  events  have 
drawn  me.' 

vi . 

Such  words  have  been  written  by 
others,  not  always  with  entire  sincerity. 
But  the  whole  tenor  of  McClellan's  life 
bears  witness  to  his  truth  in  this  mat- 
ter. He  was  not  only  a  patriot,  he  was 
a  man  of  singular  purity  and  elevation 
of  character,  He  was  not  only  ready  to 


518 


GEORGE  B.  McCLELLAN 


talk  about  great  sacrifices,  he  was  ready 
to  do  what  is  far  harder,  make  little 
sacrifices  without  talking  about  them. 
Even  discounting  the  enthusiasm  of  a 
biographer,  we  must  recognize  the  force 
of  such  testimony  as  the  following : '  Of 
all  men  I  have  ever  known  McClellan 
was  the  most  unselfish.  Neither  in  his 
public  life  nor  in  his  private  life  did 
he  ever  seek  anything  for  himself.  He 
was  constantly  doing  something  for 
some  one  else;  always  seeking  to  do 
good,  confer  pleasure,  relieve  sorrow, 
gratify  a  whim,  do  something  for  an- 
other.' 

His  unfailing  courtesy  toward  high 
and  low  is  universally  recognized,  and 
it  was  not  the  courtesy  of  indifferent 
ease,  but  was  founded  on  genuine  sym- 
pathy, a  quick  imaginative  perception 
of  the  situation  of  others,  and  a  desire 
to  adapt  himself  to  that  situation  so  far 
as  was  compatible  with  greater  needs 
and  duties. 

In  short,  the  man's  life  throughout 
was  guided  by  fine  feelings  and  high 
ideals.  That,  as  a  candidate  for  the 
presidency  against  Lincoln,  in  1864,  he 
was  influenced  by  no  thought  of  per- 
sonal ambition  is  difficult  to  believe. 
If  so,  it  was  probably  the  first  and  the 
last  case  of  the  kind  in  the  history  of 
that  office,  Washington  perhaps  ex- 
cepted.  But  I  do  believe  that  McClel- 
lan sincerely  thought  that  the  country 
needed  him  and  his  political  convic- 
tions, and  that  he  would  never  have 
surrendered  one  jot  of  those  political 
convictions  for  political  success.  In 
his  later  years  he  became  governor  of 
New  Jersey,  and  in  that  office  so  car- 
ried himself  as  to  win  the  respect  and 
esteem  of  persons  of  all  parties.  A  com- 
petent and  impartial  critic  remarks 
that  'A  study  of  his  messages  and 
other  State  papers  will  show  that  the 
vital  questions  he  ever  held  in  mind 
were  those  connected  with  the  welfare 
of  the  people,  while  those  relating  to 


his  own  political  future  were  absolute- 
ly non-existent.' 

Also,  back  of  all  these  admirable 
qualities  was  a  religious  faith  as  simple 
as  it  was  sincere.  Russell  thought  the 
general's  extreme  anxiety  for  Sabbath 
observance  in  the  army  a  little  inap- 
propriate, if  not  a  little  puerile.  But  no 
one  can  call  puerile  the  high  ideal  of 
Christian  restraint  in  warfare  set  forth 
in  the  Harrison's  Landing  letter  to  the 
President.  *  All  private  property  taken 
for  military  use  should  be  paid  or  re- 
ceipted for;  pillage  and  waste  should  be 
treated  as  high  crimes;  all  unnecessary 
trespass  sternly  prohibited,  and  offen- 
sive demeanor  by  the  military  towards 
citizens  promptly  rebuked.' 

It  is  undeniable  that  Sherman,  work- 
ing on  the  'War  is  hell'  plan,  accom- 
plished more  immediate  results,  but 
there  were  after-effects,  also,  of  a  less 
desirable  character. 

The  charm  of  McClellan's  personal 
religion,  as  it  appears  casually  in  all  his 
writing,  is  very  great.  Perhaps  it  is  no- 
where greater  than  in  the  simple  and 
touching  letter  written  to  a  friend  in 
later  years. 

*I  fancy,  Sam,  that  we  will  never 
reach  that  land  where  it  is  all  after- 
noon in  any  ship  built  by  mortal  hands. 
Our  fate  is  to  work  and  still  to  work 
as  long  as  there  is  any  work  left  in 
us;  and  I  do  not  doubt  that  it  is  best, 
for  I  can't  help  thinking  that  when  we 
reach  that  other  and  far  better  land  we 
shall  still  have  work  to  do  through  the 
long  ages;  only  we  shall  then  see  as  we 
go  on  that  it  is  all  done  for  the  Master 
and  under  his  own  eye;  and  we  will  like 
it  and  never  grow  weary  of  it,  as  we  of- 
ten do  here  when  we  don't  see  clearly 
to  what  end  we  are  working,  and  our 
work  brings  us  in  contact  with  all  sorts 
of  men  and  things  not  pleasant  to  rub 
against.  I  suppose  that  the  more  we 
work  here,  the  better  we  shall  be  trained 
for  that  other  work  which  after  all  is 


GEORGE  B.   McCLELLAN 


519 


the  great  end  towards  which  we  move 
or  ought  to  be  moving.' 

These  are  winning  words ;  they  show 
a  winning  and  a  simple  soul,  the  soul 
of  one  who  was  assuredly  a  fine  type  of 
the  Christian  -  -  and  we  are  proud  to 
add,  of  the  American  —  gentleman. 

I  say  'winning*  advisedly;  for  as  yet 
I  have  dwelt  little  on  McClellan's  won- 
derful power  of  winning  men.  As  a 
fighter  he  may  have  failed.  As  a  lead- 
er, at  least  so  far  as  the  faculty  of  gain- 
ing absolute  devotion  goes,  he  assured- 
ly succeeded.  It  is  true  that  not  all  his 
officers  were  faithful  to  him.  In  his 
treatment  of  them  he  was  led  astray  by 
flattery  and  by  the  intoxicating  influ- 
ence of  his  overwhelming  position.  But 
his  power  over  the  common  soldier  of 
the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  even  after 
comparative  failure,  is  so  wonderful  as 
to  be  hard  to  believe  and  so  touching 
as  to  be  impossible  to  resist.  No  general 
in  the  war,  on  either  side,  unless  Beau- 
regard,  who  curiously  resembled  Mc- 
Clellan  in  many  ways,  evoked  such  in- 
stantaneous and  entire  enthusiasm. 

The  subtle  causes  of  this  would  be 
difficult  to  trace.  Perhaps  the  love  of 
popularity  counted  for  something;  but 
human  sympathy  and  kindness  assur- 
edly counted  for  much.  As  to  the  ef- 
fects there  can  be  no  dispute.  '  Let  mil- 
itary critics  or  political  enemies  say 
what  they  will,  he  who  could  so  move 
upon  the  hearts  of  a  great  army  as  the 
wind  sways  long  rows  of  standing  corn, 
was  no  ordinary  man/  writes  General 
Walker.  And  one  who  witnessed  the 
passionate  outburst  of  the  troops  when 
their  leader  was  temporarily  restored  to 
them  in  September,  1862,  describes  it 
in  a  way  never  to  be  forgotten.  'The 
climax  seemed  to  be  reached,  however, 
at  Middletown,  where  we  first  caught 
sight  of  the  enemy.  Here,  upon  our 


arrival,  we  found  General  McClellan 
sitting  on  his  horse  in  the  road.  ...  As 
each  organization  passed  the  general, 
the  men  became  apparently  forgetful 
of  everything  but  their  love  for  him. 
They  cheered  and  cheered  again,  until 
they  became  so  hoarse  they  could  cheer 
no  longer.  It  seemed  as  if  an  intermis- 
sion had  been  declared  in  order  that  a 
reception  might  be  tendered  to  the 
general-in-chief.  A  great  crowd  con- 
tinually surrounded  him,  and  the  most 
extravagant  demonstrations  were  in- 
dulged in.  Hundreds  even  hugged  the 
horse's  legs  and  caressed  his  head  and 
mane. 

'  While  the  troops  were  thus  surging 
by,  the  general  continually  pointed 
with  his  finger  to  the  gap  in  the  moun- 
tains through  which  our  path  lay.  It 
was  like  a  great  scene  in  a  play,  with 
the  roar  of  the  guns  for  an  accompani- 
ment. .  .  .  General  McClellan  may 
have  had  opponents  elsewhere;  he  had 
few,  if  any,  among  the  soldiers  whom 
he  commanded.' 

This  magnetic  power  over  the  hearts 
of  men  is  something  great  leaders  — 
Wellington,  for  instance  —  have  often 
lacked.  It  is  something  the  very  great- 
est leaders  must  have,  if  they  would  re- 
tain their  hold.  What  a  pity  that  Mc- 
Clellan, having  it  in  such  abundant 
measure,  should  not  have  been  able  to 
employ  it  for  his  purposes;  that  pos- 
sessing such  a  great  instrument,  he 
should  not  have  been  able  to  use  it  to 
great  ends.  He  himself  attributed  his 
failure  to  circumstances.  This  we  can- 
not do.  Others  have  wrung  fortune  out 
of  far  more  unfavorable  circumstances. 
Let  us  say,  rather,  that  he  was  a  man 
of  really  great  ability  given  an  oppor- 
tunity too  great  for  him.  As  an  able 
soldier,  a  true  patriot,  and  a  loyal  gen- 
tleman, he  did  what  he  could. 


RECENT  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  NOVEL-READER 


Is  there  any  efficient  substitute  for 
religion  in  character-building?  If  so, 
what  is  it? 

These  questions  have  more  to  do 
with  current  fiction  than  casually  ap- 
pears. For  the  upheaval  in  the  founda- 
tions of  faith  that  affected  many  people 
between  thirty  and  forty  years  ago  is 
just  beginning  to  show  its  appropriate 
results  in  literature.  Character-build- 
ing is  quite  as  interesting  and  even  more 
necessary  than  formerly,  but  it  is  not 
considered,  in  fiction  at  least,  so  direct- 
ly a  matter  of  divine  concern.  The 
struggling  soul,  like  a  drowning  man, 
clutches  at  this  and  at  that  for  support, 
at  times  laying  hold  of  things  fixed,  at 
times  of  things  floating. 

This  is  vividly  exemplified  in  three 
of  the  better  new  novels,  one  Ameri- 
can, one  English,  one,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  French:  Home  1  by  George 
Agnew  Chamberlain,  The  Business  of 
a  Gentleman  2  by  H.  N.  Dickenson,  and 
The  Making  of  an  Englishman  3  by 
W.  L.  George.  Attacking  the  problem 
from  standpoints  differing  as  the  na- 
tions differ,  these  three  books  furnish 
three  apparently  diverse  solutions  of 
the  ancient  question :  What  shall  a  man 
do  to  be  saved?  Each  writer  seems 
quite  unconscious  of  any  universal  so- 
lution to  this  problem,  which  each 
works  out  in  his  own  way. 

Says  the  author  of  Home,  in  sub- 
stance, '  Let  him  be  born  of  good  stock, 
preferably  the  old  stock  that  laid  the 

1  Home.   By  GEORGE  AGNEW  CHAMBERLAIN. 
New  York:  The  Century  Co. 

2  The  Business  of  a  Gentleman.    By  H.  N. 
DICKENSON.  New  York:  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 

3  The  Making  of  an  Englishman.    By  W.  L. 
GEORGE.    New  York:  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co. 

520 


foundations  of  our  nation;  let  him  be 
reared  in  an  old  home  in  the  country, 
one  of  those  homes  that  have  grown 
with  the  growth  of  generations  and 
fitted  themselves  to  the  habits  of  a  fam- 
ily. Then,  though  he  wanders  in  many 
a  far  country  and  lies  with  swine  and 
feeds  on  husks,  in  the  end  the  blood  of 
his  fathers  will  speak,  the  house  of  his 
fathers  will  call,  and  he  will  arise  and 
go  home,  saved  by  the  decencies  that 
were  bred  in  the  bone.' 

The  book  is  a  study  in  prodigals. 
Alan  Wayne  and  Gerry  Lansing,  whose 
stories  are  most  prominent,  are  sons  of 
the  Connecticut  Valley.  But  to  make 
the  application  broader  there  are 
others,  notably  an  embezzler  from 
Pennsylvania  and  a  cowboy  from  New, 
Mexico.  The  embezzler  builds  him  a 
palace  in  Pernambuco  which  he  fails  to 
enjoy  because  for  fifteen  years  he  has 
been  remembering  the  lay  of  the  wood- 
piles and  the  color  of  the  wallpapers  at 
his  father's  house.  The  cowboy,  who 
starts  out  to  look  for  the  *  pu'ple  cities ' 
that  are  the  haunts  of  dream,  takes  to 
orchid-hunting  and  learns  that  *  'cept- 
in'  in  a  man's  mind,  the'  ain't  no  pu'ple 
cities.  What  a  man's  got  to  find  ain't 
pu'ple  cities  but  the  power  to  see  one 
when  he's  got  it.'  'Home'  says  the  ex- 
iled embezzler,  struggling  with  that 
loneliness  which  seems  to  blot  out  one's 
very  being,  'is  the  anchor  of  a  man's 
soul.  I  want  to  go  Home.'  Wayne  and 
Lansing,  being  more  highly  sophistica- 
ted, do  not  phrase  the  conclusions  of 
their  bitter  wanderings  so  tersely,  but 
at  the  end  their  souls  drop  anchor  in 
the  desired  haven.  They  can  do  no  bet- 
ter than  to  be  what  their  fathers  were, 
and  dwell  where  they  also  dwelt. 


RECENT  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  NOVEL-READER 


521 


In  The  Business  of  a  Gentleman,  Sir 
Robert  Hilton,  better  known  as  *  Bob- 
by,' is  fully  saved  before  he  is  born, 
because  he  is  born  on  land  that  his 
ancestors  have  tilled  before  him  for  gen- 
erations, and  held  for  generations  as  a 
trust.  After  the  moderate  percentage 
of  Bobby's  income  necessary  to  pay 
his  taxes  and  keep  up  his  house  in  a 
comfort  adequate  to  the  dignity  of  the 
demesne  was  spent,  the  rest  of  it  went 
back  to  the  estate '  in  whatsoever  man- 
ner best  increased  the  amenity  and 
productivity  of  the  land  from  which 
all  drew  their  living  and  for  which  Bob- 
by was  responsible  to  his  own  honor/ 
His  grandfather  taught  him  that  he 
had  no  right  to  his  own  dinner  unless 
all  the  people  on  his  land  had  their  din- 
ners in  peace  and  comfort.  He  believes 
himself  responsible  for  his  own  people, 
and  the  author  believes  fully,  and  per- 
haps truly,  that  he  took  much  better 
care  of  them  than  they  could  take  care 
of  themselves. 

His  unformulated  creed  is  not  to 
flinch  from  the  strong,  or  trouble  the 
weak,  or  turn  from  a  dependent  or  a 
friend.  He  finds  it  creed  enough  to 
keep  him  busy,  especially  after  his 
wife  inherits  a  manufacturing  plant 
and  he  is  thereby  brought  into  direct 
contact  with  industrial  unrest,  riots, 
labor  agitation,  selfish  fomenters  of 
class-hatred,  and  social  theorizers  of 
all  kinds.  He  applies  the  old  principles 
to  the  new  problems  with  results  which 
are,  at  least,  better  than  those  obtained 
by  other  methods.  Perhaps  the  author 
is  not  wholly  fair  to  those  *  intellectu- 
als '  who  stick  a  finger  into  everybody's 
pie  in  the  name  of  social  justice.  Surely 
they  cannot  all  be  as  pestiferous  and 
desolating  as  Miss  Baker,  Mrs.  Hope, 
and  Mr.  Trevannion.  The  agitator- 
woman,  Miss  Baker,  tells  Bobby,  'If 
you  had  made  your  sacrifices  in  the 
days  of  the  great  Mr.  Cobden,  we 
should  have  had  no  Mr.  Cobden  then 


and  no  Socialists  to-day.  But  you 
missed  your  opportunity,  and  now  your 
class  has  rotted  and  you  will  keep  the 
sheep  no  more.  .  .  .  Ichabod,  your  king- 
dom has  passed  to  those  who  have  the 
brains  to  govern.' 

*  I  thought  the  kingdom  was  passing 
to  people  with  votes  who  have  n't  got 
brains  at  all,'  said  Bobby. 

'No —  it  is  passing  to  people  like 
myself.' 

All  of  which  is  entirely  true,  though 
generally  unobserved  as  yet. 

The  Making  of  a  Englishman  is  an 
extraordinary  and  brilliant  perform- 
ance, though  it  is  safe  to  say  there  are 
few  English  writers  who  would  care  to 
be  responsible  for  it.  Lucien  Cadoresse, 
the  hero  who  tells  his  own  story,  is 
a  French  lad,  son  of  a  shipbroker  of 
Bordeaux.  With  his  dawning  intelli- 
gence there  develops  in  him  a  passion- 
ate enthusiasm  for  England  and  the 
English.  After  military  service  Lucien 
becomes  a  clerk  in  the  London  house 
his  father  founded,  and  the  rest  of  the 
book  consists  in  the  reactions  of  Eng- 
land upon  a  vivacious  and  perfectly 
Gallic  mind  immensely  predisposed  in 
favor  of  that  country.  The  English  are 
power  and  order  to  this  youth;  they 
are  dignity,  reason,  restfulness ;  they  are 
sanity  and  generosity.  'You  are  the 
splendid  people  of  the  earth  for  me! '  he 
cries.  'You're  the  handsomest  race. 
You're  strong  and  yet  gentle.  You 
never  swerve  from  your  purpose.  You 
never  know  when  you're  beaten,  yet 
when  you're  beaten  you  take  it  well. 
You're  truthful,  honourable  —  I  want 
to  be  like  you! '  In  comparison,  his  own 
people  with  'their  perpetual  French 
talk 'seem  to  him  futile  marionettes. 

We  are  shown  the  whole  inner  life 
of  a  typical  temperament  conscious  of 
its  racial  defects  and  desiring  to  re- 
place them  by  the  weightier  virtues  of  a 
more  substantial  nation.  Lucien  be- 
gins with  hats,  boots,  neckties,  for  he 


522 


RECENT  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  NOVEL-READER 


would  resemble  his  Sacred  People  in  all 
things.  He  accepts  hints  from  Hugh 
Lawton,  who  is  Apollo  and  Galahad  in 
one.  Certain  things  '  are'not  done '  and 
Lucien  strives  to  leave  them  undone. 
He  too  will  be  *  silent,  self-reliant,  pur- 
poseful, in  brief,  Olympian.'  He  learns 
to  take  chaff  without  offering  a  duel; 
he  gets  a  glimmer  of  the  value  that  may 
be  set  upon  physical  purity  as  well  as 
cleanliness.  Hugh  Lawton  tells  him 
that  'a  man  can't  be  big  unless  he's 
straight.'  It  does  not  occur  to  Lucien, 
as  it  well  might,  to  correlate  this  with 
his  own  clear  perception  that  the  sensu- 
ous French  are  merely  revolutionaries, 
never  being  creative  save  in  art,  while 
the  English  are  fundamentally  con- 
structive. However,  he  perceives  that 
Hugh's  ideals  have  a  value,  'the  sam- 
urai began  to  struggle  with  the  volup- 
tuary in  his  heart'  and  sometimes  tri- 
umphed, for,  he  asked  himself,  'what's 
the  good  of  being  an  Englishman  un- 
less you  can  be  an  English  gentleman, 
too?' 

The  book  is  brilliant  because  it  is 
written  by  one  for  whom,  in  Gautier's 
well-worn  phrase,  the  visible  world  ex- 
ists. Everything  that  is  seen  at  all  is 
seen  with  immense  lucidity  and  de- 
scribed with  immense  vigor;  the  book  is 
also  extraordinary  because  it  actually 
does  set  forth  the  English  qualities  en- 
tirely from  the  outside.  This  keen  and 
perpetually  coruscating  perception  ap- 
plied to  an  alien  people,  strongly  sug- 
gests Taine.  Had  he  written  fiction 
instead  of  criticism  it  would  have  been 
silkier  and  more  suave,  indeed,  but 
otherwise  might  have  resembled  this. 

Lucien  is  a  clear-cut  personality, 
essentially  Gallic  throughout.  He  is  es- 
pecially so  in  dealing  with  his  intrigues, 
his  intimate  degradations,  when  he 
falls  into  the  gutter  after  he  is  rejected 
as  Edith  Lawton's  suitor.  The  English 
gutter  has  found  its  de  Maupassant  at 
last.  It  has  never  been  described,  an- 


alyzed, criticized  after  this  fashion. 
Simply,  'it  is  not  done'  in  English  fic- 
tion. Lucien  masters  the  problems  of 
English  neckties  and  hats,  English  busi- 
ness and  politics,  but  the  English  reti- 
cences will  remain  forever  a  sealed  book 
to  him,  —  yet  give  him  credit  for  what 
he  achieves.  To  Lucien  Cadoresse,  the 
man  who  would  be  saved  must  become 
an  English  gentleman.  Confessedly 
this  Lucien  has  no  religion,  no  ideals, 
and  few  principles  save  this  of  being  as 
good  an  Englishman  as  he  can;  but  be- 
cause he  holds  this  one  desire  with  pas- 
sion, it  does  work  out;  it  does  produce 
salvation  of  a  sort. 

I  said  that  these  three  books  furnish 
apparently  diverse  solutions  of  the 
problem  of  salvation  for  the  man  who 
has  no  religion.  But  careful  scrutiny 
shows  that  these  solutions  are  finally 
identical.  The  author  of  Home  throws 
his  characters  back  upon  their  good 
inheritance  for  rescue;  the  author  of 
The  Business  of  a  Gentleman  exhibits 
a  man  so  entirely  redeemed  by  ances- 
tral virtues  that  he  needs  no  further 
help;  the  author  of  The  Making  of  an 
Englishman  shows  a  youth  so  obsessed 
by  the  virtues  of  an  alien  race  that 
they  re-create  him.  All  derive  their  vir- 
tues from  those  stronger  ones  who  have 
gone  before.  But,  the  reader  asks,  what 
made  strong  those  Puritans  on  whose 
blood  the  Lansings  and  the  Waynes  of 
to-day  rely?  What  shaped  those  hon- 
est English  squires  who  were  Bobby 
Wilton's  forbears?  What,  finally,  gave 
the  English  people  such  ideals  of  chas- 
tity, endurance,  and  uprightness  that 
the  mere  contemplation  of  them  sows 
the  seeds  of  these  qualities  in  a  man  of 
different  race? 

Perhaps  it  would  be  still  more  to  the 
point  to  ask  —  for  how  many  genera- 
tions can  we  be  redeemed  by  dilutions 
of  our  fathers'  faith?  How  long  will 
salvation  by  legacy  endure?  Is  the 
modern  world,  which  boasts  of  having 


RECENT  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  NOVEL-READER 


523 


everything,  so  truly  poor  that  it  can 
work  out  no  salvation  of  its  own? 

Certainly  there  are  no  faintest  traces 
of  anything  like  salvation  in  such  a 
typically  modern  character  as  The 
Titan.1  In  this  book  Theodore  Dreiser 
pursues  the  history  of  Frank  Cowper- 
wood,  introduced  to  us  in  The  Finan- 
cier. The  latter  was  absorbing  and 
indubitably  great;  its  continuation  is 
neither.  One  does  not  make  out 
whether  this  is  partly  Mr.  Dreiser's 
fault,  or  wholly  that  of  his  hero.  The 
Financier  was  kinetic.  Cowperwood  de- 
veloped before  our  eyes  from  a  shrewd 
lad  into  a  financial  magician.  He 
rose,  then  fell,  melodramatically,  into 
prison,  only  to  rehabilitate  himself 
again.  The  author  scorned  the  element 
of  contrast,  and  gave  us  no  character 
to  admire  or  love,  but  he  took  infinite 
pains  to  show  the  zest  of  youth  and 
crescent  experience.  What  feeling  the 
book  contained  was  genuine  and  strong, 
though  lawless  and  primitive. 

The  Titan  is  static.  Here  Cowper- 
wood is  an  established  magnate,  an 
established  libertine.  He  but  adds 
million  to  million  and  seduction  to  se- 
duction. In  both  cases  the  details  are 
infinitely  dreary.  Like  taking  candy 
from  a  child  is  the  process  of  diverting 
other  men's  gains  to  his  own  purse, 
while  the  wives  and  daughters  of  his 
associates  are  such  easy  captives  of  his 
magnetism  that  it  becomes  nauseating. 
Were  there,  then,  no  virtuous  women 
or  able  men  in  Chicago?  As  Cowper- 
wood becomes  less  and  less  human, 
the  reader  becomes  more  and  more  im- 
patient. The  framework  of  the  story 
rises  to  an  appropriate  climax,  but  the 
reader's  imagination  refuses  to  rise  with 
it.  We  are  asked  to  believe  that  Cow- 
perwood at  fifty  conceives  so  disinter- 
ested a  passion  for  a  young  girl  that  he 
considers  her  an  objet  d'art  and  is  will- 

1  The  Titan.  By  THEODORE  DREISER.  London 
and  New  York:  John  Lane  Co. 


ing  to  house  and  provide  for  her  in- 
definitely as  such.  After  living  for  some 
years  upon  his  bounty  she  chooses  to 
come  to  him  with  the  offer  of  her  heart 
and  life  in  the  hour  when  he  has  just 
met  his  most  serious  financial  defeat. 

Here  is  sentiment,  not  to  say  senti- 
mentality. Probably  Balzac,  with  the 
French  genius  for  *  slush,'  could  have 
made  us  feel  the  situation  sympatheti- 
cally. But  Mr.  Dreiser  is  not  in  such 
thorough  accord  with  his  hero  as  to  be 
able  to  do  this.  He  knows  perfectly 
that  Cowperwood's  heart  has  by  this 
time  about  the  freshness  and  value  of  a 
sucked  orange-peel  kicking  about  the 
dusty  street,  and  he  knows  readers  do 
not  yield  sympathy  to  sucked  orange- 
peel.  Therefore  he  does  not,  perhaps 
cannot,  try  his  hardest  to  convince. 
What  he  tells  may  be  entirely  true  to 
fact,  but  it  also  fails  entirely  of  that 
deeper  reality  which  alone  holds  our  in- 
terest. So  we  come  back  to  the  query 
—  is  Cowperwood  or  Dreiser  to  blame? 

On  the  one  hand,  Cowperwood's  his- 
torian is  certainly  a  little  afraid  lest  he 
be  caught  moralizing,  or  deviating  from 
a  tolerant,  man-of-the-world  attitude 
toward  his  subject.  Now,  the  artist 
must  not  be  moralist  first  or  chiefly; 
nevertheless  a  failure  in  moral  percep- 
tion is  ultimately  a  failure  in  both  psy- 
chology and  art.  No  writer,  realist  or 
not,  can  afford  this. 

On  the  other  hand,  could  any  writer 
possibly  make  the  middle  age  of  a  Cow- 
perwood appetizing?  The  inner  life  of 
the  strong  man  who  takes  for  motto 
*/  satisfy  myself  lacks  that  element  of 
struggle  which  the  dullest  audience 
demands  in  its  drama.  How  make  a 
hero  of  a  monster?  Here  is  no  success 
other  than  the  success  of  a  gorged  ani- 
mal in  obtaining  its  prey.  However, 
The  Titan  is  only  the  second  volume 
of  a  proposed  trilogy.  It  is  too  soon  to 
speak  with  finality  either  of  Cowper- 
wood or  his  chronicler. 


524 


RECENT  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  NOVEL-READER 


Mr.  Dreiser  may  refuse  to  the  end 
to  draw  ethical  conclusions  —  it  is  his 
right  if  he  cannot  see  life  as  ethic  — 
but  there  are  others  more  clear-sighted, 
even  if  less  able  and  painstaking.  The 
author  of  Horace  Blake  1  does  not  lack 
spiritual  insight  and  acuteness,  and  her 
book  is  remarkable  in  that  it  presents 
a  thoroughly  bad  man  and  a  genuine 
religious  experience.  These  simple  phe- 
nomena, once  so  popular,  have  entirely 
lost  favor  of  late  years,  and  few  writers 
have  any  longer  the  courage  to  affirm 
or  the  skill  to  depict  them.  Mrs.  Hum- 
phry Ward's  first  success  was  based 
upon  her  able  handling  of  the  second 
element,  but  one  hardly  knows  where 
to  turn  for  satisfactory  rendition  of  the 
first.  In  Horace  Blake  Mrs.  Wilfrid 
Ward  courageously  assails  both  propo- 
sitions at  once,  with  a  success  the  more 
remarkable  because  the  workmanship 
of  the  book  does  not  always  escape 
mediocrity. 

Horace  Blake  is  a  dramatist  —  rear- 
ed in  the  Roman  Church.  Under  the 
influence  of  his  father-in-law,  a  high- 
minded,  well-balanced  materialist,  he 
frees  himself  not  only  from  his  early 
religion,  but  from  all  moral  or  even  de- 
cently human  restraints.  He  breaks  all 
laws,  blaspheming  as  he  breaks  them. 
The  reader  never  doubts  for  a  moment 
that  this  most  unpleasant  person  is  thor- 
oughly a  genius  and  thoroughly  bad. 

Through  it  all  his  wife  remains  de- 
voted and  loyal,  serving  his  genius,  in 
which  she  believes  fervently.  Facing 
death  at  last,  he  offers  her  the  final 
insult  by  going  away  to  die  without 
her,  and  takes  with  him  the  illegit- 
imate daughter  whom  Kate,  the  wife, 
has  brought  up  as  her  own.  She  had 
so  feared  the  influence  of  his  debased 
mind  and  character  upon  this  girl  that 
she  had,  long  before,  claimed  his  prom- 
ise to  let  his  child  entirely  alone.  How- 

1  Horace  Blake.  By  Mrs.  WILFRID  WARD. 
New  York:  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 


ever,  there  is  no  convention  she  will  not 
violate  for  his  sake;  so  Horace,  Trix, 
and  Roberts  the  nurse,  settle  them- 
selves in  Brittany,  where  Blake  with 
one  tremendous  effort  finishes  his  last 
and  most  sacrilegious  drama.  After  this 
comes  reaction, — physical  torture,  men- 
tal anguish  and,  finally,  strange  peace 
before  death  in  the  church  that  shaped 
his  early  years. 

This  may  sound  like  the  crude  outline 
of  a  Sunday-school  book,  but  the  tale 
itself  seems  invincibly  real.  Blake,  re- 
pentant, writes  commanding  his  wife 
to  burn  the  play  which  he  sent  her  to 
publish,  but  she,  believing  him  to  be 
mentally  weakened  and  played  upon 
by  priests,  pays  no  heed  to  the  order. 

Some  months  after  his  death  there  is 
sent  her  a  notebook  in  which  he  made 
entries  during  the  final  weeks  of  his 
life.  The  objective  account  of  his  con- 
version as  it  appeared  to  his  daughter, 
the  nurse,  and  the  cure,  was  perfectly 
convincing  of  its  kind,  but  these  few 
pages  where  the  keen  mind  analyzes 
itself  and  its  experiences,  rehearsing 
point  by  point  the  subconscious  prepa- 
ration it  underwent  for  the  final  mu- 
tation of  spirit,  constitute  a  wonderful 
piece  of  writing.  How  Mrs.  Ward  ar- 
rived at  it,  or  acquired  it,  one  can  only 
guess.  It  is  no  more  invented  than  any 
of  the  world's  great  confessions.  It  has 
the  ring  of  the  veritable  human  docu- 
ment. We  see  a  man  marshaling,  piece 
by  piece,  the  evidence  that  proves  to 
him  that  a  greater  Spirit  has  sought 
to  touch  and  salve  his  own.  This  is 
breathless  action,  this  is  drama,  if  you 
like! 

If  Mrs.  Ward  had  seen  the  other 
characters  as  clearly  as  she  saw  Horace 
Blake  and  Providence,  this  would  have 
been  one  of  the  religious  novels  that 
break  all  records.  For  the  reading 
world  is  not  weary  of  religious  experi- 
ences. Only  it  will  have  the  real  thing 
or  nothing.  And  small  blame  to  it! 


RECENT  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  NOVEL-READER 


525 


The  foregoing  are  distinctly  serious- 
minded  books,  and  there  are  yet  more 
of  them.  Reformers  all  are  the  authors 
of  The  Flying  Inn,1  The  Goldfish*  The 
Congresswoman*  Idle  Wives,*  Van- 
dover  and  the  Brute,5  and  even  What 
Will  People  Say.6  Each  assails  the 
thing  that  to  him  is  anathema  with  such 
wit  and  adroitness  as  his  brains  allow. 
One  is  bound  to  say  it  seems  a  good 
sign  that  a  third  of  these  books  are 
directed  against  unwise  reform.  If  you 
ever  sicken,  as  you  sometimes  must,  of 
national  prohibition,  woman  suffrage, 
Montessori,  vegetarians,  white  slavers, 
eugenics,  and  the  simple  life,  take  re- 
fuge in  Chesterton's  delicious  diatribe, 
The  Flying  Inn.  Shall  not  a  man  take 
his  ease  in  his  inn?  There  are  those,  it 
seems,  in  England,  who  would  abolish 
the  ancient  friendliness  of  that  institu- 
tion by  making  it  a  place  where  man 
may  no  longer  gossip  over  his  mug  of 
stout.  Chesterton's  quiver  is  full  of 
arrows.  Pseudo-Buddhists  (under  the 
thin  guise  of  Mohammedans)  and  vege- 
tarians receive  a  few  of  the  flying  shafts. 
G.  K.  C.  is  for  roast  beef  and  brown 
October  ale  forever.  As  usual  when 
he  argues,  he  talks  like  an  angel  from 
Heaven  and  an  imp  from  Hades;  he 
coos  and  roars,  chortles  and  cajoles,  ar- 
gues, storms,  laughs,  blasphemes.  Also, 
he  sings,  and  it  is  impossible  to  be  sad 
when  he  sings  such  drinking-songs  as 
that  ascribed  to  Noah  in  flood-time:  — 

I  don't  care  where  the  water  goes,  so  it  doesn't 
get  into  the  wine! 

The  problem  of  alcohol  is  more  acute 

The  Flying  Inn.    By  G.  K.  CHESTERTON. 
London  and  New  York:  John  Lane  Co. 

The  Goldfish.    New  York:  The  Century  Co. 
The  Congresswoman.    By  ISABEL  GORDON 
CURTIS.     Chicago:  Browne  &  Howell  Co. 

1  Idle  Wives.    By  JAMES    OPPENHEIM.  New 
York:  The  Century  Co. 

1  Vandover  and  the  Brute.  By  FRANK  NORRIS. 
New  York:  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 

s  What  Will  People  Say  ?  By  RUPERT  HUGHES. 
New  York:  Harper  &  Bros. 


in  our  own  country,  where  the  question 
is  one  of  entire  prohibition.  The  aver- 
age citizen  feels  confusedly  that  cock- 
tails tend  to  combativeness  and  high- 
balls to  a  red  nose;  he  has  read  John 
Barleycorn  and  Dr.  Williams  on  alco- 
hol and  efficiency.  But  he  also  knows 
how  lobster  Newburg  should  be  made 
and  has  experienced  the  inconvenience 
of  living  in  a  dry  town  and  smuggling 
in  the  family  invalid's  alcohol-rub  and 
the  brandy  for  the  mincemeat.  His 
attitude  may  not  seem  heroic  when  he 
says,  *  Well,  it 's  blamed  uncomfortable 
sometimes,  but  if  it 's  for  the  good  of  the 
race,  I'll  try  to  put  up  with  it.'  Yet 
this  and  no  other  is  the  attitude  that 
may  eventually  make  national  prohibi- 
tion possible.  This  meek  acceptance 
of  the  entire  elimination  of  alcohol  is 
perfectly  compatible  (so  illogical  are 
all  really  good  citizens)  with  glorying 
in  Chesterton's  raid  on  temperance 
sharps!  It  is  a  gallant  raid,  and  as  for 
the  raider  he  is  gorgeous  beyond  de- 
scription. While  G.  K.  C.  is  left  to  lit- 
erature and  humor  to  humanity,  this 
world  cannot  become  wholly  a  museum 
of  cranks  and  quacks. 

Its  gentle  humor  is  one  of  the  plea- 
sures of  The  Congresswoman,  a  pecu- 
liarly satisfying  story  of  woman  in  pub- 
lic life.  Cynthia  Pike,  who  succeeded 
in  going  to  Congress,  but  failed  both 
in  politics  and  home-making  while  in 
Washington,  returns  to  Oklahoma  to 
marry  a  man  who  ran  for  Congress  five 
times  without  success  but  has  the  in- 
comparable gift  of  making  any  old 
house  feel  like  home.  This  sane  and  di- 
verting tale  should  be  carefully  studied 
by  all  the  clubs  in  the  General  Feder- 
ation. 

There  is  no  humor  in  Vandover.  Writ- 
ten when  Frank  Norris  was  a  college 
boy,  it  is  little  more  than  a  medico- 
moral  treatise  of  the  school  of  Brieux. 
In  its  present  shape  it  is  too  mediocre 
to  be  efficient  or  interesting,  save  as 


526 


RECENT  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  NOVEL-READER 


showing  the  writer's  bent  from  the  be- 
ginning. 

Neither  is  Idle  Wives  humorous. 
There  are  strong  evidences  that  Mr. 
James  Oppenheim  has  a  perfectly  good 
talent  for  something,  but  it  does  not 
seem  to  be  novel-writing.  Yet  this  is 
a  clearer-cut  and  better-written  novel 
than  his  first.  The  'idle  wife'  deserts 
her  husband  and  family  to  do  rescue 
work  in  the  slums,  chiefly  because  she 
is  jealous  of  the  influence  of  the  nurs- 
ery governess  over  the  children.  There 
might  be  a  woman  so  foolish  as  to  dis- 
charge herself  from  her  own  job  under 
these  circumstances,  instead  of  ousting 
the  governess  and  caring  for  the  chil- 
dren herself;  it  is  conceivable  —  you 
can  imagine  anything  about  human 
nature  especially  when  you  aim  to 
reform  it  —  but  it  is  too  improbable 
to  make  good  reading  except  for  the 
artless. 

The  Goldfish  concerns  the  disadvan- 
tages of  wealth.  The  anonymous  au- 
thor says  he  is  a  New  York  lawyer  who 
finds  living  on  $70,000  a  year  impossi- 
ble, though  he  admits  that  more  than 
half  this  sum  adds  nothing  to  comfort. 
'The  economic  weakness  of  the  situa- 
tion lies  in  the  fact  that  a  boiled  egg 
only  costs  the  ordinary  citizen  ten  cents 
and  it  costs  me  its  weight  in  gold.*  The 
book  is  crammed  with  common  sense, 
though  one  may  politely  doubt  if  it  is 
autobiography.  For  one  thing,  by  the 
time  Midas,  or  near-Midas,  has  im- 
paired his  health  and  spirits  so  that  he 
finds  his  'only  genuine  satisfaction'  in 
the  first  flush  of  his  afternoon  cocktail 
and  the  preliminary  courses  of  his  din- 
ner, he  usually  becomes  inarticulate 
from  fatty  degeneration.  Autobio- 
graphy or  not,  the  book  presents 
squarely  the  fact  that  you  can  buy 
more  life  and  joy  for  seven  thousand  or 
less  than  for  seventy,  if  only  you  know 
how.  This  doctrine  is  not  exactly  new 
—  see  the  Greek  myth  of  Midas  and 


the  Hebrew  Proverbs  —  but  The  Gold- 
fish brings  it  down  to  date  with  vigor 
and  veracity.  It  ought  to  make  con- 
verts—  and  yet,  imagine  The  Goldfish 
preaching  to  The  Titan  !  Nothing  doing 
there,  one  knows! 

Mr.  Rupert  Hughes  as  a  reformer  is 
clever,  almost  diabolically  so.  His  book, 
What  Will  People  Say?  is  all  about  a 
popular  young  woman  who  refuses  to 
give  up  the  prospect  of  diamonds,  au- 
tomobiles, yachts,  at  the  call  of  love 
and  a  young  lieutenant  with '  two  thou- 
sand a  year,  and  forage.'  But  love 
proves  stronger  than  she  had  expected, 
and  the  degenerate  husband  whom  she 
married  for  money  is  ultimately  justi- 
fied in  killing  her  with  the  carving- 
knife  at  the  dinner-table.  Now  Mr. 
Hughes  is  in  earnest  as  a  preacher.  He 
believes  that  one  should  scorn  worldly 
considerations  in  marriage  and  mate  for 
love  when  love's  hour  strikes,  and  his 
sermon  is  forcible  and  up-to-the-min- 
ute. But  of  what  avail  is  it  to  preach  if 
the  tempted  do  not  listen?  Obviously 
none.  So  he  proceeds  to  rival  Robert 
Chambers  in  setting  forth  the  emo- 
tional possibilities  of  luxurious  philan- 
dering. As  he  is  really  sincere  in  his 
sermon,  he  'catches  them  coming  and 
going,'  as  the  vernacular  has  it.  For  the 
sternest  moralist  cannot  say  that  he  is 
not  in  earnest,  or  that  he  does  not  hit 
from  the  shoulder,  while  the  frivolous 
will  find  a  distinct  pleasure  in  having 
tango-teas  and  similar  amusements  of 
last  winter  so  fully  interpreted  to  them 
at  the  same  time  that  they  are  reading 
a  novel  with  a  moral  that  smarts. 

This  is  fighting  the  devil  with  fire. 
As  a  reformer,  Mr.  Hughes  doubtless 
settled  the  advisability  of  this  with 
his  conscience  before  he  began,  and  no 
one  who  has  noticed  the  type  of  inter- 
est aroused  by  What  Will  People  Say  ? 
will  aver  that  his  sermon  did  not  reach 
its  proper  audience.  Nevertheless  - 
the  author  is  obviously  capable  of  per- 


RECENT  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  NOVEL-READER 


527 


formances  so  much  finer  that  the  ju- 
dicious are  entitled  to  grieve  a  little 
over  this  one. 

Robert  Herrick  also  may  be  num- 
bered among  the  reformers.  If  he  did 
not  so  despise  so  many  imperfect  insti- 
tutions, -  -American  education,  private 
property,  and  human  nature  among 
them,  —  he  would  be  more  efficient. 
Nevertheless  Clark's  Field, 1  a  tale  of  un- 
considered  acres  on  a  city's  edge,  is  very 
good  work  indeed.  It  might  count  as 
the  author's  best  if  it  were  not  for  his 
perceptible  reluctance  to  be  interested 
in  the  fate  of  individuals.  Adelle  Clark, 
a  strong,  simple,  self-willed  character, 
overcomes  her  creator's  prejudices 
against  folks  long  enough  to  engage  our 
interest  in  her  salvation.  Clark's  Field 
saves  her  from  poverty;  unhappiness 
saves  her  from  riches  —  and  these  are 
the  great  salvations.  In  the  end,  like 
Bobby  Wilton,  she  gives  her  time  and 
her  money  to  *  those  who  live  upon  her 
land.'  One  hopes  that  Mr.  Herrick 
notices  how  strongly  his  story  implies 
that  only  the  individual  will  ever  really 
help  other  individuals. 

By  way  of  a  change  from  reformers, 
it  is  good  to  consider  The  Women  We 
Marry2  and  Burbury  Stoke.3  Mr.  Hop- 
kins's  pleasant,  leisurely  stories  have 
more  than  one  charm.  They  whimsi- 
cally persuade  the  reader  to  use  his  own 
imagination,  and  they  never  introduce 
him  to  any  one  who,  by  any  remote 
possibility,  can  need  reformation.  This 
latter  virtue  is  especially  grateful  after 
prolonged  saturation  in,  say,  The  Titan. 
To  feel  one's  self  in  a  world  where  the 
Titan  could  never  come  is,  for  the  hour, 
enough  of  happiness!  And  Mr.  Pier's 
characters  inhabit  the  same  world.  It 

L  Clark's  Field.  By  ROBERT  HERRICK.  Boston 
and  New  York:  Houghton  Mifflin  Co. 

The  Women  We  Marry.  By  ARTHUR  STAN- 
WOOD  PIER.  Boston  and  New  York:  Houghton 
Mifflin  Co. 

'  Burbury  Stoke.  By  WILLIAM  J.  HOPKINS. 
Boston  and  New  York:  Houghton  Mifflin  Co. 


is  true  that  the  *  women  we  marry '  do, 
superficially  and  gingerly,  lay  finger 
upon  the  same  temptation  that  brings 
Rupert  Hughes 's  heroine  to  the  carv- 
ing-knife, but  one  is  not  disturbed  for 
an  instant  by  this  approach  to  peril. 
Their  characters  so  attenuate  the  temp- 
tation that  it  is  powerless.  They  would 
be  hopelessly  out  of  it  in  any  kind  of 
misdoing,  and  will  never  be  guilty  of 
anything  so  alien.  They  are  well 
drawn,  with  the  faintly  humorous  af- 
fection that  suggests  Howells's  mastery 
of  the  same  attitude. 

The  Precipice 4  is  another  careful 
study  of  women,  this  time  of  very  mod- 
ern type.  Given  as  heroine  one  of  the 
dozen  women  of  a  generation  who  are 
doing  work  that  counts  for  social  bet- 
terment in  a  large  way;  given  as  hero 
a  man  with  work  of  his  own;  let  her 
work  lie  in  Washington  and  his  in  Col- 
orado, and  what  is  the  answer?  Shall 
the  woman,  as  heretofore,  follow  the 
man?  Mrs.  Peattie's  characters  are 
fine,  energetic,  human  people  who  need 
each  other  and  know  it;  therefore  they 
compromise.  Kate  will  put  the  'Bu- 
reau of  Children '  on  its  feet  at  one  side 
of  the  continent,  while  Karl,  unless  he 
gets  sent  to  Congress,  will  struggle  with 
mining  problems  in  the  Rockies.  They 
will  meet  when  they  can,  and  look  for- 
ward to  one  roof  and  fireside  when  their 
careers  admit.  With  this  decision  the 
story  ends,  but  it  needs  a  sequel,  for 
the  process  of  putting  such  a  comprom- 
ise through  would  surely  be  more  illum- 
inating than  the  process  of  reaching  it. 

Perhaps  our  readiness  to  accord  Kate 
and  Karl  the  importance  they  have  for 
themselves  is  due  to  the  writer's  skill 
in  handling  the  subsidiary  story  of 
Honora  Fulham,  an  adorable  girl  with 
a  clever  mind  who  marries  a  rising  bio- 
logist and  sinks  herself  in  his  work. 
They  live  in  the  laboratory  and  all  the 

4  The  Precipice.   By  ELIA  W.  PEATTIE.   Bos- 
ton and  New  York:  Houghton  Mifflin  Co. 


528 


RECENT  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  NOVEL-READER 


house  is  chilly  and  austere,  save  only 
the  nursery  where  a  competent  woman 
mothers  the  twins.  Honora  neglects 
clothes,  coquetries,  and  domestic  at- 
mosphere to  help  David  win  the  Nobel 
prize.  Comes  a  cousin  of  Honora's 
own  physical  type  who  does  not  over- 
look these  matters.  Presto!  Honora 
is  a  deserted  wife  and  David  an  exile. 
Honora  has  the  insight  to  see  and  the 
courage  to  say  that  it  is  all  her  own 
fault.  The  undeniable,  though  often 
denied,  fact  that  woman  is  man's  com- 
plement, not  his  supplement,  could  not 
be  shown  more  precisely.  Mrs.  Peattie 
holds  no  brief  for  or  against  the  mod- 
ern woman,  but  she  knows  that  some 
things  can,  and  some  cannot,  be  done. 
This  simple  fact  is  entirely  overlooked 
by  the  feminists. 

There  is  much  agreeable  matter  for 
those  who  would  take  their  reading 
more  lightly  still.  For  instance,  Booth 
Tarkington  has  'come  back.'  Penrod  l 
is  about  a  real  boy,  and  it  is  unremit- 
tingly funny  from  first  to  last.  For 
light-hearted  people  who  desire  to  re- 
main so,  it  is  perhaps  the  best  book  of 
the  summer. 

There  are  numerous  open-air  stories, 
and  you  can  choose  the  summer  climate 
that  suits  you  best.  The  Light  of  West- 
ern Stars  2  portrays  the  deathless  lure 
of  the  great  Southwest.  Overland  Red 3 
does  the  same  thing  for  the  eternal 
charm  of  California,  not  the  California 
of  towns  and  cities  and  smug  boule- 
vards, but  the  real  California  of  the 
ranches,  the  canyons,  the  hills.  Be- 
sides this,  Overland  is  a  'two-gun  man* 
scrapping  with  sheriffs  and  shooting  up 
towns.  Cross-Trails 4  has  to  do  with  a 

1  Penrod.  By  BOOTH  TARKINGTON.  New  York: 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 

2  The  Light  of  Western  Stars.  By  ZANE  GREY. 
New  York:  Harper  &  Bros. 

3  Overland  Red.  New  York  and  Boston:  Hough- 
ton  Mifflin  Co. 

4  Cross-Trails.  By  HERMAN  WHITAKER.  New 
York:  Harper  &  Bros. 


Hudson  Bay  Company's  logging-camp, 
and  The  Forester's  Daughter  5  dwells 
among  the  untrodden  ways  of  the  great 
Colorado  peaks.  The  author  of  North 
of  Fifty-Three*  is  haunted  by  the  free, 
unpeopled  spaces  of  British  Columbia. 
We  meet  improbable  folk  in  some  of 
these  tales,  but  they  all  breathe  oxygen, 
which  is  more  than  can  be  said  for  the 
characters  in  most  realistic  novels. 

There  is  something  about  oxygen  in 
the  atmosphere  that  makes  otherwise 
insignificant  books  acceptable.  Con- 
versely, the  work  of  the  wise  and  tal- 
ented is  often  spoiled  by  the  reader's 
consciousness  that  the  writer  has 
breathed  too  much  soot  and  smoke, 
and  walked  too  long  on  dull,  depressing 
streets.  Cities  may  stimulate  talent, 
but  they  no  longer  nourish  it.  Rather, 
they  poison  the  finer  perceptions  and 
check  creative  effort.  It  is  slightly 
aside  from  the  point,  but  I  know  a  man 
who  avers  that  if  all  editors  were  com- 
pelled by  law  to  sleep  in  pure  country 
air,  the  debasing  sensationalism  which 
has  tainted  all  but  the  staunchest  of 
American  magazines  in  the  last  two 
years  would  be  utterly  impossible. 

English  authors  are  especially  sub- 
ject to  city-dweller's  melancholia.  One 
suspects  that  many  of  them  make  the 
fatal  mistake  of  writing  in  London. 
Miss  Sinclair,  for  instance,  who  is  al- 
ways conscientious,  sincere,  and  highly 
intelligent,  is  of  late  depressing  with 
the  depression  born  of  too  many  ur- 
ban contacts.  The  Return  of  the  Prod- 
igal,7 her  new  book  of  short  stories,  is 
interesting,  for  Miss  Sinclair  could  not 
be  otherwise,  and  full  of  acute  percep- 
tions, for  the  same  reason;  but  it  is  far 
from  helping  one  to  feel  better  about 

6  The  Forester's  Daughter.    By  HAMLIN  GAR- 
LAND.    New  York:  Harper  &  Bros. 

6  North  of  Fifty-Three.     By  BERTRAND  W. 
SINCLAIR.     Boston:  Little,  Brown  &  Co. 

7  The  Return  of  the  Prodigal.    By  MAY  SIN- 
CLAIR.    New  York:  The  Macmillan  Co. 


RECENT  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  NOVEL-READER 


529 


life.  Uplift,  of  course,  is  not  what  we 
are  entitled  to  demand  of  those  who 
pleasantly  tickle  our  intellects,  but  cer- 
tainly we  have  the  right  to  ask  that  the 
mental  stimulus  they  give  shall  be  such 
that  we  forget  for  the  time  being  that 
we  have  other  needs.  The  best  work  of 
Henry  James  invariably  does  this  for 
the  entranced  reader,  and  most  of  Mrs. 
Whar ton's  short  stories  have  a  like 
power. 

A  perfect  short  story  must  be  so 
good  that  it  does  n't  matter  in  the  least 
what  it  is  about!  Miss  Sinclair's  pre- 
sent deficiency  in  this  magic  may  be 
partly  because  her  talent  needs  space, 
needs  room  in  which  to  turn,  a  thing  the 
short  story  does  not  provide,  but  one 
is  also  obstinately  sure  that  it  needs 
more  sun,  and  dew,  and  country  air. 
See  what  a  long  vacation  has  done  for 
Arnold  Bennett !  The  Price  of  Love l 
has  not  the  impressiveness  or  bulk  of 
the  Old  Wives'  Tale,  but  it  has  more  of 
the  zest  and  therefore  the  captivation 
of  that  book  than  anything  the  author 
has  since  produced. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  atmosphere 
of  The  Duchess  of  Wrexe  2  is  absolutely 
devitalized.  We  have  a  delirious  vision 
of  the  unfortunate  author,  like  a  mouse 
under  a  bell-glass  in  the  popular  exper- 
iment, spinning  and  gasping  for  air. 
He  has  conceived  the  big  idea  of  incar- 
nating the  Victorian  era  and  the  twen- 
tieth century  and  setting  them  to  hate 
one  another  in  his  pages.  In  order  to 
carry  this  out,  it  is  rather  necessary  to 
know  what  the  Victorian  era  was  and 
what  the  twentieth  century  is,  and  to 
vitalize  both.  With  all  respect  for 
Hugh  Walpole's  ambition  and  for  his 
talent,  he  has  not  succeeded  in  a  task 
at  which  better  men  might  well  fail. 
Such  a  book  needs  ten  years  of  brood- 

The  Price  of  Love.  By  ARNOLD  BENNETT. 
New  York:  Harper  &  Bros. 

The  Duchess  of  Wrexe.  By  HUGH  WALPOLE. 
New  York:  George  H.  Doran  Co. 

VOL.  114  -  NO.  4 


ing  study,  and  then  oxygen  —  and 
more  oxygen. 

An  idea  strikes  me  —  can  it  be  not 
so  much  London  smoke  as  the  shadow 
of  H.  G.  Wells  that  glooms  depressingly 
over  the  work  of  the  younger  English- 
men? Wells  is  gradually  working  his 
own  way  out  of  the  gray  cloud  that 
cloaked  so  much  of  his  earlier  work,  but 
it  still  lowers  over  his  pupils,  who  prob- 
ably admire  him  for  his  defects  —  as 
pupils  have  a  trick  of  doing.  Where- 
ever  in  a  young  writer  you  meet  men- 
tion of  the  'hinterland'  of  our  con- 
sciousness, or  much  talk  of  'muddle- 
headedness/  you  may  know  it  is  the 
brand  of  Wells  on  his  brain. 

Mr.  Gilbert  Cannan  is  another  more- 
than-promising  talent  quite  shrouded 
in  what  a  Celt  might  term  The  Gloom. 
But  about  his  work  there  is  a  definite 
maturity  and  independence  both  of 
conception  and  execution  that  forbids 
one  to  hope  that  he  will  cast  the  gray 
cloud  aside.  His  new  novel,  Old  Mole,* 
is  strikingly  conceived  and  very  clever- 
ly produced,  for  Mr.  Cannan's  ability 
to  write  is  unquestioned,  but  —  but  — • 
well,  it  will  never  find  any  man  where 
he  lives,  because  so  few  men  live  on  that 
street !  If  the  average  reader  finds  any- 
thing human  alien  to  him,  that  thing 
is  probably  the  inner  life  of  an  agnostic 
intellectuel.  The  audience  of  Old  Mole's 
story  not  only  will  not  be  very  large,  it 
will  not  be  very  enthusiastic.  The  book 
will  arouse  enthusiasm  only  in  other 
agnostic  intellectuels,  most  of  whom  are 
too  busy  writing  books  of  their  own  to 
care  much  for  this  careful,  competent 
study  of  one  of  themselves.  The  pre- 
sent critic's  feeling  about  this  admir- 
able piece  of  work  is  clearly  crude,  but 
comes  to  this :  Cannan's  characters  do 
not  live.  This  seems  to  be  because  they 
have  no  souls.  One  does  not  know  what 
the  author  can  do  about  the  matter. 

8  Old  Mole.  By  GILBERT  CANNAN.  New  York: 
D.  Appleton  &  Co. 


530 


RECENT  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  NOVEL-READER 


Probably  nothing,  as  he  obviously  sus- 
pects souls  of  being  a  Victorian  super- 
stition. But  they  are,  still,  a  necessary 
ingredient  in  compelling  fiction.  For 
there  is  a  deep-rooted  instinct  in  every 
reader  that  says  to  claimants  for  his 
attention,  *  If  you  are  n't  going  to  live 
to-morrow,  what  do  I  care  how  you 
behave  to-day?'  In  other  words,  the 
appetite  for  serious  fiction  is,  really, 
rooted  deep  in  a  conviction  of  the  fun- 
damental significance  and  permanence 
of  Man. 

If  Old  Mole's  hemoglobin  is  below 
seventy,  that  of  Joe  Munta  in  Storm  l 
is  one  hundred  plus.  He  once  runs 
amuck  for  more  than  an  hour  with  a 
hole  in  his  skull  the  size  of  a  half-dol- 
lar. The  picture  we  get  of  a  dark, 
troubled,  slow-moving  mind  poisoned 
by  a  rage  slowly  mounting  to  white 
fury,  is  a  little  diffused  but  very  im- 
pressive. 

The  theme  is  such  a  one  as  Joseph 
Conrad  used  to  delight  in.  Chance 2  in- 
dicates that  the  latter  is  now  choosing 
subjects  somewhat  closer  to  everyday 
life.  He  has  been  turning  out  admira- 
ble fiction  for  the  last  eighteen  years 
or  so,  and  is  only  now  coming  into  his 
reward.  Popularity  tarried,  because  at 
first  he  wrote  of  elemental  passions  and 
strange  lands  with  the  psychological 
acuteness  and  complex  style  of  Henry 
James.  People  who  wanted  adventure 
stories  shied  at  his  style  and  his  psy- 
chology; people  who  wanted  style  and 
psychology  shied  at  his  elemental  stage- 
settings,  supposing  them  appropriate 
backgrounds  for  melodrama  only.  But 
the  elect  read  him  and  rejoiced.  It  has 
just  occurred  to  his  publishers  to  adver- 
tise his  new  novel  inside  a  halo  of  quo- 
tations showing  what  the  elect  think 
of  him.  The  result  is  so  satisfactory 

1  Storm.   By  WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE.   New 
York:  Harper  &  Bros. 

2  Chance.    By  JOSEPH  CONRAD.    New  York: 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 


from  the  counting-room  standpoint, 
that  one  wonders  they  did  n't  think  of 
it  long  ago.  Lord  Jim  was  a  more  aston- 
ishing piece  of  work  than  Chance,  yet 
the  latter  is  subtle,  deft,  and  strong.  It 
also  takes  the  reader  into  the  novel- 
ist's laboratory  and  shows  him  how 
the  trick  is  turned.  The  myriad  acute 
deductions  from  a  few  observed  facts 
remind  one  of  the  sublimated  guess- 
work of  The  Sacred  Fount,  but  unlike 
that  masterpiece  of  intangibility,  they 
do  not  make  one's  head  swim.  The 
author's  place  is  high  among  the  half- 
dozen  novelists  of  the  era  who  offer 
intellectual  stimulus  rather  than  emo- 
tional relaxation. 

The  publication  of  Vain  Oblations,3 
Mrs.  Gerould's  first  collection  of  tales, 
marks  the  formal  entrance  into  our  lit- 
erature of  a  new  and  striking  talent. 
The  book  demonstrates  anew  the  ex- 
traordinary American  gift  for  the  short 
story  as  well  as  the  author's  personal 
facility  in  that  difficult  art.  Not  since 
Mrs.  Wharton's  first  appearance  in 
this  field  have  we  had  anything  so 
wholly  satisfactory.  Mrs.  Gerould's 
style  has  the  same  carefully  wrought 
complications,  all  tending  to  full  and 
final  illumination,  which  we  note  in 
Mrs.  Wharton.  That  is  to  say,  her  work 
belongs  to  the  school  of  Henry  James, 
but  it  has  great  precision,  definition, 
brilliancy.  The  brilliancy  of  Henry 
James  is  that  of  *  indirect  lighting,'  it  is 
diffused  and  mellow;  the  author  of 
Vain  Oblations  flashes  the  electric  lan- 
tern of  pointed  phrase  here  and  there 
upon  her  subject,  picking  out  its  sa- 
liencies  with  vivid  lightnings.  As  yet 
her  perceptions  are  largely  ironic.  One 
says  'as  yet '  because,  while  many  writ- 
ers begin  there,  few  of  the  first  order 
cease  their  explorations  of  the  universe 
in  that  particular  frame  of  mind. 

Mrs.  Gerould's  themes  range  from 

3  Vain  Oblations.  By  KATHARINE  F.  GEROULD. 
New  York:  Chas.  Scribner's  Sons. 


RECENT  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  NOVEL-READER 


531 


the  bitter  ironies  of  fate  to  the  hideous 
malignancies  of  warped  human  nature. 
Stripped  of  their  graces  of  style,  her 
themes  sound  melodramatic  enough. 
In  one,  a  woman,  hidden  and  remote, 
gloats  over  the  headlines  detailing  the 
trial  and  execution  of  her  hated  hus- 
band for  alleged  murder  of  herself.  In 
another,  a  man  who  romantically  mar- 
ries a  woman  that  he  may  assist  in  her 
pious  search  for  the  grave  of  a  fiance 
killed  in  an  African  expedition,  stum- 
bles upon  the  lover  still  alive,  just  as  the 
relations  between  his  wife  and  himself 
have  become  vital.  In  the  title-story, 
the  ironic  horror  is  too  great  to  handle 
in  any  sentence  of  description.  One 
might  say  that  jungles  obsess  Mrs. 
Gerould's  imagination:  the  actual  jun- 
gles of  Africa  with  their  terrors  for 
the  body;  the  unillumined  jungles  of 
Chance  with  their  fatal  pitfalls;  the  im- 
palpable jungles  of  the  spirit  where  the 
hideous  things  of  human  nature  lurk. 
Such  subjects  require  sanity  and  bal- 
ance in  handling,  and  these  our  new  art- 
ist has  in  such  large  measure  as  to  quiet 
all  apprehension  concerning  the  satis- 
factory evolution  of  her  talent.  She  has, 
if  she  so  wills  it,  come  to  stay. 

Another  new  writer  whose  work  has 
the  finer  and  more  lasting  qualities  is 
Miss  Margaret  Lynn.  A  Step-daughter 
of  the  Prairie 1  is  not  fiction.  It  is  bio- 
graphy touched  with  just  that  quality 
of  perception  which  transforms  the  per- 
sonal and  fleeting  into  the  universal 
and  enduring.  We  have  in  it  the  pic- 
ture of  a  prairie-child  who  despised  her 
familiar  prairies,  looking  elsewhere,  as 
children  will,  for  romance  and  interest. 
All  the  little  incidents  of  childhood, 
amusing  and  adequate  in  themselves, 
fit  into  the  development  of  her  final 
consciousness  of  her  life  as  springing 
from  the  prairie,  colored  by  it,  belong- 
ing to  it,  although  that  prairie  disap- 

1  A  Step-daughter  of  the  Prairie.  By  MARGARET 
LYNN.  New  York:  The  MacMillan  Co. 


pears  beneath  the  plough  and  exists  no 
more  forever  on  the  face  of  earth. 
This  is  the  way  Nature  makes  the 
child  her  own ;  this  is  why  the  country 
child  has  stamina  and  character  that 
the  city  child  will  always  lack.  Out  of 
her  own  early  experiences  Miss  Lynn 
develops  a  fundamental  race-truth  deli- 
cately and  delightfully.  It  is  not  an 
easy  thing  to  do. 

Merely  as  an  educational  measure,  is 
there  no  way  of  compelling  young  nov- 
elists to  read  one  another's  books?  It 
is  well  known  that  usually  they  have 
n't  the  time  and  don't  care  to  take  the 
trouble,  yet,  granted  a  certain  patience 
with  one  another,  they  could  thus  ac- 
cumulate really  priceless  information. 
Here,  for  instance,  is  a  heap  of  tales  - 
The  Milky  Way,2  Gray  Youth,3  The  Sal- 
amander,4 The  Masques  of  Love 5  — 
whose  writers  might  advantageously 
confer  together.  All  these  books  are 
about  what  used  to  be  called  in  the  mid- 
dle eighties  'the  revolting  daughters.' 
We  thought  we  knew  something  about 
them  then,  these  bachelor-maids,  these 
damsels-errant  who  scorn  domestic  du- 
ties and  set  forth  to  see  life  for  them- 
selves, like  their  brothers;  but  thirty 
years  ago  they  were  namby-pamby, 
unenterprising,  level-headed  creatures 
compared  with  their  sisters  of  to-day. 
At  that  time  no  publisher's  reader 
would  have  passed  favorably  upon  The 
Milky  Way,  not  because  the  heroine  is 
so  daring  but  because  she  is  so  foolish. 

Out  of  respect  for  that  much-writ- 
ten-about  object,  The  Child,  Miss  Viv 
Lovel,  wandering  artist,  picks  up  a 
stray  one,  casually, — in  a  boat-accident 
to  be  exact,  —  and  tucks  it  under  her 

2  The  Milky  Way.    By  F.  Tennyson  Jesse. 
New  York:  George  H.  Doran  Co. 

3  Gray  Youth.  By  OLIVER  ONIONS.  New  York: 
George  H.  Doran  Co. 

4  The    Salamander.      By    OWEN    JOHNSON. 
Indianapolis:  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Co. 

5  The  Masques  of  Love.    By  MARGARITA  SPAL- 
DING  GERRY.  New  York:  Harper  &  Bros. 


532 


RECENT  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  NOVEL-READER 


arm  as  she  travels.  In  the  same  casual 
way  she  annexes  a  'pal'  named  Peter 
Whymperis,  and  a  half-witted  maid. 
The  maid  is  necessary  because  as  '  Viv ' 
must  wander  hand-in-hand  through 
Provence  with  the '  pal/  making  sketch- 
es for  a  book  he  is  to  write,  some  one 
must  occasionally  wash  the  adopted 
baby's  face.  The  half-wittedness  is 
equally  necessary,  as  an  ordinary  in- 
telligence would  find  itself  painfully 
out  of  place  among  these  light-hearted 
reformers  —  for  they  are  all  social  the- 
orizers  of  course. 

Now,  if  Miss  Tennyson  Jesse  could 
have  read  Gray  Youth  before  writing 
The  Milky  Way,  she  might  even  have 
left  it  unwritten.  Oliver  Onions  knows 
a  surprising  number  of  things  that  are 
really  true,  none  of  which  have  yet  oc- 
curred to  this  very,  very  young  great- 
grand-niece  of  Tennyson  —  to  whom 
be  dreamless  peace  in  his  deep  grave! 
For  instance,  he  knows  that  people 
who  talk  too  much,  especially  art-stud- 
ents, '  end  by  not  knowing  a  word  they 
have  been  saying,'  and  by  becoming 
unable  to  do  any  work  worth  mention- 
ing; 'word-sodden'  is  the  way  he  de- 
scribes this  alarming  and  rather  pre- 
valent condition. 

Perhaps  also  if  Owen  Johnson  had 
read  The  Masques  of  Love  before  writ- 
ing The  Salamander,  he  might  have  re- 
alized, for  he  is  quick  and  clever,  that 
he  was  not  representing  the  heroine  of 
that  sensational  story  as  she  saw  her- 
self, even  when  intending  to  give  her 
point  of  view.  The  two  books  present, 
one  a  masculine  and  one  a  feminine 
view  of  a  girl  who  seeks  to  go  on  the 
stage  because  she  wants  to  'taste  life.' 
Mr.  Johnson,  while  admitting  in  his 
title  and  his  preface  that  his  heroine 
goes  through  fire  unscathed,  concen- 
trates upon  the  fire,  how  hot  and  how 
red  it  is,  how  nearly  it  scorched  her  and 
how  passing  wonderful  it  is  that  she 
emerges,  like  the  three  Children  of 


Israel  from  the  fiery  furnace,  with  no 
smell  of  smoke  upon  her  garments.  The 
author  of  The  Masques  of  Love  has  very 
little  to  say  about  the  fire.  She  gives  a 
pleasant  story  of  a  nice  girl  who  gets 
some  hard  knocks  and  a  good  deal  of 
enlightenment,  but  it  remains  a  pleas- 
ant story  of  a  nice  girl  throughout.  In 
tasting  life  she  takes  only  ladylike 
bites,  though  her  behavior  at  times  is 
rather  unconventional.  In  comparison 
Mr.  Johnson's  Dore  seems  to  gobble 
and  choke.  And  yet  one  suspects  that 
if  a  real  Dore  told  her  own  story  in- 
stead of  having  it  told  for  her  by  an 
outsider,  a  mere  man,  she  would  not 
represent  herself  as  a  sensational  Sal- 
amander, but  rather  as  a  twin  to  the 
heroine  of  The  Masques  of  Love.  For  it 
is  precisely  because  she  sees  herself  as 
a  nice  girl  that  any  Salamander  walks 
through  furnaces  unscathed.  That  is 
the  amulet,  that  is  the  shield.  So  long 
as  the  nice  girl  cannot  see  herself  other- 
wise, she  cannot  be  otherwise,  and  it  is 
greatly  to  be  hoped  that  she  will  retain 
that  vision  through  all  her  scorching 
experiments. 

People  who  know  what  they  think 
about  the  world  may  excuse  themselves 
from  reading  any  of  these  tales;  people 
who  don't  know  what  they  think  may 
be  helped  to  illumination  by  Gray 
Youth.  Mr.  Onions  is  not  only  the 
cleverest,  he  is  also  quite  the  most  ad- 
vanced of  the  younger  English  novel- 
ists. He  sees  that  the  next  step  forward 
is  a  long  step  back.  For  most  talk 
is  futile,  and  most  theories  are  trash. 
The  Conventions,  and  Duty,  and  Good- 
ness, all  those  Victorian  notions,  are 
due  to  come  in  again.  They  will  short- 
ly be  the  mode  in  moralities,  the  very 
latest  thing.  If  there  were  no  other 
reason,  — but  the  author  of  Gray  Youth 
knows  all  the  reasons,  —  they  are  abso- 
lutely essential  to  a  colorful  and  inter- 
esting life,  and  youth  without  them  is 
drab  indeed. 


LIFE'S  NON-SEQUITURS 


BY   LUCY   ELLIOT   KEELER 


THAT  afternoon  over  the  teacups  we 
talked  of  the  first  foreign  phrases  which 
had  imposed  upon  our  vernacular,  and 
an  amusingly  incongruous  assortment 
was  let  loose.  Only  a  few,  we  felt,  were 
authentic,  most  of  them  being  offered 
because  of  lack  of  time  to  recall  the  ac- 
tual from  the  misty  deep.  The  je  vous 
aime  of  our  first  valentines,  family  and 
school  mottoes,  some  phrase  mother  or 
nurse  had  sung,  were  however,  inter- 
rupted by  one  given  in  no  uncertain  in- 
flection, — '  Non-sequitur.9 

'It  does  not  follow!'  we  translated  in 
chorus. 

*  Does  n't  it ! '  was  the  speaker's  re- 
tort. 'Try  it  and  see!' 

She  had  risen  and  pulled  on  her 
gloves  as  she  launched  that  laughing 
challenge,  and  would  neither  expatiate 
nor  be  detained;  and  by  a  curious  turn 
of  fate  none  of  us  ever  saw  her  again. 
It  followed  as  the  night  the  day  that  as 
the  phrase  had  (as  we  afterward  found) 
punctuated  and  influenced  her  whole 
life,  so  it  could  not  fail  in  some  small 
way  to  sway  ours.  My  own  vocations 
had  more  and  more  drifted  into  the  gen- 
tle and  devious  streams  of  inconse- 
quence, but  now  I  deliberately  sent  my 
thoughts  questing  into  quiet  pools  of 
literature  and  sparkling  eddies  of  con- 
versation, over  the  shallows  of  the  mere- 
ly ridiculous,  down  the  foaming  rapids 
of  life,  trusting  for  an  outlook  at  last 
over  the  ultimate  sea.  You  must  there- 
fore bear  with  me  (a  pretty  non-se- 
quitur!),  with  me  and  my  vade  mecum, 
for  it  is  not  paradoxical  to  claim  that 
what  did  not  follow  might  cannily  ac- 


company me.    So  would  have  borne 
with  me  the  good  New  England  woman 
who  was  heard  to  thank  her  Creator 
for  placing  all  the  great  rivers  beside 
the  great  towns;  so  would  the  sympa- 
thetic soul  who,  hearing  of  a  man  hav- 
ing the  small-pox  twice  and  dying  of  it, 
begged  to  know  if  he  died  the  first  time 
or   the   second;    so   would   Wackford 
Squeers,  whose  injured  legs  prevented 
his  holding  a  pen;  so  would  the  curate 
whose  voice  was  so  thin  that  it  was 
good  only  to  read  fine  print;  so  would 
the  man  who  got  into  the  theatre  with- 
out a  ticket  by  the  simple  process  of 
walking  backward,   which   made   the 
ticket-taker  believe  he  was  going  out. 
The  non-sequitur  that  I  know  my- 
self, —  so  inevitably  does  it  follow  that 
the  phrase  becomes  a  substantive,  - 
admits  only  a  collateral  kinship  with 
the  muddle-headed.  I  may  not  act  ac- 
cording to  logical  sequence  or  the  law 
of  reason;  I  may  defy  the  reasonable 
inference;  I  may  be,  I  certainly  am, 
illogical,  unreasonable,   inconsequent, 
irrelevant;  but  I  have  no  doubt  in  my 
own  mind  that  I  shall  arrive.  This  the 
muddle-headed   person   seldom   does. 
Instance  the  woman  who  pitied  the 
people  living  before  the  Christian  era 
because   of    the   inconvenience    they 
must  have  had  in   being  obliged   to 
count  the  years  backward.    The  dis- 
tinction is  fine,  I  admit,  and  beg  Ste- 
venson to  help  me:  'How  I  arrived  at 
his  conclusion  I  do  not  know.   A  man 
with  a  cold  in  his  head  does  not  neces- 
sarily know  a  rat-catcher.'   The  open- 
ing words  show  that  Stevenson    got 

533 


534 


LIFE'S  NON-SEQUITURS 


there.  Little  Tommy  was  not  muddle- 
headed  when  he  said  that  if  the  fire 
alarm  had  struck  four  the  fire  would 
have  been  in  his  district.  He  went  to 
the  crux  of  the  matter  as  directly  as  did 
Mrs.  Carlyle  when  she  declared  that 
Frederick  the  Great  was  a  terrible  piece 
of  work  and  she  wished  that  Frederick 
had  died  when  a  baby. 

I  brush,  in  passing,  a  third  class,  far 
too  clever  to  be  dubbed  muddle-head- 
ed, far  too  forthcoming  to  be  non-fol- 
lowers, —  unless  by  their  superlative 
quality  of  non-sequiturness  they  lead 
the  procession,  like  many  another  lead- 
er, from  the  rear.  This  class  expresses 
the  opposite  of  what  it  says.  Bergson 
cites  one  instance:  ' My  dear  boy,  gam- 
bling on  'Change  is  very  risky,  you  win 
one  day  and  lose  the  next/  —  'Well 
then,  I  '11  gamble  only  every  other  day/ 
Variations  which  occur  on  every  comic 
page  include  the  man  who  being  as- 
sured that  with  a  certain  kind  of  stove 
he  could  save  half  his  fuel,  decided  to 
buy  two  stoves  and  save  it  all.  The 
expressions  of  defeat  on  the  face  of  the 
father  and  of  the  stove  merchant  testi- 
fy that  the  respondents  were  not  of  the 
inimitably  inane.  The  incursion  of 
these  actors  into  this  leafy  maze  thrusts 
home  upon  me  the  fact  that  the  non-se- 
quitur  is  no  passive  but  an  active  non- 
follower.  Sidney  Lanier,  exasperated 
by  the  strange  methods  of  a  brother 
poet,  said  that  as  far  as  he  could  make 
out,  'Walt  Whitman's  argument  on 
Democracy  was  that  because  a  prairie 
is  wide  therefore  debauchery  is  admir- 
able; and  because  the  Mississippi  is 
long  therefore  every  man  is  God/  A 
clear  conviction  of  what  to  avoid  neces- 
sarily influences  the  wanderings  of  even 
the  most  unarriving  non-sequitur. 

The  twentieth  century  is  responsible 
for  the  rise  of  many  a  vagary,  but  the 
quality  of  non-sequiturability  is  not 
one  of  them.  Eighteen  centuries  ago 
Seneca  wrote, '  There  are  inconsequen- 


tial studies  as  well  as  inconsequential 
men.  Didymus  wrote  four  thousand 
books  wherein  he  is  much  concerned 
to  discover  where  Homer  was  born ;  and 
some  people  are  very  anxious  to  know 
how  many  oars  Ulysses  had.  Am  I  the 
more  just,  moderate,  valiant  or  liberal 
for  knowing  that  Dentatus  was  the  first 
man  who  carried  elephants  in  proces- 
sion?' Juvenal  laughed  at  those  who 
affect  the  principles  of  the  Curii  and 
live  like  Bacchanals.  They  have  their 
counterparts,  however,  in  the  French 
of  to-day  who,  Holland  assures  us,  are 
too  clever  to  bring  their  literature  into 
practice.  *  These  Diderots  are  in  pri- 
vate life  honest  citizens/  Many  of  us 
know  women  of  the  hour  whose  ruth- 
less feminist  theories  combine,  in  Con- 
rad's happy  phrase,  with  a  blameless 
conventionality  in  domestic  practice. 
One  of  the  most  remarkable  non-sequi- 
turs  in  history  is  the  case  of  Nietzsche, 
who  denied  our  present  moral  values,  or 
at  least  traced  them  to  sources  hitherto 
unsuspected,  and  yet  himself  fulfilled 
all  the  loftiest  demands  made  by  the 
morality  now  preached  among  us. 

*  What!  You  a  hare  and  hunting  for 
game?'  runs  the  old  Latin  proverb. 
Decidedly,  yes.  I  have  come,  like  my 
friend  over  the  tea-cups,  to  watch  eag- 
erly for  this  subtle  something  'which 
does  not  follow,'  never  quite  content 
till  it  appears  and  can  be  used  as  a  con- 
servative working  factor  in  the  sub- 
sequent proposition.  When  I  catch 
Shakespeare  nodding,  —  why,  —  that 
proves  it  is  Shakespeare  and  not  some 
smaller  artist  racked  with  the  insomnia 
of  omniscience.  When  I  see  the  histo- 
rian lingering  intently  over  events  and 
characters  which  are  only  supposed  to 
have  happened  or  wrought,  I  know 
that  with  a  seer's  eye  he  has  discovered 
what  has  influenced  and  will  truly  influ- 
ence men  and  nations.  When  I  begin 
Montaigne's  essay  on  Lame  People, 
and  find  it  a  dissertation  on  miracles, 


LIFE'S  NON-SEQUITURS 


535 


I  am  diverted  but  not  surprised.  When 
I  see  parents  seeking  for  their  daugh- 
ters the  best  educational  advantages 
and  then  launching  them  no  less  eager- 
ly into  a  life  that  discounts  intellect- 
ual endeavor,  the  contented  heart 
and  clear-eyed  perception  of  values;  or 
when  I  hear  fathers '  citing  Polonius  to 
their  sons  and  calling  it  Shakespeare,' 
I  am  surprised  but  not  diverted. 

Rabindranath  Tagore,  after  hours  of 
brooding  and  remembering  that  his 
life  had  once  a  different  shape,  said: 
'Many  an  hour  have  I  spent  in  the 
strife  of  the  good  and  the  evil,  but 
now  it  is  the  pleasure  of  my  Playmate 
of  the  empty  days  to  draw  my  heart 
on  to  him,  and  I  know  not  why  is  this 
sudden  call  to  what  useless  inconse- 
quence,' —  and  from  his  wisdom,  in 
my  most  perplexed  moments,  I  take 
heart  of  expectancy. 

The  current  idea  of  evolution  is  that 
it  has  taken  place  not  continuously  but 
by  jumps.  Many  of  us  attained  our 
stature  so  —  for  years  just  up  to  mo- 
ther's shoulder  and  then,  in  a  few 
months,  above  her.  The  salvation  of 
children  is  that  parents  cannot  make 
of  them  just  what  they  wish  ('another 
you  ?  oh,  no :  one  is  enough ! ') .  Our  most 
valuable  chemicals  are  the  unexpected 
combinations  and  residuums  of  the 
experimenter;  our  finest  hybrid  plants 
the  sport-work  of  bees  and  humming 
birds. 

Chicago  promotes  a  great  drainage 
canal  to  rid  itself  of  noxious  sewage; 
then  suddenly  the  scientist  says,  *  Give 
me  this  sewage,  and  I  will  return 
you  yearly  the  superior  milk  of  a  hun- 
dred thousand  cows.'  But  the  ante- 
cedents of  the  two  conclusions  were 
the  same,  -  -  the  desire  for  the  health 
and  wealth  of  the  city  community.  Is 
the  soot  wasting  from  a  million  chim- 
neys the  sequitur  or  the  non-sequitur 
of  commercial  conservation?  Perhaps 
every  proposition  has  two  legitimate 


conclusions  which  nevertheless  contra- 
dict each  other.  That  two  and  two 
make  four  is  undisputed  till  some  child 
puts  her  block  figures  side  by  side  and 
proves  to  us  that  the  result  is  twenty- 
two.  When  some  one  in  Parliament 
sneered  at  Goethe's  statement  that  the 
beautiful  is  higher  than  the  good,  John 
Stuart  Mill  broke  the  silence  to  offer 
his  own  interpretation  that  the  beauti- 
ful is  the  good  made  perfect.  It  was 
he  who  begged  us  to  be  indulgent  to 
the  one-eyed :  the  votary  of  life's  little 
non-sequiturs  claims  the  same  indul- 
gence for  even  the  two-eyed  who  see 
double. 

If  the  years  teach  us  any  one  lesson 
more  than  another,  it  is  that  we  must 
not  be  dogmatic  about  results.  We 
cannot  say  with  impunity  *  do  this  and 
that  will  follow:  here  is  the  theory, 
there  the  life,  hence'  —  we  laugh  and 
turn  away.  'What!  is  it  done?'  the 
much-belated  wife  of  the  minister  ask- 
ed him  at  the  church  door.  'No,  my 
dear,  it  is  said:  it  remains  to  be  done.' 
Evolution,  said  and  done,  is  gainsaid, 
yet  ever  doing.  Inevitable  old  age  is 
itself  but  a  kind  of  non-sequitur  in  that 
it  so  often  assumes  a  new  and  charm- 
ing attitude  toward  the  facts  and  pro- 
blems and  solutions  of  life. 

We  cannot  confine  so  elusive  a  thing 
as  a  non-sequitur  to  a  formula.  There 
is  one  glory  of  the  sun  and  another  glory 
of  the  moon;  there  is  one  season  of  the 
northern  hemisphere  and  another  of  the 
southern.  It  is  a  provision  of  nature 
for  leaves  to  fall,  platitudinizes  the  oak; 
the  pine  tosses  its  head  and  laughs 
aloud.  Sleep,  we  say,  is  a  natural  thing. 
Some  one  has  asked  us  to  contemplate 
the  consternation  of  a  visitant  from  a 
sleepless  sphere  at  seeing  the  whole 
world  lie  down  dead  for  a  third  of  its 
time.  A  young  wife  in  China  writes  me 
that  native  Christians  who  saw  her  hus- 
band kiss  her  before  a  brief  separation, 
gave  the  matter  prayerful  consideration 


536 


LIFE'S  NON-SEQUITURS 


and  finally  begged  him,  for  the  sake  of 
the  cause,  to  desist  from  such  practice, 
for  *  if  he  does  it  to  his  wife  what  would 
he  not  do  to  other  women! '  — the  only 
possible  sequitur  from  the  Oriental 
point  of  view. 

Livingstone  led  some  natives  of  the 
interior  of  Africa  on  a  toilsome  march 
to  the  sea.  When  they  came  in  sight 
of  the  ocean  the  men  fell  on  their 
faces  to  the  ground.  *  We  were  march- 
ing along  with  our  father,'  they  re- 
ported afterward  to  their  people,  'be- 
lieving what  the  ancients  had  told  us, 
that  the  world  had  no  end.  Then  all 
at  once  the  world  said  to  us,  '  *  I  am 
finished:  there  is  no  more  of  me."  In 
such  unsophisticated  but  lofty  words, 
they  expressed  their  conscious  impo- 
tence before  the  unknown  conclusion. 
We,  to  whom  the  sea  is  but  a  feature 
of  the  landscape,  know  that  it  is  but  a 
new  point  of  departure  for  other  terra 
firma.  Other  non-sequiturs  that  still 
frighten  us  may  be  but  the  simplest  of 
axioms  to  the  great  initiated :  harmoni- 
ous, inevitable  resolutions  of  earlier 
dissonances. 

What  influence  do  the  non-sequiturs 
of  life,  whether  they  strike  us  on  the 
funny  bone,  or  pat  us  on  the  heart,  or 
lead  our  thoughts  to  the  shore  of  the  in- 
finite, —  what  influence  do  they  ex- 
ert over  us?  My  earliest  perception  of 
them  was  as  though  I  had  been  driv- 
ing along  a  straight  road  and  suddenly 
realized  that  the  horse  had  wandered 
off  into  a  meadow,  and  stopped  beside 
a  frisky  little  brook  with  everything 
around  unfamiliar  and  delicious.  Of 
course  it  was  crazy,  my  getting  there: 
I  ought  to  blush;  but  oh,  the  fun  of  it! 
The  digression  was,  as  Sterne  said,  like 
sunshine.  Somehow,  just  so  my  later 
non-sequiturs  have  become  points  of 
departure  for  golden  dreams  and  silver 
realities:  just  so  have  I  sometimes 
reached  obscure  souls  on  their  secret 
paths. 


If  nothing  more,  the  non-sequitur 
teases  one  into  thinking  it  out,  or  into 
trying  to  think  it  out;  the  endeavor  be- 
ing more  operative  than  the  solution 
sought.  Some  one  has  said  that  the  ten 
commandments  are  not  authoritative 
because  they  are  commanded,  but  be- 
cause they  are  true.  So,  if  the  non-se- 
quitur be  true,  .it  is  both  authoritative 
and  influential. 

Breasting  the  stream  of  the  irrele- 
vant is  quite  a  different  thing  from  the 
swimming  in  some  folks'  heads  to 
which  Socrates  attributed  the  flux  of 
the  world.  No  one  could  play  with 
words  like  Socrates,  yet  he  laughed  at 
Euthydemus's  anger  at  himself  for  ex- 
acting precise  statements  where  he  had 
thought  to  catch  the  philosopher  in  a 
shower  of  words.  *  When  do  you  think, 
Thesetetus,'  Socrates  might  have  ask- 
ed that  charming  youth,  *  when  do  you 
think  the  non-sequitur  becomes  the  se- 
quitur? '  And  how  smilingly  he  would 
have  led  him  along  to  some  such  con- 
clusion as  this : '  Set  out  vaguely  for  the 
non-sequitur,  and  the  logical  sequitur 
is  bound  to  follow;  while  with  a  goal 
clearly  proposed  and  manfully  sought, 
the  result,  however  seemingly  syllogis- 
tic, will  somehow  prove  a  beneficent 
non-sequitur.'  If  we  have  watched 
over  and  cultivated  and  restrained 
body  and  mind  and  soul,  their  combin- 
ations, like  those  of  a  kaleidoscope, 
may  astonish  but  can  never  humiliate 
us.  If  we  have  worked  persistently  to- 
ward certain  results,  our  efforts  may 
be  no  guaranty  that  we  shall  reach 
those  particular  results,  but  the  non- 
sequitur  will  be  odds  in  our  favor. 

How  then  shall  we  greet  this  inevit- 
able non-sequitur  in  our  lives,  this  il- 
logical sequence  of  our  former  studies, 
of  the  influence  of  others,  of  environ- 
ment, of  circumstance,  of  the  flux  of 
the  world  ?  Be  sure  that  we  welcome  it 
with  a  shout,  interrogate  it,  react  on 
it,  do  something  to  it.  It  may,  as  in 


ENGLAND   AND  AMERICA 


537 


cat's  cradle,  come  back  with  the  next 
change  of  hands,  to  a  familiar  position 
with  which  we  know  how  to  deal,  the 
little  episode  having  served  to  lift  the 
horizon  for  us;  or,  if  not,  lo,  a  chance 
to  learn  the  solution  of  a  new  combina- 
tion full  of  endless  possibilities!  Our 
principal  business  with  the  non-sequi- 
tur,  as  I  see  it,  is  just  the  grace  to  use 
it.  Not  to  rebel  .and  cry  out  for 


unruled  stars  and  a  truth  untrue, 

but  to  accept  the  eternal  law,  finding 
therein  a  firm  if  unexpected 

footing  for  the  soul; 
Discern  a  height  beyond  all  heights 
A  depth  beyond  all  depths.  - 
For  these,  despair  is  like  a  bubble  pricked. 

It  does  not  follow?  Does  n't  it?  Well, 
as  my  friend  said  over  the  teacups,  try 
it  and  see. 


ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA 


BY   FLORENCE   T.   HOLT 


MOTHER  and  child!  Though  the  dividing  sea 
Shall  roll  its  tide  between  us,  we  are  one, 
Knit  by  immortal  memories,  and  none 

But  feels  the  throb  of  ancient  fealty. 

A  century  has  passed  since  at  thy  knee 

We  learnt  the  speech  of  freemen,  caught  the  fire 
That  would  not  brook  thy  menaces,  when  sire 

And  grandsire  hurled  injustice  back  to  thee. 

But  the  full  years  have  wrought  equality: 
The  past  outworn,  shall  not  the  future  bring 
A  deeper  union,  from  whose  life  shall  spring 

Mankind's  best  hope?  In  the  dark  night  of  strife 

Men  perished  for  their  dream  of  Liberty 

Whose  lives  were  given  for  this  larger  life. 


MEDITATIONS  ON  VOTES  FOR  WOMEN 


BY   SAMUEL   McCHORD    CROTHERS 


THERE  is  an  illuminating  expression 
that  is  used  now  and  then  —  *  When  I 
come  to  think  about  it.'  It  is  generally 
used  when  a  controversy  is  over  or  an 
unwelcome  truth  at  last  admitted,  and 
there  is  nothing  more  to  be  done  about 
it.  A  person  has  had  a  very  decided 
opinion  and  has  expressed  it  with  great 
vehemence.  All  his  efforts  have  proved 
unavailing  and  the  thing  against  which 
he  protested  has  come  to  pass.  Then, 
in  a  sudden  burst  of  common  sense,  he 
resolves  to  sit  down  and  think  about  it. 

Why  he  did  not  adopt  this  medita- 
tive method  in  the  first  place  he  cannot 
exactly  explain.  Perhaps  it  is  because 
in  the  struggle  for  existence  man  is 
compelled  to  be  an  active  rather  than 
a  reflective  creature.  Thought  is  apt  to 
come  in  the  form  of  an  afterthought. 
Wisdom  is  essentially  retrospective. 

The  process  of  thinking  things  over 
in  advance  would  save  us  from  a  great 
many  antagonisms.  Reflection  has  a 
soothing  effect  upon  the  mind  if  it  is 
properly  managed.  We  talk  of  Time  as 
the  great  reconciler.  This  is  true  only 
when  time  is  taken  for  fruitful  medi- 
tation. The  man  described  in  the  first 
Psalm,  who  was  accustomed  to  medi- 
tate on  the  law  of  the  Lord  day  and 
night,  must  have  avoided  many  irri- 
tating conflicts  with  his  neighbors.  He 
had  better  things  to  think  about. 
Marcus  Aurelius,  who  was  much  given 
to  meditation,  saw  that  it  was  folly  to 
'Caesarize.'  Most  emperors  waste  a 
great  deal  of  time  in  Csesarizing. 

538 


Meditation  has  an  advantage  over 
discussion.  It  takes  two  to  carry  on 
a  discussion,  whereas  any  one  who  is  so 
disposed  can  meditate.  Moreover  in 
a  discussion  we  are  limited.  We  cannot 
contemplate  the  whole  subject,  but  we 
must  take  one  side  while  our  opponent 
takes  the  other.  We  cannot  look  at  the 
facts  as  they  go  about  their  ordinary 
business  in  the  actual  workaday  world. 
They  must  be  mobilized.  They  leave 
their  peaceful  avocations,  hurriedly  put 
on  a  uniform,  and  flock  to  the  colors. 
When  we  review  them  we  think  of 
nothing  but  their  fighting  value. 

However  conscientiously  we  choose 
sides,  we  must  reject  or  ignore  some 
fact  which  in  other  moods  we  should 
recognize  as  having  significance.  We 
must  sacrifice  everything  to  efficiency. 
Sometimes  we  must  assume  something 
which  is  quite  doubtful,  for  the  sake  of 
the  argument.  To  change  sides  is  an 
awkward  and  perilous  manoeuvre,  like 
changing  seats  in  a  canoe.  In  order  to 
preserve  the  equilibrium  of  the  discus- 
sion we  must  keep  our  original  place. 

But  in  meditation  we  are  free.  We 
can  consider  one  side  and  then  the 
other  without  embarrassment.  If  we 
change  our  opinion  because  the  weight 
of  evidence  has  shifted,  there  is  no  one 
to  exult  over  us  and  make  us  ashamed. 
If  we  recognize  that  we  have  been  mis- 
taken in  our  assumptions,  there  is  no 
one  to  say,  *  I  told  you  so.'  We  quietly 
make  the  necessary  adjustments  to 
ever-changing  reality,  and  go  on  with 
our  business  of  thinking.  We  are  not 
required  to  reach  any  predetermined 


MEDITATIONS  ON  VOTES  FOR  WOMEN 


539 


conclusions.  We  have  no  nervous 
anxiety  to  catch  any  particular  train  of 
thought,  as  we  are  traveling  on  our 
own  feet,  and  are  willing  to  put  up 
wherever  the  night  finds  us.  Hence  it 
is  that,  while  discussions  go  on  with 
great  vigor,  and  few  are  convinced  ex- 
cept of  the  righteousness  of  their  own 
cause,  meditation  often  brings  unex- 
pected results.  When  we  meditate  we 
sometimes  change  our  minds.  This  is  a 
beneficent  achievement,  for  it  renders 
it  unnecessary  for  us  to  spend  all  our 
strength  in  attempting  to  change  the 
order  of  the  universe  and  the  whole 
direction  of  human  progress,  in  order 
to  get  a  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things. 
It  sometimes  happens  that  by  relax- 
ing our  minds,  and  especially  our  wills, 
we  get  at  possibilities  of  harmony  be- 
tween elements  which  seemed  to  be 
in  hopeless  antagonism.  A  contempla- 
tive attitude  allows  us  to  see  the  gen- 
eral direction  in  which  things  are  going. 
On  the  evening  of  a  national  election 
we  are  more  apt  to  get  the  news  by 
staying  away  from  our  own  party 
headquarters,  where  only  one  kind  of 
news  is  promulgated. 

Few  subjects  have  of  late  been  more 
vehemently  debated  than  the  extension 
of  the  right  of  suffrage  to  women.  It 
seems  to  offer  peculiar  enticements  to 
controversialists.  So  much  can  be  said 
for  and  against  it,  and  so  easily.  More- 
over it  is  a  debate  which  is  peculiarly 
adapted  to  those  of  regular  habits  who 
do  not  care  to  go  far  afield  in  search  of 
opponents.  It  can  be  carried  on  unin- 
terruptedly in  the  home  circle. 

Persons  who  love  to  discuss  the  dif- 
ferent ways  in  which  civilization  is 
about  to  be  ruined,  and  who  evoke  the 
various  perils  that  threaten,  are  often 
embarrassed  by  the  difficulty  of  visual- 
izing the  dangers  that  impend.  The 
Yellow  Peril,  the  Slav  Peril,  Pan-Ger- 
manism, Pan-Islamism,  and  the  rest, 


are  foreign  in  their  nature,  and  need 
the  historic  imagination  to  realize  them. 
But  a  citizen  who  gets  the  notion  that 
the  Woman-Peril  threatens  to  over- 
whelm all  things  holy,  may  see  it  smil- 
ing at  him  across  the  tea-table.  It  is 
no  figment  of  the  imagination  that  con- 
fronts him.  And  the  Peril  can  always 
talk  back  when  he  cries  Avaunt! 

But  while  there  is  a  great  amount  of 
serious — and  less  serious  —  discussion, 
there  seems  to  be  a  lack  of  meditation. 
There  is  the  strident  cry  of  *  Votes  for 
Women ! '  which  is  answered  by  nega- 
tive voices  not  always  as  gentle  as  one 
might  expect.  There  are  the  exagger- 
ations which  always  accompany  parti- 
san discussion. 

It  would  be  a  counsel  of  perfection  to 
ask  any  one  to  meditate  on  Votes  for 
Women  with  the  same  detachment 
with  which  one  might  meditate  on  the 
Passage  of  Time,  the  Beauties  of  Na- 
ture, or  the  Vanity  of  Human  Great- 
ness. But  a  certain  amount  of  medi- 
tation is  possible  even  to  the  most 
earnest.  Meditation  dwells  on  the  ob- 
vious, on  broad  aspects  of  the  subject 
that  always  form  the  common  back- 
ground of  every  discussion. 

There  are  things  so  obvious  that  cle- 
ver people  never  mention  them:  they 
*  go  without  saying.'  It  is,  however,  nec- 
essary now  and  then  to  say  them  just 
to  remind  ourselves  that  they  are  still 
going.  Some  of  these  obvious  consider- 
ations may  be  suggested  as  profitable 
for  some  leisure  hour  when  we  are  not 
anxious  to  convince  any  one,  but  only 
to  clear  our  minds  of  prejudices  which 
disquiet  us. 

ii 

That  women  have  existed  since  the 
beginning  of  the  human  race,  and  have 
always  taken  part  in  human  development. 

This  is  a  fact  which  seems  to  be 
ignored  rather  than  contradicted  by 


540 


MEDITATIONS  ON  VOTES  FOR  WOMEN 


eager  disputants.  Yet  in  reality  it  is 
very  important  and  comforting. 

In  reading  certain  feministic  litera- 
ture one  suffers  from  a  nervous  shock, 
such  as  comes  when  the  fire-engines 
rush  up  to  put  out  a  fire  in  the  kitchen 
stove.  In  fact  there  are  two  shocks 
—  first,  that  which  comes  from  the 
thought  that  there  is  a  great  conflagra- 
tion, and  then  that  which  comes  from 
the  discovery  that  nothing  has  hap- 
pened out  of  the  ordinary. 

There  is  an  urgency  as  of  some  new 
and  unheard-of  power  that  has  just 
come  into  the  world.  Heretofore  this 
has  been  a  man's  world  arranged  for 
his  convenience.  Now  Woman  has  ap- 
peared, open-eyed  and  armed,  and  all 
things  are  to  be  changed.  Religion, 
the  State,  the  Family,  are  to  be  reor- 
ganized according  to  a  strictly  femin- 
istic plan.  If  the  ultimatum  is  not  at 
once  accepted  we  may  look  for  that 
dreadful  catastrophe,  a  sex  war. 

No  wonder  that  the  honest  citizen 
awakened  by  the  loud  cry  is  not  in  the 
best  of  humor.  And  when  he  is  called 
opprobrious  names,  like  Victorian  and 
early- Victorian,  he  is  inclined  to  be 
surly.  It  is  all  so  sudden.  It  appears 
that  all  the  ideals  of  womanhood  that 
he  has  revered  are  to  be  overturned 
and  trodden  under  foot  by  cohorts  of 
Amazons  shouting,  'Down  with  the 
Home.' 

* 

Now,  the  honest  citizen  loves  his 
home  as  he  loves  nothing  else,  and  does 
not  take  kindly  to  the  idea  that  it 
should  be  destroyed.  There  is  a  cer- 
tain vagueness  about  the  threats.  Just 
exactly  what  the  new  plan  is,  he  does 
not  know.  The  only  thing  in  the  pro- 
gramme of  revolutionary  Feminism 
that  he  can  get  hold  of,  and  that  lies 
within  the  sphere  of  practical  politics, 
is  the  demand  for  the  ballot.  Here  is  a 
limited  battle-ground  where  the  friends 
of  the  Home  and  of  Christian  marriage 
can  make  a  stand.  They  can  put  up  a 


stout  resistance  till  they  can  know  what 
it  is  all  about. 

If  the  home-loving  citizen  would  sit 
down  and  think  about  it,  he  would 
realize  that  this  is  a  false  alarm.  The 
entrance  of  woman  into  the  sphere  of 
human  action  is  no  new  thing.  She 
has  always  been  here,  and  has  always 
been  influential.  Such  civilization  as 
we  have  is  largely  of  her  making.  If 
civilization  itself  is  a  crime  she  has 
been  accessory  both  before  and  after 
the  fact. 

We  cannot  treat  half  the  human  race 
as  an  altogether  unknown  quantity. 
That  women  can  fight  is  no  new  dis- 
covery. Jael  the  wife  of  Heber  the 
Kenite  knew  how  to  wield  a  hammer 
for  her  cause.  Let  any  one  who  is 
alarmed  at  the  advent  of  women  in 
industry  meditate  on  the  business  wo- 
man described  in  the  book  of  Proverbs. 

'She  seeketh  wool  and  flax,  and 
worketh  willingly  with  her  hands.  .  .  . 
She  bringeth  her  food  from  afar.  She 
riseth  while  it  is  yet  night,  and  giveth 
meat  to  her  household  and  a  portion 
to  her  maidens.  She  considereth  a 
field,  and  buyeth  it:  with  the  fruit  of 
her  hands  she  planteth  a  vineyard. 
She  girdeth  her  loins  with  strength, 
and  strengtheneth  her  arms.  She  per- 
ceiveth  that  her  merchandise  is  good. 
.  .  .  She  layeth  her  hands  to  the  distaff, 
and  her  hands  hold  the  spindle.  .  .  . 
She  maketh  herself  coverings  of  tap- 
estry. .  .  .  She  maketh  fine  linen  and 
selleth  it;  and  delivereth  girdles  unto 
the  merchant.' 

Having  taken  over  the  woolen  and 
flax  industry  with  the  business  of  spin- 
ning and  weaving,  having  engaged  ii 
agriculture  and  dealt  in  merchandise 
and  real  estate,  she  superintended  th( 
general  charities.  'She  stretcheth  oul 
her  hand  to  the  poor;  yea,  she  reachetl 
forth  her  hands  to  the  needy.'  There 
was  nothing  left  for  her  husband  but  t< 
sit  at  the  gate  and  praise  his  wife. 


MEDITATIONS  ON  VOTES  FOR  WOMEN 


541 


Nothing  in  the  modern  situation  is 
quite  so  one-sided  as  this  ancient  de- 
scription of  the  sphere  of  women.  But 
somehow  men  have  survived. 

I  suspect  that  this  bit  of  Feministic 
literature  represented  an  ideal  that  was 
not  always  realized.  It  was  the  excep- 
tional Hebrew  woman  rather  than  the 
average. 

As  to  the  present-day  Feminism,  we 
must  remember  that  it  represents  a  lit- 
erary cult.  It  is  a  descriptive  term  like 
Realism,  or  Romanticism,  or  the  Lake 
Poets. 

When  you  attempt  to  read  the  lit- 
erature of  the  Futurists  you  are  not 
alarmed  about  the  future.  There  is  no 
danger  that  it  will  be  like  that.  When 
the  future  comes,  the  present-day 
Futurists  will  seem  not  weird  but  only 
quaint.  And  when  you  read  a  Fem- 
inist book  with  its  astonishing  pro- 
gramme, you  need  not  fear  that  that  is 
what  women  will  do  when  they  get  the 
vote.  You  are  only  reading  what  one 
woman  thinks  they  would  do  if  they 
were  all  as  clever  as  she  is. 

You  say  that  you  are  glad  that  they 
are  not.  You  prefer  the  common  sense 
and  domestic  feeling  of  the  average 
women  to  these  literary  vagaries.  Per- 
haps you  are  right.  You  may  be  inter- 
ested in  a  simple  little  device  by  which 
the  opinion  of  the  average  woman 
might  from  time  to  time  be  ascertained. 


in 

That  while  men  and  women  have  been 
a  long  time  on  the  earth,  it  does  not  follow 
that  new  types  may  not  be  developed  from 
time  to  time. 

Though  Feministic  theories  must  not 
be  taken  too  literally,  they  are  yet 
suggestive  of  changes  that  are  taking 
place.  The  essential  thing  is  that  many 
women  are  becoming  conscious  of  what 
some  women  have  always  felt,  that 


some  of  the  limitations  which  have 
been  accepted  as  natural  are  in  reality 
only  conventional,  and  so  can  be  re- 
moved. 

The  only  way  to  determine  what  is 
natural  and  what  is  conventional  is  by 
the  method  of  experiment.  By  push- 
ing against  every  barrier  women  can' 
force  those  barriers  that  are  artificial 
to  give  way.  In  this  struggle  for  free- 
dom there  must  necessarily  be  evoked 
a  challenging  spirit  which  is  not  very 
gracious. 

In  a  miracle  play  a  veiled  figure  is 
introduced  and  walks  across  the  stage. 
It  is  explained  that  this  is  Adam  as  he 
goes  to  be  created. 

Always  among  the  completed  char- 
acters that  crowd  the  stage  is  the  in- 
choate figure  of  the  creature  that  is  on 
the  way  to  be  created.  The  Old  Adam 
is  a  well-known  character,  but  the  New 
Adam  is  an  enigma.  In  each  successive 
generation  there  is  a  conversation  like 
this: — 

'How  do  you  do,  Adam?' 

'I  do  not  do.  I  am  not  a  creature. 
I  am  The  About-to-be-Created.' 

*I  wonder  how  you  will  turn  out 
when  you  are  create.d?' 

*I  don't  know/  growls  Adam,  'but  I 
do  not  intend  to  be  like  you.' 

This  is  ungracious  and  does  not  tend 
to  endear  the  new  candidate  for  ex- 
istence to  those  whose  self-esteem  is 
wounded.  But  when  the  New  Adam 
has  been  created  there  is  more  family 
resemblance  to  the  Pre-Adamites  than 
he  is  willing  to  admit. 

The  New  Woman  is  inclined  to  scout 
all  the  ideals  of  womanhood  that  have 
gone  before.  She  intends  to  be  abso- 
lutely different.  This  is  because  she  is 
on  her  preliminary  walk  across  the 
stage.  After  the  New  Woman  has  been 
created  the  newness  will  gradually 
wear  off  and  the  ineradicable  womanli- 
ness will  come  out.  We  may  be  quite 
sure  of  that. 


542 


MEDITATIONS  ON  VOTES  FOR  WOMEN 


IV 

That  theories  are  sometimes  several 
sizes  too  big  for  their  practical  applica- 
tions. 

When  John  Knox  was  in  the  thick  of 
his  fight  for  religious,  or  rather  for 
Presbyterian,  freedom,  he  found  that 
the  fiercest  opposition  came  from  a  few 
royal  women.  Margaret  continued  in 
the  Netherlands  the  persecution  which 
Isabella  of  Castile  had  carried  on  in 
Spain.  Mary  Stuart  and  her  mother 
were  implacable  foes  of  the  Presbytery, 
and  Mary  Tudor  sat  on  the  throne  of 
England. 

It  was  no  wonder  therefore  that  the 
fiery  reformer  made  a  sweeping  gener- 
alization and  identified  feminine  influ- 
ence with  Popery.  He  remembered  the 
conflict  of  Elijah  against  Jezebel,  and 
he  blew  the  First  Blast  of  the  Trum- 
pet against  the  monstrous  Regiment 
of  Women. 

But  before  a  second  blast  could  be 
blown  'Bloody  Mary'  died  and  Eliza- 
beth came  to  the  throne.  Knox  was 
too  good  a  Scotchman  to  give  up  a 
doctrine  which  he  had  once  promulga- 
ted, but  on  the  other  hand  he  was  too 
good  a  politician  to  insist  on  strict  con- 
struction under  the  changed  circum- 
stances. He  remembered  that  Jezebel 
was  not  the  only  woman  mentioned  in 
the  Bible.  There  was  Deborah  who 
ruled  Israel  wisely.  Of  course  Deborah 
was  an  exception.  Elizabeth  was  a  sec- 
ond Deborah,  and  therefore  a  second 
exception. 

The  predicament  of  Knox  is  that  of 
all  eager  controversialists.  A  decent 
respect  for  the  opinion  of  mankind 
induces  us  to  put  our  contention  on 
some  broad  grounds  which  mankind 
can  appreciate.  Issues  that  are  in  real* 
ity  local  and  limited  are  discussed  as 
if  they  involved  the  whole  universe. 
There  is  always  a  satisfaction  in  believ- 


ing that  the  stars  in  their  courses  are 
fighting  for  us.  We  try  to  identify  the 
stellar  orbits  with  our  plan  of  cam- 
paign. 

Suppose  the  question  arises  whether 
it  is  expedient  that  women  should  vote 
in  the  state  of  Connecticut.  This  is 
really  a  finite  proposition.  But  when  it 
becomes  a  subject  of  debate  it  expands 
into  the  infinite.  It  takes  on  a  cosmic 
character.  The  biologists,  the  anthro- 
pologists, the  physiologists,  and  the 
animal  psychologists,  all  are  called  to 
give  expert  testimony.  Even  the  bota- 
nists take  a  hand,  in  that  their  science 
also  takes  cognizance  of  the  differences 
between  male  and  female.  Dire  pro- 
phecies are  uttered  in  regard  to  the 
race-degeneracy  which  would  follow  an 
unscientific  amendment  to  the  consti- 
tution of  Connecticut. 

The  trouble  with  these  scientific  ar- 
guments is  that  they  prove  too  much. 
If  the  analogy  of  plants  and  insects, 
and  even  of  the  higher  mammals,  is  fol- 
lowed, the  female  of  the  species  should 
not  vote.  Neither  should  she  play 
bridge,  or  read  a  newspaper,  or  attend 
church,  or  play  the  piano.  These  ac- 
tivities are  all  without  warrant  from 
sub-human  experience.  It  is  doubt- 
ful if  any  of  them  are  particularly  good 
for  the  health. 

The  fact  is  that  mankind  has  broken 
so  many  precedents,  and  taken  so 
many  risks,  for  the  sake  of  moral  and 
intellectual  improvements,  that  it  is 
inclined  to  go  its  own  way.  It  asks 
what  is  right  for  human  beings  under 
civilized  conditions.  If  animals  and 
savages  were  not  able  to  live  in  this 
way,  so  much  the  worse  for  them. 
The  next  step  in  advance  is  always 
dangerous.  It  involves  a  new  adjust- 
ment, and  the  exercise  of  powers  that 
have  not  been  used.  But  the  only 
thing  to  do  is  to  meet  the  conditions  as 
they  arise,  and  keep  as  cheerful  as 
possible  while  doing  it. 


MEDITATIONS  ON  VOTES  FOR  WOMEN 


543 


That  equal  suffrage  is  not  the  first  step 
in  an  impending  revolution,  but  only  a 
necessary  adjustment  to  a  revolution  that 
has  already  happened. 

During  the  last  generation  some 
things  took  place  which  were  really 
revolutionary.  The  entrance  of  women 
into  the  colleges  and  universities,  and 
into  business  and  the  professions,  mark- 
ed an  advance  of  great  importance. 
This  was  a  new  departure,  at  least  in 
our  modern  world.  Those  who  believ- 
ed in  a  definite  *  sphere'  for  women 
had  reason  to  be  alarmed  at  this  new 
departure.  It  involved  many  social 
changes.  But  these  changes  did  not 
involve  political  action,  and  so  were 
quietly  acquiesced  in. 

Now  that  the  revolution  has  taken 
place,  multitudes  of  educated  women 
are  in  influential  positions,  moulding 
public  sentiment  and  directing  large 
institutions.  All  the  functions  of  citi- 
zenship they  actually  exercise  except 
that  of  voting  at  certain  elections.  We 
no  longer  find  anything  amusing  in  the 
term  *  strong-minded '  applied  to  a  wo- 
man. What  are  colleges  for  if  not  to 
strengthen  the  mind! 

And  when  our  daughters  come  back 
from  school  and  College,  where  their 
minds  have  been  strengthened  and 
broadened  by  modern  discipline,  they 
naturally  seek  to  use  the  power  they 
have  acquired.  Why  not? 


VI 

That  the  lawless  acts  of  certain  Eng- 
lish militants  only  prove  that  some  women 
are  no  wiser  than  some  men. 

Some  men  are  fanatics,  and  so  are 
some  women.  Fanaticism  has  always 
accompanied  progress,  but  this  does 
not  prove,  as  some  people  imagine, 


that  it  is  the  cause  of  it.  Railroad  acci- 
dents accompany  railroading,  but  do 
not  add  to  its  profits.  From  the  man- 
ager's point  of  view,  a  train  on  the 
track  is  worth  two  in  the  ditch. 

Every  cause  has  had  its  fanatics, 
persons  who  in  their  zeal  are  willing  to 
sacrifice  all  other  interests  to  it  with- 
out regard  to  the  ordinary  demands  of 
justice  and  good  fellowship.  They  de- 
mand 'direct  action,'  which  usually 
means  action  that  disregards  the  rights 
of  neutrals.  No  one  can  tell  when  a 
fanatical  turn  may  be  given  to  a  move- 
ment that  has  gone  on  peacefully. 
The  question  of  the  right  way  of  ad- 
ministering the  Lord's  Supper  has  been 
the  occasion  of  most  cruel  wars.  The 
Anabaptists  of  the  sixteenth  century 
held  views  which  most  people  in  these 
days  would  think  harmless  enough,  but 
then  they  became  the  occasion  of  all 
sorts  of  anarchistic  outbreaks.  There 
are  multitudes  of  law-abiding  people 
who  look  forward  to  the  second  com- 
ing of  Christ,  but  in  the  meantime  go 
quietly  about  their  business.  But  there 
was  a  time  when  this  expectancy  took 
on  a  militant  form.  Wild-eyed  Fifth 
Monarchy  men  proclaimed  the  reign 
of  King  Jesus,  and  to  bring  it  in  by 
direct  action  sought  to  take  London 
and  kill  the  Lord  Mayor.  Then  it  was 
time  to  call  out  the  train-bands. 

Usually  these  militant  outbreaks  can 
be  accounted  for,  less  by  anything  in 
the  nature  of  the  cause  which  is  fought 
for  than  by  the  general  temper  of  the 
times.  They  are  evidences  of  a  dan- 
gerous nervous  tension. 

We  are  able  to  understand  the  so- 
called  militancy  in  England  better  than 
we  could  a  short  time  ago.  We  see  its 
relation  to  the  movement  for  suffrage 
to  be  more  or  less  accidental.  Now  that 
a  great  war  has  come,  we  see  how  fever- 
ish was  the  condition  of  the  peoples 
who  looked  forward  to  it  with  sup- 
pressed passion  and  vague  foreboding. 


544 


MEDITATIONS  ON  VOTES  FOR  WOMEN 


Not  knowing  just  whom  they  were  to 
fight,  but  feeling  that  fighting  was  in- 
evitable, they  conceived  of  everything 
in  militant  form. 

There  were  to  be  wars,  not  only  be- 
tween Slav  and  Teuton,  but  between 
Celt  and  Saxon,  class  wars  and  indus- 
trial wars  without  number.  Even  the 
efforts  in  behalf  of  the  public  health 
were  conceived  of  under  warlike  im- 
agery. There  were  wars  proclaimed 
against  the  fly  and  the  mosquito  and 
the  germs  of  tuberculosis. 

Earnest  women,  perceiving  that  they 
had  been  denied  civil  rights,  and 
accepting  the  prevalent  philosophy, 
imagined  that  when  they  were  breaking 
windows  and  destroying  works  of  art 
and  setting  fire  to  unguarded  build- 
ings they  were  making  war.  It  was 
supposed  to  be  that  appeal  to  force 
by  which  all  human  rights  have  been 
won.  Then  suddenly,  to  those  who 
were  playing  with  fire,  the  great  confla- 
gration came.  War  grim  and  relentless 
is  upon  the  world.  All  make-believe 
militancies  shrink  into  insignificance. 

Those  who,  carried  away  by  a  mis- 
leading analogy,  thought  that  the  suf- 
frage for  women  could  be  obtained  by 
threats,  and  by  sporadic  acts  of  law- 
lessness, must  perceive  that  their  tac- 
tics are  not  now  effective.  Nations 
which  are  fighting  for  their  lives  are 
not  likely  to  be  coerced  by  what  are 
only  petty  annoyances.  When  the  his- 
tory of  our  time  comes  to  be  written, 
militancy  will  be  seen  to  be  a  symptom 
of  a  disturbed  state  of  the  public  mind, 
which  preceded  the  great  and  terrible 
war.  That  women  yielded  to  the  ner- 
vous strain  and  for  the  time  lost  their 
balance  is  not  to  be  wondered  at.  Men 
did  the  same. 

VII 

That  a  voter  does  not  vote  all  the  time, 
but  is  allowed  a  number  of  days  off  in 
order  to  attend  to  his  private  business. 


This  is  a  consideration  that  seems  to 
be  overlooked  by  those  who  insist  that 
if  a  woman  exercises  the  right  of  suf- 
frage she  must  neglect  her  duties  in  the 
home.  There  is  a  certain  force  in  this 
argument.  Eternal  vigilance  is  the 
price  of  liberty,  and  we  are  told  that  if 
the  conscientious  citizen  would  outwit 
the  machine  politician  and  make  good 
government  to  prevail  he  must  always 
be  'on  the  job.' 

But  this  counsel  of  perfection  must 
be  interpreted  in  the  light  of  actual 
circumstances.  The  citizen  who  desires 
good  government  must  also  make  his 
living,  and  to  do  this  honestly  requires 
considerable  effort.  There  must  be  a 
reasonable  compromise  between  public 
and  private  duty.  The  citizen  cannot 
spend  all  his  time  voting  on  every 
question  that  comes  up,  for  if  he  did 
there  would  be  no  one  to  earn  money 
for  taxes.  So  he  makes  use  of  various 
labor-saving  devices,  and  selects  per- 
sons to  do  most  of  his  voting  for  him. 
This  is  the  very  essence  of  representa- 
tive government. 

Before  representative  government 
was  invented,  the  objection  just  men- 
tioned held.  Popular  sovereignty  — 
which  rests  on  the  principle  of  limited 
liability  —  being  unknown,  one  who 
exercised  sovereignty  had  to  give  up 
all  other  business. 

In  the  days  of  the  Judges,  Jotham 
shouted  from  the  top  of  Mount  Ge- 
rizim  a  pungent  parable.  'The  trees 
went  forth  on  a  time  to  anoint  a  king 
over  them.'  The  useful  trees  declined 
the  office  because  it  interfered  with 
their  proper  business.  'The  olive  tree 
said  unto  them,  "Should  I  leave  my 
fatness,  wherewith  by  me  they  honor 
God  and  man,  and  go  to  be  promoted 
over  the  trees?"  The  fig  tree  would 
not  leave  his  figs,  nor  the  vine  his  wine 
'which  cheereth  God  and  man.' 

The  representatives  of  the  better 
elements  having  refused  the  nomina- 


MEDITATIONS  ON  VOTES  FOR  WOMEN 


545 


tion,  it  was  offered  to  the  bramble,  who 
enthusiastically  accepted,  and  announ- 
ced his  policy,  which  was  at  once  to 
destroy  the  cedars  of  Lebanon. 

If  the  trees  had  formed  themselves 
into  a  republic  instead  of  accepting  a 
monarchical  form  of  government  they 
might  have  escaped  from  their  dilem- 
ma. They  would  have  planned  some 
way  by  which  the  olive  tree  and  the  fig 
tree,  while  still  bearing  their  proper 
fruit,  might  participate  in  the  govern- 
ment of  the  grove,  and  safeguard  their 
common  interests.  They  might  have 
no  time  to  'wave  to  and  fro  over  the 
trees/  but  they  might  do  their  share  in 
more  solid  work. 

It  is  along  this  line  that  improve- 
ments in  government  have  been  made. 
We  must  have  a  certain  number  of 
persons  who  give  all  their  time  to 
highly  specialized  forms  of  public 
work,  but  there  is  opportunity  also 
for  the  private  citizen  to  make  his 
influence  felt.  Government  by  the 
people  means  that  the  man  of  science 
who  cannot  leave  his  researches,  the 
artist  who  is  loyal  to  his  art,  the  farmer 
who  will  not  leave  his  lands  untilled  in 
order  to  talk  politics  at  the  village 
store,  all  have  a  chance  to  influence  the 
policy  of  their  country.  If  they  can 
find  time  for  nothing  else,  they  can  at 
least  vote  for  the  party  that  comes 
nearest  to  their  own  ideas. 

The  home-keeping  woman's  business 
may  make  great  demands  upon  her, 
but  the  demands  are  not  greater  or 
more  insistent  than  those  which  come 
in  other  businesses  in  which  public- 
spirited  citizens  are  engaged.  House- 
keeping is  not  an  absolutely  con- 
tinuous performance,  and  neither  is 
voting. 

VIII 

That  women  in  expressing  their  opin- 
ions should  be  allowed  to  be  as  modest 
and  unobtrusive  as  men. 

VOL.  114 -NO.  4 


One  cannot  meditate  always,  one 
must  sometimes  consult  the  diction- 
ary. The  dictionary  informs  us  that 
the  word  vote  comes  from  the  Latin 
votum  —  a  vow,  a  wish,  a  prayer.  The 
word  suffrage  has  a  similar  religious 
meaning,  as  is  indicated  by  ecclesias- 
tical usage.  The  suffrage  in  connection 
with  the  Litany  indicates  the  petition 
to  the  Good  Lord  to  hear  us. 

The  vote  is  therefore  a  kind  of  peti- 
tion; it  is  an  expression  of  personal 
desire  and  preference.  In  this  primary 
sense  there  is  nothing  which  the  most 
careful  person  would  object  to  as  un- 
becoming in  a  woman.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  women  always  have  expressed 
their  preferences,  often  in  the  most 
decided  manner. 

But  it  appears  that  there  is  a  secon- 
dary meaning.  A  vote  is  the  method 
agreed  upon  by  which  a  preference  or 
desire  may  be  expressed,  as  by  voice, 
show  of  hands,  balls,  or  ballot.  It  is  to 
the  expression  of  opinion  in  this  orderly 
way  that  objection  is  made.  Here  we 
come  to  the  taboo. 

A  woman  may  express  her  opinion 
in  any  way  that  is  personal  and  ob- 
trusive. She  may  write  for  the  press, 
address  public  meetings,  organize  par- 
ties, canvass  from  house  to  house,  or 
preach  from  the  pulpit.  She  may  make 
herself  conspicuous  as  the  advocate  of 
any  cause  she  adopts.  In  all  this  she  is 
within  her  rights. 

But  one  method  she  must  not  use  — 
the  secret  ballot.  It  must  be  remem- 
bered that  it  is  the  secrecy  of  the  ballot 
which  distinguishes  the  voting  of  the 
present  day  from  that  of  previous  gen- 
erations. The  elections  which  Dickens 
describes  were  noisy  affairs.  Each 
elector  had  to  declare  his  choice  before 
the  crowd.  It  was  a  trying  perform- 
ance for  a  quiet  man  who  might  find  it 
hard  to  resist  the  pressure  put  upon 
him. 

It  was  argued  that  the  man  who  had 


546 


SCHOOL 


not  the  hardihood  to  stand  up  and 
declare  his  preference  in  the  face  of  a 
howling  mob,  or  under  the  scrutiny  of 
his  employer,  did  not  deserve  to  have 
his  opinion  considered.  But  now  it  is 
admitted  that  the  quiet  man  has  his 
rights  that  must  be  safeguarded.  He 
is  allowed  to  express  his  opinion  on 
public  matters  in  an  impersonal  way 
and  in  absolute  privacy.  The  polling 
booth  is  his  castle,  and  no  one  need 
know  how  he  marks  his  Australian 
ballot. 

And  it  is  the  secrecy  and  the  im- 
personal character  of  it  that  gives  it 
its  power.  The  one  thing  which  the 
politician  is  afraid  of  is  the  *  silent 
vote.'  After  the  shouting  is  all  over, 


and  after  all  those  who  have  ostenta- 
tiously 'stood  up  to  be  counted*  have 
been  counted,  there  is  anxious  waiting 
for  another  verdict.  What  do  the  quiet 
stay-at-home  people  who  do  no  shout- 
ing think?  The  decision  of  great  issues 
rests  with  them. 

The  woman  who  does  not  object  to 
ostentatious  methods  has  already 
ample  opportunity  to  make  her  opin- 
ions known  and  her  influence  felt.  But 
there  are  great  numbers  of  women  who 
are  thoughtful  but  who  shrink  from 
publicity. 

Why  should  not  the  quiet  stay-at- 
home  women  have  the  same  means  of 
expressing  themselves  which  are  al- 
lowed to  quiet  stay-at-home  men? 


SCHOOL 


BY   SIMEON   STRUNSKY 


ILLNESS  broke  in  upon  the  beginning 
of  Harold's  academic  career.  He  did 
not  get  fairly  under  way  until  he  was 
seven  years  old  and  over.  That  was  not 
so  long  ago  but  that  we  can  easily  re- 
call the  warm  flush  of  pride  with  which 
we  received  the  formal  notice  that  our 
son  Harold  had  passed  his  Entrance 
Examinations  for  the  Second  Grade 
and  was  now  qualified  to  take  up  the 
reading  of  ordinary  numerals  to  1000 
and  Roman  numerals  to  XX,  with  ad- 
dition through  9's,  and  the  multiplica- 
tion table  to  5><9,  not  to  mention  ob- 
jective work  in  simple  fractions  and 
problems.  The  notion  of  Harold's  'en- 
trance examinations'  amused  Emme- 


line  intensely.  At  least,  she  took  occa- 
sion during  the  next  two  weeks  to  read 
the  certificate  out  aloud  to  visitors, 
laughing  almost  spontaneously.  But 
when  visitors  were  not  about  she  would 
sometimes  pull  out  the  printed  card 
and  look  at  it  quietly,  still  smiling,  but 
with  no  evident  signs  of  hilarity.  She 
said  that  mornings,  after  nine,  it  was 
very  quiet  in  the  house  nowadays.  It 
was  delightful  but  strange. 

If  school  brought  any  spiritual  crisis 
to  Harold  he  gave  ho  sign  of  it.  An  ex- 
traordinary calm  in  the  face  of  excep- 
tional circumstances  is  one  of  the  traits 
I  envy  him.  Possibly  this  may  be  be- 
cause nobody  or  nothing  that  presents 
itself  to  him  from  the  outside  can  ever 
approach  in  interest  the  things  that  are 


SCHOOL 


\ 

547 


going  on  inside  of  him.  He  will  be  shy 
before  strangers,  but  I  am  inclined  to 
think  that  the  Dalai  Lama  of  Tibet 
would  leave  him  unruffled.  Kings  and 
emperors  have  a  logical  place  in  Har- 
old's world  of  ideas,  whereas  an  ordin- 
ary visitor  in  the  house  needs  to  have 
his  presence  explained. 

Harold's  self-possession  was  shown 
in  the  manner  in  which  he  conducted 
himself  during  his  entrance  examina- 
tions. The  questions  were  oral.  He 
had  just  been  asked  to  name  the  days 
of  the  week  when  he  noticed  that  one 
of  his  shoe-laces  had  come  loose.  He 
stooped,  adjusted  his  shoe-lace,  and 
gave  the  days  of  the  week  correctly. 
The  operation  on  his  shoe  was  not  com- 
pleted when  he  was  asked  how  much  is 
three  and  four.  He  solved  the  problem 
while  still  in  a  semi-circular  position. 
When  Emmeline  heard  of  his  behavior 
during  the  test  she  was  in  despair.  She 
foresaw  the  blasting  of  Harold's  educa- 
tional career  at  the  very  start.  She  was 
of  a  mind  to  call  up  the  school  authori- 
ties and  let  them  know  that  the  boy 
did  not  usually  answer  questions  from 
the  vicinity  of  his  shoe-tops,  and  that 
probably  it  was  nervousness.  But  the 
school  authorities  evidently  knew  bet- 
ter. They  probably  discerned  in  Har- 
old an  equanimity  of  the  soul,  a  Spar- 
tan calm,  which  it  is  one  of  the  main 
purposes  of  pedagogy  to  develop. 

Harold's  self-possession  is  never 
more  conspicuous  than  during  the  two 
hours  which  intervene  between  his 
getting  out  of  bed  and  his  departure 
for  school.  The  flight  of  time  does 
not  exist  for  him.  He  goes  about  his 
toilet  with  exquisite  deliberation.  If 
anything,  he  dresses  and  washes  with 
greater  leisureliness  from  Monday  to 
Friday  than  he  does  on  the  other  two 
days  of  the  week.  It  is  not  an  aversion 
for  school.  It  is  not  even  indifference. 
Harold  does  not  creep  like  a  snail  to 
school.  He  goes  cheerfully  when  we  tell 


him  that  he  is  ready  to  go.  But  while 
the  business  of  getting  him  ready  is 
under  way  he  views  the  process  objec- 
tively. It  is  as  if  some  strange  little 
boy  were  being  washed  and  combed  and 
urged  through  his  breakfast  until  the 
moment  when,  everything  being  done, 
the  spirit  of  himself,  Harold,  enters 
that  alien  body  and  propels  it  to  school. 
As  sailing  master  of  his  soul  it  is  not  for 
him  to  bother  with  loading  the  cargo 
and  battening  down  the  hatches.  Only 
when  the  hawsers  are  ready  to  be  cast 
off  —  it  is  ten  minutes  of  nine  and  Em- 
meline's  nerves  are  on  edge  —  does  the 
master  ascend  the  bridge.  Once  out- 
side the  door  of  Belshazzar  Court  he 
makes  excellent  speed.  I  have  warned 
him  repeatedly,  but  he  always  trots 
instead  of  walking,  and  his  manner  of 
crossing  the  avenue  gives  us  some  anx- 
iety on  account  of  the  cars  and  the 
automobiles. 

Sometimes  I  think  that  Emmeline 
and  I  assume  the  wrong  attitude  to- 
wards Harold's  leisurely  ways  between 
seven  and  nine  in  the  morning.  In  our 
behalf  it  must  be  said,  of  course,  that 
getting  a  boy  washed  and  dressed  and 
fed,  with  only  two  hours  to  do  it  in,  is  a 
task  that  calls  for  expedition.    But  in 
our  anxiety  to  get  Harold  off  to  school 
in  time  we  are  sometimes  tempted  to 
overlook  the  boy's  extraordinary  spirit- 
ual activity  during  these  two  hours. 
It  is  then  that  the  events  of  the  preced- 
ing day  pass  in  swift  procession  through 
his  mind.  At  the  dinner  table  the  night 
before  Harold  has  been  silent  as  usual, 
and  apparently  indifferent  to  the  con- 
versation.   Nevertheless,  my  remarks 
about  the  general  European  war  have 
been  caught  and  registered  for  fuller  in- 
vestigation. At  the  dinner  table  he  is 
too  busy  balancing  the  books  of  his  own 
daily  concerns.    In  the  morning  he  is  a 
bottomless  vessel  of  curiosity.    In  the 
morning,  while  brushing  his  teeth  or 
over  his  egg-cup,  he  will  demand  a 


548 


SCHOOL 


detailed  statement  of  the  causes  behind 
the  present  European  situation.  A 
stranger  watching  Harold  in  the  act  of 
pulling  on  his  stockings  might  suppose 
that  the  boy  is  imperfectly  awake.  But 
I  know  that  his  stockings  get  tangled 
up  because  he  is  pondering  on  the 
character  and  motives  of  the  Kaiser 
and  other  problems,  which  must  be  im- 
mediately referred  to  me  who  am  busy 
before  the  shaving  mirror. 

On  such  occasions  I  confess  that  I 
frequently  dispose  of  the  European  sit- 
uation with  a  display  of  summary  au- 
thority which  President  Wilson  would 
never  tolerate  hi  a  Mexican  dictator. 
Or  else  I  describe  the  Kaiser  in  a  few 
ill-chosen  and  inadequate  phrases  such 
as  naturally  suggest  themselves  to  one 
in  a  hurry  before  the  shaving  mirror. 
Later  I  feel  that  we  are  unjust  to  the 
boy,  and  neglectful  of  the  educational 
opportunities  he  affords  us. 

If  the  secret  of  pedagogy  is  to  find 
the  moment  when  the  child's  mind  is  in 
its  most  receptive  state,  and  to  feed  it 
with  the  information  which  at  other 
times  involves  effort  to  absorb,  it  seems 
a  pity  that  at  7.30  in  the  morning  I 
should  be  busy  with  my  razor  and  the 
boy  should  be  driven  back  on  his  stock- 
ings and  toothbrush.  I  have  seldom 
encountered  a  human  being  so  eager  to 
be  instructed  as  Harold  is  at  twenty 
minutes  of  nine,  with  his  glass  of  milk 
still  before  him.  Some  day  an  educa- 
tional reformer  will  cut  the  ground 
from  under  the  Froebelians  and  Tol- 
stoians  and  Montessorians  by  devising 
a  system  of  bedroom  and  bathroom 
and  breakfast-table  education.  Under 
such  a  system  all  the  instructor  would 
have  to  do  would  be  to  follow  the  child 
about  while  he  is  getting  ready  for 
school,  and  answer  questions.  Fifteen 
minutes  with  Harold  while  he  is  lacing 
his  shoes  would  give  his  instructor  all 
the  mental  spontaneity  and  spiritual 
thirst  he  bargained  for. 


ii 

Our  knowledge  of  what  happens  to 
Harold  at  school  between  the  hours  of 
nine  and  one  is  fragmentary.  From  the 
school  syllabus  we  learn,  of  course,  that 
besides  being  engaged  upon  the  art  of 
reading  numbers  up  to  1000  and  Ro- 
man numerals  to  XX,  supplemented 
by  the  multiplication  table  as  far  as 
5X9,  Harold  is  being  instructed  in 
English  Literature,  in  Language,  in 
History  beginning  with  Early  Life  on 
Manhattan,  in  Nature  Study,  in  the 
Industrial  and  Fine  Arts,  in  Music  and 
Physical  Training.  We  have,  too,  oc- 
casional reports  from  the  schoolroom 
regarding  Harold's  backwardness  in 
concentration  and  penmanship,  as  op- 
posed to  his  proficiency  in  Language 
and  History. 

Then  there  are  mothers'  meetings. 
But  either  such  information  is  too  the- 
oretical to  enlighten  us  concerning 
what  actually  goes  inside  of  Harold 
at  school,  or  else,  as  in  the  case  of  his 
deficiency  in  concentration  and  pen- 
manship, it  is  too  specific.  Of  the  boy's 
mental  growth  in  the  round  we  have 
no  way  of  judging  except  as  he  reveals 
himself  spontaneously.  And  Harold  re- 
veals very  little.  His  school  life  falls 
from  his  shoulders  the  moment  he  steps 
out  into  the  street.  If  there  were  no 
syllabuses,  mothers'  meetings,  and  oc- 
casional reports,  and  we  were  left  to 
find  out  the  nature  of  Harold's  curric- 
ulum from  what  he  offers  to  tell,  our 
ideas  would  be  even  more  fragmentary 
than  they  are. 

What  we  are  compelled  to  do  is  to 
piece  together  stray  remarks  at  table 
or  while  the  boy  is  dressing  or  undress- 
ing, delivered  with  no  particular  rele- 
vance, or  else,  if  relevant,  uttered  in  a 
matter-of-fact  tone,  as  having  no  very 
intimate  relation  to  himself,  much  as 
I  might  throw  out  an  item  from  the 
evening  paper  to  fill  up  a  blank  in 


SCHOOL 


549 


conversation.  Thus  nonchalantly ,  spas- 
modically, and  some  time  before  I  was 
impelled  to  consult  the  syllabus  to  find 
out  what  Harold  is  supposed  to  be  do- 
ing at  school,  I  did  find  out  that  he 
models  in  clay,  that  he  sews  his  own 
Indian  suit  for  the  Commencement 
pageant,  that  he  does  practical  garden- 
ing and  folk-dancing.  I  am  not  sure 
about  basket-work  and  elementary 
wood-carving.  We  know  that  he  writes, 
because  there  has  been  some  complaint 
about  his  lack  of  neatness,  which  his 
teacher  is  inclined  to  explain  as  arising 
from  the  broader  defect  of  inadequate 
attention. 

You  must  not  suppose  that  Harold  is 
an  indifferent  scholar  in  the  sense  of 
being  a  poor  student  or  devoid  of  the 
sense  of  duty.  Of  his  ambition  I  am 
not  so  sure.  The  fact  remains  that  he 
passed  his  entrance  examinations  easi- 
ly, and  that  at  the  end  of  the  year,  in 
spite  of  a  month's  absence  on  account 
of  measles,  he  was  promoted  to  Grade 
III.  Harold  is  indifferent  only  to  the 
extent  that  he  does  not  bring  his  school 
away  with  him  as  I  bring  my  own  work 
home  with  me,  to  worry  over.  Harold's 
reticence  is  partly  due  to  his  highly  de- 
veloped sense  of  the  sanctity  and  suf- 
ficiency of  his  private  thoughts.  Part- 
ly it  is  due  to  the  capacity  of  every 
child  to  live  in  the  moment  and  let  it 
drop  from  him  when  he  passes  on  to  the 
next  interest,  whether  it  be  from  school 
to  lunch,  or  from  lunch  to  play,  or  from 
play  to  supper. 

But  on  the  whole  I  consider  Harold's 
lack  of  conversation  about  school  as  in 
the  highest  sense  a  tribute  to  the  effi- 
ciency of  his  teachers,  and  as  evidence 
that  he  is  happy  with  them.  School 
has  fitted  so  well  into  his  scheme  of 
life,  has  been  accepted  by  him  as  so 
much  a  matter  of  course,  that  he  no 
more  thinks  it  necessary  to  refer  to 
school  than  he  would  to  the  fact  that 
he  has  enjoyed  his  supper.  You  have 


seen  children  of  Harold's  age  at  the 
shore,  rolling  like  little  porpoises  in  the 
surf,  as  happy  as  it  is  given  to  us  to  be 
happy  here;  but  I  should  never  expect 
Harold  to  join  in  the  porch  comment 
on  the  temperature  of  the  water  and  its 
effect  on  his  appetite  or  his  sleep.  Be- 
cause the  truest  happiness  is  that  about 
which  we  do  not  babble,  I  assume  that 
Harold  is  happy  at  school.  He  is  helped 
to  that  by  the  fact  that  he  is  a  normal 
child,  armed  against  tribulation  by  a 
well-seasoned  conscience  and  a  sense  of 
his  own  rectitude. 

In  conversation  at  table,  Harold's 
teacher  will  come  up  with  a  sufficient 
frequency  to  show  that  she  is  a  factor 
in  his  life.  The  mention  of  Harold's 
teacher  will  sometimes  irritate  Emme- 
line  because  the  boy  is  in  the  habit  of 
citing  teacher  as  an  authority  on  ele- 
mentary truths  which  Emmeline  has 
been  at  much  pains  to  inculcate.  By 
way  of  nothing  in  particular  —  Har- 
old's disclosures  of  his  school  life  are 
nearly  always  by  way  of  nothing  in 
particular  —  he  will  declare  that  his 
teacher  said  that  to  bolt  food  without 
chewing  is  bad  for  the  digestion.  Inas- 
much as  Emmeline  has  devoted  sev- 
eral years  to  training  Harold  in  that 
important  physiological  principle,  she 
is  rather  vexed  that  a  single  statement 
by  teacher  should  have  assumed  an 
authority  which  prolonged  instruction 
on  her  own  part  has  failed  to  attain. 
Or  there  will  be  a  somewhat  harassing 
dispute  as  to  whether  it  is  time  for 
Harold  to  go  to  bed.  The  next  morning 
while  pulling  on  his  stockings,  Harold 
will  declare  —  incidentally,  Harold  is 
always  in  a  mood  the  morning  after  to 
confess  that  he  was  in  the  wrong  the 
night  before  —  will  declare  that  his 
teacher  said  that  boys  who  did  not 
sleep  enough  had  something  or  other 
happen  to  their  chests  and  shoulders 
which  prevented  them  from  playing 
football  when  they  grew  up.  I  do  not 


550 


SCHOOL 


mean  to  say  that  teacher's  word  will 
count  as  against  Emmeline's.  But  it 
hurts  to  have  the  boy  look  outside  for 
sanctions  for  a  code  of  behavior  in 
which  he  has  been  drilled  at  home.  I 
imagine  that  it  is  in  such  moments 
that  Emmeline  feels  the  first  pangs  of 
a  child's  ingratitude.  But  it  is  a  trait 
which  has  value  and  significance.  When 
Harold,  who  has  been  drinking  milk 
with  his  meals  since  infancy,  observes 
that  his  teacher  said  that  milk  is  good 
for  children,  it  occurs  to  me  that  he  is 
only  experiencing  that  need  for  an  ex- 
ternal prop  for  useful  habits  which  is 
at  the  basis  of  religion. 

Not  that  there  is  in  Harold's  atti- 
tude to  his  teacher  anything  of  reli- 
gious awe.  She  is  simply  the  exponent 
of  the  laws  of  his  environment,  laws 
which  the  boy  knows  cannot  be  vio- 
lated as  can  so  many  of  the  laws  enun- 
ciated at  home  which  are  subject  to 
suspension  and  modification.  To  every 
child,  I  imagine,  school  is  the  place 
where  the  rule  prevails,  and  home  is  the 
place  where  exceptions  to  the  rule  may 
be  safely  invoked.  Here  is  the  fallacy  in 
so  much  modern  speculation  concern- 
ing parents  and  teachers  which  would 
confound  the  functions  of  the  home  and 
the  school  by  injecting  the  rule  of  af- 
fection into  the  school  and  the  rule  of 
discipline  into  the  home.  If  the  home 
is  to  remain  a  little  isle  of  peace  for 
its  members  I  fail  to  see  why  Harold 
should  be  less  entitled  than  I  to  in- 
voke its  asylum.  If  I  find  in  the  home 
a  refuge  from  the  hard  competitive 
conditions  of  my  business  life,  Harold 
should  rightly  find  there  a  refuge  from 
the  fairly  rigid  rules  without  which 
school  is  inconceivable.  I  disagree  with 
the  prevalent  theory  in  being  not  at  all 
sure  that  women  who  are  mothers  make 
the  best  teachers.  And  I  am  not  sure 
that  women  who  have  taught  children 
in  class  make  the  best  mothers.  In  the 
externals  of  method  and  discipline  they 


may  have  the  advantage.  But  it  is 
absurd  to  suppose  that  the  principles 
which  guide  a  woman  in  charge  of  the 
little  community  of  the  classroom  are 
the  relations  which  should  subsist  be- 
tween the  mother  and  the  handful  of 
children  of  her  own  body. 


in 

An  exceedingly  complex  subject, 
this  question  of  the  freedom  of  the 
child.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand 
it.  Neither  am  I  sure  that  the  militant 
advocates  of  the  freedom  of  the  child 
understand  it.  At  any  rate,  in  so  many 
arguments  concerning  the  rights  of  the 
child,  I  find  a  lurking  argument  for 
the  rights  of  the  parents  as  against  the 
child.  The  great  implication  seems  to 
be  that  the  modern  way  for  a  mother  to 
love  her  children  is  to  have  the  teach- 
er love  them  for  her.  The  modern  way 
to  train  the  child  is  to  deny  him  the 
indulgences  which  he,  as  the  victim  of 
several  tens  of  thousands  of  years  of 
foolish  practice,  has  learned  to  expect 
from  his  parents.  The  freedom  of  the 
child  seems  to  demand  that  he  shall  be 
restrained  in  the  desire  for  personal 
communion  with  his  parents  which  may 
interfere  with  the  latter's  freedom  to 
realize  themselves  in  their  own  adult 
interests ;  whereas  at  school  the  child 
must  not  be  restrained  in  going  about 
the  serious  business  of  his  life.  There 
must  be  method  and  discipline  in  the 
matter  of  a  child's  sitting  up  after  sup- 
per to  wait  for  father  from  the  office; 
but  he  must  be  allowed  the  utmost  free- 
dom in  learning  to  read  numbers  up  to 
1000  and  Roman  numerals  up  to  XX. 
No  fetters  must  be  imposed  upon  Har- 
old's personality  when  he  is  studying 
the  date  of  the  discovery  of  America, 
but  there  are  rigorous  limitations  on 
the  number  of  minutes  he  is  to  frolic 
with  me  in  bed  or  to  interrupt  me  at 
the  typewriter  when  I  am  engaged  in 


SCHOOL 


551 


rapping  out  copy  which  the  world  could 
spare  much  more  easily  than  Harold's 
soul  can  spare  a  half-hour  of  commun- 
ion with  me. 

Am  I  wrong  in  thinking  of  the  reor- 
ganized child-life  a  la  Bernard  Shaw  as 
a  scheme  under  which  the  schoolboy 
with  shining  face  creeps  unwillingly 
home  and  little  girls  do  samplers  say- 
ing, *  God  bless  our  School '  ?  Home,  a 
phalanstery  of  individuals,  mature  and 
immature,  with  sharply  defined  rules 
against  mutual  intrusion.  School,  a 
place  with  no  rules  of  conduct  save 
those  working  secretly,  —  an  anarchy 
saved  from  complete  chaos  by  a  con- 
cealed benevolent  despotism  a  la  Mon- 
tessori.  The  advanced  child-cult  urists 
puzzle  me.  In  life  they  just  adore  self- 
realization  in  the  face  of  adverse  cir- 
cumstances. In  life  they  believe  that 
character-building  is  attained  by  man's 
knocking  his  head  against  his  environ- 
ment, and  love  for  liberty  is  nourished 
only  under  despotism.  Why  not  apply 
the  same  logic  to  the  child  in  school? 
What  sort  of  mental  and  moral  fibre 
is  developed  by  having  the  child  in  con- 
flict with  nothing  in  particular?  How 
can  any  one,  child  or  adult,  revolt 
against  the  mush  of  the  super-Froebel- 
ian,  super-Montessorian  methods  of 
pedagogical  non-resistance? 

I  know  that  I  am  now  skirting  the 
edge  of  the  familiar  argument  that 
Latin  conjugations  are  not  an  end  in 
themselves  but  a  discipline.  But  I  am 
not  interested  in  that  mental  training 
which  the  modern  individualists  of 
pedagogy  are  inclined  to  dismiss  as 
of  little  value,  but  in  the  formation  of 
character  which  they  are  so  intimately 
concerned  with.  If  it  is  character  reac- 
tions that  they  demand,  how,  I  repeat, 
can  a  child  react  in  the  absence  of  op- 
position? It  is  Mr.  Shaw's  grievance 
against  the  English  public  school  that 
it  made  him  forget  a  good  deal  of  the 
Latin  he  knew  before  he  entered  school. 


This  is,  of  course,  a  fatal  argument. 
Any  system  which  would  have  filled 
Bernard  Shaw  with  Latin  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  the  qualities  which  have  given 
us^  Shaw,  would  stand  condemned. 
Whereas  a  scholastic  system  which  set 
up  in  the  boy  exactly  the  same  kind 
of  Shavian  reactions  which  are  set  up 
by  the  present  social  system  in  the  au- 
thor of  Fanny's  First  Play  obviously 
does  not  stand  convicted  of  crushing 
the  child's  individuality. 

So  I  reassert  my  suspicion  that  much 
of  this  clamor  for  the  freedom  of  the 
child  arises  from  the  desire  to  be  spared 
the  trouble  of  regulating  the  child.  We 
are  more  sensitive  than  the  English 
parent  who  hands  his  boy  over  to  the 
boarding-school,  yet  we  are  not  pre- 
pared to  shoulder  the  trouble  of  keep- 
ing the  boy  at  home.  So  we  still  send 
him  away,  but  insist  that  his  school 
shall  be  home,  that  he  shall  receive 
from  his  schoolmaster  the  love  we  deny 
him,  and  that  respect  for  his  individual 
soul  which  it  is  impossible  for  any  mass 
institution  to  realize,  and  which  only 
the  concentration  of  love  and  sacrifice 
in  the  home  can  develop. 

Incidentally,  I  am  disconcerted  by 
the  broad  exceptions  I  am  asked  to 
allow  to  the  epoch-making  generaliza- 
tions of  the  revolutionary  education- 
ists. If  you  will  recall  that  Mr.  Shaw,  in 
his  discourses  on  Parents  and  Children, 
demands  a  reconstruction  of  schools, 
of  homes,  and  of  parents,  —  in  other 
words,  a  new  world-order, — and  all  in 
the  name  of  education,  it  is  a  setback 
to  have  one  of  his  disciples  remark 
that  the  master's  statements  are  much 
more  true  of  England  than  of  Amer- 
ica, where  children  are  not  whipped 
and  are  not  so  frequently  sent  off  to 
boarding-school  at  the  age  of  six.  But 
what  becomes  then  of  the  universal 
nature  of  the  Shaw  argument?  After 
a  powerful  indictment  against  human 
and  social  relations,  we  are  reminded 


552 


SCHOOL 


that  the  indictment  will  hold  only  for 
the  United  Kingdom  of  Great  Britain 
and  Ireland.  The  thought  occurs  that 
the  trouble  may  not  be  with  human 
nature  but  with  the  United  Kingdom, 
and  that  instead  of  revising  the  home 
and  parenthood  and  sex  relations,  we 
might  revise  the  British  educational 
system.  It  is  as  if  I  were  to  arise  with 
uplifted  arms  to  heaven  and  cry  out, 
*  Make  a  clean  sweep  of  the  past,  O  my 
brethren;  away  with  the  superstitions 
of  family  and  church  and  courts  and 
the  school.  Substitute  love  and  reason 
for  law  and  reticence,  and  a  glorious 
new  age  shall  dawn  for  the  people  of 
the  Twenty-second  Assembly  District 
in  the  County  of  New  York!' 


IV 

I  should  be  more  vehement  against 
the  complicated  and  expensive  machin- 
ery of  Montessorians  and  Eurythmi- 
cians  if  I  believed  their  methods  to  be 
really  as  efficacious  as  people  would 
have  me  believe.  I  should  then  protest 
against  the  refinements  of  an  educa- 
tional system  which  were  within  the 
reach  only  of  the  privileged  few.  I  am 
enough  of  a  sans-culotte  to  grow  angry 
at  the  thought  of  all  those  beautifully 
balanced  systems  of  pedagogy,  of  edu- 
cation through  music  and  the  dance 
and  rhythmic  physical  development, 
which  demand  elaborate  plants,  expen- 
sive teachers,  and  a  leisureliness  which 
the  state  and  the  city  can  never  sup- 
ply to  the  children  of  the  masses.  If 
I  were  a  revolutionist  of  the  ardent 
type,  I  should  be  content  to  make 
education  difficult  and  expensive,  and 
then  insist  that  all  children  have  it. 
But  I  am  not  a  revolutionary  optimist, 
and  until  the  modern  state  is  prepared 
to  spend  on  its  schools  fifty  times  as 
much  as  it  does  to-day,  I  resent  the 
tendency  toward  a  double  system  of 
education,  one  of  joyous  and  harmonic 


development  for  the  children  of  the 
rich  and  one  of  mechanical  routine  and 
hard  practicality  for  the  other  nine 
children  out  of  ten. 

That  is,  I  don't  resent  it.  What  I 
mean  is  that  I  should  resent  it  if  the 
advantages  of  the  costly  individualistic 
system  of  the  Montessorians  and  Eu- 
rythmicians  were  really  superior  to  the 
ready-made-store-clothes  education  of- 
fered to  the  children  of  the  democracy. 
The  expensive  educational  systems  are 
not  a  cause  but  an  effect.  Any  system 
adopted  by  the  rich  for  the  education 
of  their  children  will  result  in  the  bring- 
ing up  of  sanguine,  self-assertive,  har- 
moniously developed  thoroughbreds. 
As  between  the  graduate  of  the  Eu- 
rythmic  schools  of  Jacques  Dalcroze 
and  the  graduate  of  Public  School  No. 
55,  Manhattan,  I  admit  that  the  former 
will  approach  much  nearer  to  the  Hel- 
lenic ideal  of  free-stepping,  graceful, 
masterful  individuality.  But  it  is  not 
Montessori  and  Dalcroze  who  make 
the  child  of  the  income-tax-paying 
classes  a  superchild.  It  is  the  habit  of 
paying  income  tax  that  produces  su- 
perchildren.  The  mediaeval  methods 
of  Eton  and  Harrow  have  been  turning 
out  precisely  the  ideal  product  in  the 
shape  of  the  English  gentleman,  if  poise, 
a  rich  appetite,  and  the  assumption 
of  one's  own  supreme  worth  are  what 
you  are  striving  for. 

I  am  enough  of  a  sans-culotte  to  have 
been  rather  cast  down  when  it  was 
decided  to  send  Harold  to  a  private 
school.  There  were  reasons  enough. 
The  boy's  health,  upon  experiment,  was 
not  equal  to  the  strain  of  a  school-day 
from  nine  till  three  in  the  afternoon 
(actually,  Harold's  school-day  began 
at  eight  in  the  morning  because  of  the 
part-time  system  enforced  by  the  over- 
crowding of  the  classes,  which  Montes- 
sori will  have  to  take  into  considera- 
tion). Harold's  day  now  is  from  nine 
till  one,  with  a  brief  recess  for  play  and 


SCHOOL 


553 


an  intermission  for  lunch  if  desired; 
and  a  schedule  of  physical  training, 
nature-study,  clay-modeling,  basket- 
weaving,  and  pageant  rehearsals  hold 
out  the  promise  that  there  will  be  no 
overtaxing  of  the  child's  mind.  (Once 
more  I  fall  victim  to  my  antiquated 
prejudices,  when  I  imply  that  model- 
ing in  clay  and  sewing  Indian  costumes 
do  not  involve  a  strain  on  the  mind. 
I  know  that  the  newer  psychology  and 
the  newer  pedagogy  have  shown  that 
there  is  more  cerebration  involved  in 
cutting  out  paper  patterns  than  in  mem- 
orizing the  multiplication  table.  But 
I  am  slave  to  the  old  vocabulary.  The 
reader  forewarned  will  make  the  pro- 
per deductions.) 

Nevertheless  I  did  feel  a  pang  at  sep- 
arating Harold  from  the  public  school. 
Emmeline  laughed  and  asked  whether 
I  was  afraid  that  Harold  would  turn 
out  a  snob.  Perhaps  I  was  a  bit  afraid 
of  that,  but  at  bottom  it  was  not  fear 
that  Harold  would  go  to  the  bad  in  the 
private  school,  but  that  he  would  do 
very  well  there.  In  other  words,  it  was 
the  feeling  I  have  just  expressed, 
whether  it  was  fair  that  Harold  should 
be  put  into  the  way  of  having  a  very 
delightful  time  at  school,  with  light 
hours  under  splendid  hygienic  condi- 
tions and  work  reduced  largely  to  play, 
while  so  many  children  of  his  age  can- 
not afford  such  advantages.  That  is, 
not  advantages.  As  I  have  said,  Har- 
old will  probably  not  get  more  out 
of  his  small,  carefully  guarded  classes 
than  the  other  children  will  get  out  of 
the  overcrowded  classes  in  the  public 
school.  But  as  a  sign  of  social  inequal- 
ity the  thing  offended  me.  If  you  will, 
you  may  call  this  a  gospel  of  envy.  But 
in  my  heart  I  could  not  help  taking 
sides  with  the  children  of  the  disinher- 
ited against  Harold  as  a  representative 
of  the  exploiting  classes. 

As  to  the  fear  of  Harold's  turning  in- 
to a  snob,  that  has  long  been  shown  to 


be  completely  unfounded.  On  this  sub- 
ject Harold's  itinerary  from  his  school 
to  Belshazzar  Court  is  illuminating  ev- 
idence. I  have  said  that  in  the  morning 
Harold  trots  to  school.  In  the  morn- 
ing Harold  probably  gets  to  school  in 
five  minutes.    Returning,  it  takes  him 
half  an  hour.  Emmeline  has  questioned 
him  on  the  subject.    It  appears  that  in 
returning  from  school  Harold  maps  a 
course  due  north  by  west  by  east  by 
south,  so  as  to  cover  every  local  bit  of 
topography  which  comes  within   his 
knowledge  during  the  play  hours  of  the 
afternoon.    He  tacks  around  unneces- 
sary corners.   He  beats  his  way  up  a 
hill  in  the  park  which  is  a  favorite  tour- 
ney place  for  the  marble-players  of  the 
vicinity.    He  skirts  the  shore  of  sev- 
eral window-displays,  to  the  contents 
of  which  he  has  turned  the  conver- 
sation at  home  on  several  occasions. 
For  five  minutes  at  a  time  he  is  totally 
becalmed    against    some    smooth    ex- 
panse of  brick  wall  excellent  for  hand- 
ball practice,  or  on  a  sheltered  corner 
for  a  bit  of  preliminary  knuckle  exer- 
cises with  his  agates  and  his  'immies.' 
The  White  Wing  flushing  the  pavement 
engages  Harold's  attention  for  as  long 
as  the  work  may  seem  to  demand. 
Then,  having  assured  himself  that  the 
world  at  one-thirty  in  the  afternoon  is 
very  much  as  he  left  it  at  six  o'clock  the 
night  before,  he  hastens  to  his  lunch. 

No,  there  is  little  danger  of  the  boy's 
growing  up  an  aristocrat.  The  fierce 
democracy  of  the  Street  has  him  in  its 
grasp.  He  chooses  his  playmates  by 
preference  from  the  lower  classes.  He 
is  like  Walt  Whitman  in  the  way  he 
singles  out  the  dirtiest  little  boy  in  the 
block  and  says  to  him  'Camerado.' 
He  takes  the  world  of  his  fellow  men  as 
he  finds  it.  When  Harold  was  first  sent 
off  to  school  Emmeline  was  concerned 
to  find  a  nice  little  boy  for  him  to  play 
with.  She  found  one  in  a  classmate  of 
Harold's.  We  invited  him  to  the  house 


554 


SCHOOL 


and  in  half  an  hour  a  considerable  por- 
tion of  the  wall-paper  in  Harold's  room 
was  hanging  in  fringes.  But  in  spite  of 
a  common  basis  of  taste  and  tempera- 
ment the  two  boys  were  not  much  to- 
gether, for  the  very  reason,  I  presume, 
that  their  friendship  had  been  to  some 
extent  imposed  on  them  from  above. 
No;  Harold's  tastes  go  down  straight 
to  the  foundations  of  our  social  struc- 
ture. Without  recognizing  class  dis- 
tinctions, he  would  rather  play  marbles 
with  the  son  of  a  retail  tradesman  than 
with  the  son  of  a  college  professor,  with 
the  son  of  a  janitor  than  with  the  son 
of  a  store-keeper.  If  the  janitor  is  a 
Negro  so  much  the  better.  The  Negro 
boys  have  an  advantage  over  Harold 
in  the  matter  of  tint  at  the  beginning 
of  a  game  of  marbles.  But  within  half 
an  hour  Harold  has  overcome  the  hand- 
icap. If  anything,  his  is  the  deeper 
shade  of  brown,  though  his  color  is  not 
so  evenly  distributed.  In  such  a  guise 
I  can  recognize  Harold  by  a  sort  of  in- 
stinct. But  the  only  way  in  which  a 
stranger  could  tell  the  child  of  Cau- 
casian descent  from  the  child  of  the 
Hamite  would  be  by  measuring  Har- 
old's cephalic  index. 


It  is  a  serious  problem  —  the  profits 
of  democracy  and  the  price  we  must 
pay.  There  are  the  obvious  advant- 
ages: the  boy's  education  in  the  sense 
of  human  fellowship  without  regard  to 
caste  and  color;  his  education  in  the 
rough  and  ready  but  fairly  equitable 
laws  of  the  street;  his  gain  in  self-confi- 
dence and  self-restraint  in  play;  not  to 
mention  the  extremely  beneficent  ef- 
fect on  his  appetite  and  his  digestion. 
I  have  watched  the  boy  at  his  marbles 
in  the  park,  more  eager,  more  drunken 
with  the  joy  of  existence,  than  he  is  at 
school  or  in  the  house.  I  have  seen  him 
sprawl  down  on  his  knees  and  with  the 


pad  of  his  palm  and  four  outstretched 
fingers  measure  off  eight  or  ten  horrible 
hand-spaces  in  the  dust  from  the  hole 
to  his  opponent's  marble.  I  have  seen 
him  rise  from  the  earth  like  Antaeus, 
triumphant  but  horribly  besmirched, 
with  the  blue  of  his  eyes  gleaming  pi- 
ratically  through  the  circumjacent  soil; 
I  have  watched  him  and  rejoiced  and 
had  my  qualms. 

The  price  that  Harold  pays  for  de- 
mocracy is  in  a  slovenliness  of  speech 
which  I  find  offensive  and  Emmeline 
finds  utterly  distracting.  It  seems  a 
pity  to  have  his  school  drill  in  phonet- 
ics arid  the  memorizing  of  good  litera- 
ture vitiated  by  the  slurred  and  clipped 
syllables  of  the  street.  Harold  says, '  It 
is  me/  and  frequently  he  says,  'It  is 
nut  tin'.'  The  final  g  of  the  participle 
has  virtually  disappeared  from  his  vo- 
cabulary. He  sometimes  says,  'I  ain't 
got  nuttin'.'  While  Emmeline  is  dis- 
tracted I  am  merely  offended,  because 
I  recall  that  there  is  a  great  body  of 
linguistic  authority  growing  up  in  fa- 
vor of  Harold's  democratic  practices  in 
phonetics  and  grammar.  When  Harold 
says,  'It  is  me,'  Professor  Lounsbury 
should  worry.  By  the  time  Harold 
grows  up  it  will  probably  be  good  gram- 
mar to  say,  'I  ain't  got  nothing.'  By 
the  time  Harold  grows  up,  the  Deca- 
logue, in  its  latest  recension,  will  read, 
'Thou  shalt  not  have  none  other  gods 
before  I,'  and,  'Thou  shalt  not  bear 
no  false  witness  against  none  of  thy 
neighbors.'  I  must  not  forget  that 
whereas  I  was  brought  up  on  Mat- 
thew Arnold,  De  Quincey,  and  Ste- 
venson, Harold  is  growing  up  in  the 
age  of  John  Masefield.  If  literature  is 
to  be  racy  of  the  soil  —  and  for  that 
matter  if  not  only  our  speech  and  our 
literature,  but  our  morals  and  our  so- 
cial outlook  are  to  be  racy  of  the  soil  - 
if  in  every  section  of  life  the  cry  is  to  be 
back  to  the  land,  to  the  primitive,  to 
the  unashamed,  sex-education,  untram- 


SCHOOL 


555 


meled  art,  democracy  at  its  broadest, 
if  -  -  well,  what  I  mean  is  that  in  any 
civilization  based  upon  close  contact 
with  the  soil  Harold  will  not  be  lost. 
Soil  is  right  in  his  line. 

I  am  less  concerned  with  the  effect  of 
the  street  upon  Harold's  vernacular 
because  the  boy  seems  gratefully  im- 
mune against  the  more  sordid  aspects 
of  the  open-air  life.  His  phonetics  and 
grammar  are  deteriorating,  but  there 
is  no  trace  of  foulness  in  his  speech  or 
in  his  thoughts.  The  reason  is  that  Har- 
old's open-air  activities  are  confined 
entirely  to  play.  His  democracy  centres 
about  the  ball  ground  and  the  marble 
pit.  His  absorption  in  games  is  so  com- 
plete —  too  complete  to  judge  by  the 
nervous  exhaustion  it  sometimes  brings 
—  that  it  leaves  no  leisure  or  incli- 
nation for  idle  speech.  His  technical 
vocabulary  of  the  game  is  complete. 
I  sometimes  marvel  at  the  ease  with 
which  he  has  mastered  the  patois  of 
sport  —  those  cabalistic  words  which, 
shouted  at  the  proper  moment,  signify 
that  Harold  prefers  to  let  his  marble 
rest  and  have  his  opponent  shoot  at 
him,  or  that  he  has  chosen  to  mark  off 
so  many  hand-spaces  in  the  dirt  and 
shoot  at  his  opponent.  But  once  the 
game  is  done  he  comes  upstairs.  He 
does  not  share  in  the  peripatetics  of  the 
gang,  and  he  knows  absolutely  nothing 
of  the  premature  intimacies  of  street 
childhood  with  the  bitterness  of  life. 
On  the  whole  I  find  the  balance  is  in 
favor  of  marbles  and  democracy. 

Harold  in  the  open  air  is  an  exceed- 
ingly important  factor  and  a  badly  ne- 
glected one  in  present-day  discussion 
of  the  child.  The  talk  is  either  of  the 
school  or  the  home.  If  play  is  taken 
into  account  it  is  the  regulated  play  of 


the  school-ground.  Yet  the  street,  as 
the  citadel  of  the  liberties  of  the  child, 
is  overlooked.  Take  the  actual  ques- 
tion of  hours  in  Harold's  day.  He 
spends  nearly  twelve  hours  in  bed, 
from  seven  to  seven.  He  spends  two 
hours,  almost,  at  his  meals.  He  spends 
four  hours  at  school.  He  spends  five 
hours,  at  least,  in  play.  Under  such  an 
arrangement  all  talk  about  the  despo- 
tism of  school  and  the  despotism  of 
parents  loses  meaning  to  me.  I  have 
shown  that  the  boy's  school-life  is  hap- 
py. But  even  if  it  were  not,  even  if  his 
body  and  soul  were  subjected  to  the 
tyrannies  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  calls  up, 
those  twelve  hours  of  sleep  and  five 
hours  of  play  are  a  reservoir  of  physi- 
cal and  spiritual  recuperation  which 
would  make  life  more  than  tolerable  to 
Harold.  On  the  whole  I  think  I  am 
not  less  sensitive  than  Harold  to  pain 
and  oppression.  But  if  my  employer 
were  to  let  me  sleep  twelve  hours  in 
the  twenty-four  and  play  five  hours 
and  spend  two  hours  at  table,  I  should 
consider  myself  a  very  happy  man. 

I  have  reserved  my  confession  for 
the  very  last.  I  find  it  difficult  to  take 
school  at  Harold's  age  —  or  for  that 
matter  at  any  age  —  seriously  enough 
to  grow  extremely  agitated  over  its 
problems.  Montessori  or  Dr.  Birch  — 
the  difference  is  not  vast.  Naturally  I 
do  not  go  as  far  as  Mr.  Squeers.  School 
is  just  a  ripple  on  the  surface  of  the 
ocean  of  young  life  and  feeling,  and 
whether  the  ripple  shapes  after  the 
Froebel  pattern  or  the  Montessori 
wrinkle,  makes  little  difference  to  the 
depths  below.  I  can  make  the  asser- 
tion with  confidence  about  Harold 
without  any  very  precise  knowledge  of 
what  are  the  depths  in  him. 


ITALY'S    POSITION 


HV    (JF.OHGF,    H.    MrCLKLLAN 


TIIK  llalinn  declaration  of  ncutralit  v 
in  the  present  \var,  coining  as  i(  did 
most  unexpectedly,  was  receixed  xxhh 
\.n\ing  ('motions  in  the  chancelleries 
«>f  Kuropc.  (iermanx  and  Austria,  \\  ho 
had  exidenlly  counted  on  the  actixe 
siipporl  of  an  Italian  army,  scarcdx 
xeiled  their  disappointment  in  an  ur- 
gent although  correctly  worded  protest 
made  by  their  ambassador  at  Home, 
while  Kngland,  France,  and  Russia 
\xere  almost  hysterically  delighted  on 
receiving  the  news  that  thcx  had  one 
less  enemy  to  deal  with. 

While  the  exact  terms  of  the  Triple* 
Alliance  have  never  been  publicly  an- 
nounced, the  German-Austrian  protest 
\\as  predicated  on  the  assumption  thai 
under  them  any  (\>o  of  the  allies  xxere 
required  to  defend  the  third  in  the 
ex  cut  of  an  attack  upon  the  latter. 
Ut  hough  Germany  hat!  declared  war 
against  France,  it  was  lie-Id  that  certain 
alleged  acts  of  aggression  committed 
by  France  constituted  an  attack  upon 
Germany  xxithin  the  meaning  of  the 
treaty  of  alliance. 

To  this  protest  the  Italian  Foreign 
Minister,  the  Marchese  di  San  Giuli- 
ano,  replied  that  the  acts  complained 
of  hail  unquestionably  been  otVset  bx 
similar  acts  on  the  part  of  (Jermanx. 
and  that,  petty  incidents  aside,  the 
xital  fact  remained  that  (lermanx  had 
declared  war  against  France,  xxhich  in 
the  judgment  of  the  Italian  j-.oxcrn- 
ment  absolx««il  Italy  from  taking  an\ 
part  in  the  xxar  as  a  member  ot  the 


iplic*'.  Sii'.nore  (liolitli.  the  former 
Italian  Prime  Minister,  xxenl  e\en  fur 
ther  than  this,  and  xxas  quoted  bx  the 
Italian  ncxvspapers  as  saying  that  in 
his  judgment  Italx  \\ould  haxc  been 
perfectly  justified  as  a  member  of  the 
Triple  Alliance  in  remaining  neutral, 
oven  had  Germany  or  Austria  been 
actually  and  openly  attacked. 

Apart  from  the  purely  academic  dis 
(Mission  as  to  xxhat  possible  benefit  to 
its  members  the  Triple  Alliance  could 
have  afforded  under  Signore  Giolit- 
ti's  interpretation,  the  chief  interest  of 
those  concerned  in  Italian  affairs  has 
been  confined  to  speculation  on  the 
probable  cause  of  llalx's  action.  The 
present  Italian  gox  eminent  has  on  the 
one  hand  been  accused  of  selfishness, 
and  on  the  other  hand  has  been  praised 
for  its  patriotism  and  statesmanship. 
Asa  matter  of  fact  both  critics  and 
admirers  are  partly  right  and  partly 
wrong. 

To    any  one  familiar    xxith    Italian 
affairs  and  recent   Italian  political  his 
lory,  the  underlying  causes  of  the  ac- 
tion of  the  Salandra  minis!  rx  hax  e  been 
more  or  less  ohx  ions.   Signore  Salandra 
and  his  colleagues  declared  the  neutral 
itx     of     Italy    because    they    believed 
such  action    to   be  for   tin*  best    int« 
ests  of  their  country,  and  because  cir- 
cumstances alloxx  ed  them  no  option  in 
the  matter. 

To  understand  their  reasons,  it  is 
necessarx  to  understand  Italx  's  original 
altitude  loxxard  the  Triple  Alliance, 
which  has  prohahh  been  ended  forexcr 
bx  the  declaration  of  unixersal  war. 


IT.M  \       r<>  ino\ 


.V*  ; 


th:in    fifn     M-MI-.   n  -v 
,T  \.  .-.-.I.,'     MUd,     *We    h:M.« 
h:iU  .    u     nou     Ivtu-.M,-,    u-.    I.-    m:»Ko 

ttauani  '  rii.-  effort  to  maki  i^i^ng* 
InotherworditotrtniforiH  i^u  (ton 
exprenioh  fatal  n:ui,»n, 
the  life-work  of  almoit  iverj 

.•..MMimi.MU    sin.V   I  ho   lun.-  ,-t    t    :M,MU\ 
u-n-.    Mu.l    MiMxJholli.  .limn*.:    tn.-n 
v.'Mf.    .>(    |'.M\9%k«T'     ll:'U    in    '  "<' 

tralght  p=»iii  .'i  loonomit    develop 

m.Mit.  freedom  llio  rnl  MM--!,  in,  -m  -.  MM.! 

-l.ii,  |     <  'n-.|M.  uhoSUih 
il>'-in.    m-.pnr.l    IM     In-.    Si,  ili:m 
uu:c-.iu:»li,.n.  .li.-nnu-.l  of  inakuu-    \\-.\ty 

ft  Ju  .1 

Mri  ntttoni  of  thi  Mrthi 

,-l    ihr    In.  <     th:»i      -tu     WM     Hiru    .-l\|y  ft 

pool  :»«»«!  ««••••«  K  community  )  M 


-.mrr   t.r,  ,>in,- 

Tiu-  Immediate  renults  of 

pnli.M     ur,o  ll,,,  'I'n,-!,-     VHiMM.  <-.   -M.-MU 

wed  juiit  ft  qu:iu«M  of  ft  roufury 
i««^"MiM  war  In 

eost   Inm  his  p,.lin.:«l  hi'.-. 

ni(uu:i(«-,,-...ii'.  uorean  ON  «••  "»,  ..^gina 
i.iu.irn  .-I  taxation  Poi  >ii«-  arm^  and 
HM\  v  .  u  iu.-ii  h.-i  nil,,.  i.-,,uired  Italy  <«• 

in:iiM(:iin  :r.  ll>o  |»ii,-«-  .-I    feheir  suppnft, 

MM.  i  M  diiastroui  p.-mie. 

I'll.-.   IIUMU,  .M!  Mini  .-.Minnopeial  p;»>" 

of  isilT  wan  i..ii.«uod  by  a  perio.i  of 
in.i..  IMM!  deeressbft  which  ««.  iti  turn' 

W«s  rdloWtd  DyiimUv  i-  riodm  ton  nn<l 

twenty  ywi-N  IMI.-I    inni  autu  ««-.  «-«\t- 
efforti  of  Si&nort  <  'iispi'«  «ue- 
Imve  been  direi  i«--i  to 

.......   UtUioUMl    Jrv,  •!,,,,..».  ut    Ml     I...UH- 

ol'    lM.lu-.lMMl     MM.  I     ,  oiUllirn 
,  lMil.«-i    (li:ni    IM    P..I.I..M!   ad- 

i  (...,,,(.»!     :llt|,.:l.| 

Thr     Tnplr.      \llcui.  r     \\nv     i.  n,  u,  ,1 

uix-n  H  rx,.,..  ,i.  MM,  i  M.  gupporl  "fita 

IM...M-    MMMN      MM.  I     MM\    N      U.  'I.'    M.MIMlilifted 

ill  irMlU  -i,  -MI  n:iii.<M:il  nnrrid*  <•     Italy 

I.M.I  uiumed  HM^  obligation!  "I'agreat 

,  u  u  limit  a  ^"-='<   i"'"cr*i  re- 
;  but  like  a  family  of  moderate 


meant  iMoetfctinf  with 

i,.  ,  onftM  Kei  p.M.-rty 
driiadi  >«i  h,  ,  own  .  i:^s.  SK.- 
to  m&fc   IYWJ  lai  rtfit  a  at 

li  =oul  '.Kuup  in  lu-.j   h,>u^e» 

M  i"  maki  :»  mow  .«r  leu 

MJ'P'  -:U:IM,  I    :iiu,M\g  h^  ff»  1» 
SI-.MM  1:1(1 

Haly*«  wtHilth  in  i^p"i'>    IM 

it  undoubted^  true 

ten  x-eawii«-« 


MMMll.-l     ,«1    M    ,   .MUMl   N     .>(     peat   ''lul    ,1,    V.    I 

.-pnioni.  «.!>«••  ^  iti  undoubtedly  bet  OBM 

in  foot  tl\o  (irst-rl{\ss  DOWfJ  «!»:»»  M):IU\ 

tmftfmf  i"  '  to  '" 


MI,  i.'M-.r.l    M.  M.I.U     \.  M,     IM 

i  i"<>,  .--I  IN 


Ml  lIlO  -.MIUO  poriod}  "I  MM  tnt  I.  M  -.,'.  Ml 
l...(ll  eXpOrtl  Mil.  I  MUp.Ml'.  .llMMUr  llto 

decade  of]  UO^,S^^UMMA,    -SA  pel 

At    I  hiring  tl\oi«wun«Mlr.  M.loihoni,  M 

latioii  ..i  ii.-i  i-MMivrt  hn.M  In.  reaied  (row 

I  ...    i.^KMWMWO  i,.  I  ...    •.- 

pt  wrvt    from  i  In  s(W,cW!>. 
1,661^79,000,  and  their  dh- 

l..-.n  Ufe  ^1(IS.r»M7,tMH)  to  1,. 

')-).:,  ,,.,)„(,.  uln!.    .h.    MM...MMI 
DOlit    in    llio  I'oMlrtl  SMMM-. 

m.  ..:>'.!    In.  m    I  iro    H(W,<^4,H,'t    tO 

I^t  l|Mi|56l|ISSl    Mil.  I     (llO    HMM.U    ,     ..I 

depotitort  from  I.IMMI.AHS  mA.7so,oio 
During  the  lam      v«.>  years  i»  •••  mil- 
waythavtinoreaaedthel]  pM^pn^-'  •• 
oeipUfroffl  Lire  lft4.tui.iMio  ,„ 
...  i.noyiH.fUiMM»o  ...  i-)i  ;.  :1M1] 

IVelglu  rteelpti  from  Ure  146,115,000 
to  i  Ire  Wl,8il,000i  while  (ten  I-MK 
i..  I'M  •  i,,..,  MI.  -i,  I.MMI  marine  "•.  reaaed 

from  68,870,7?^  ton*  to 
tonii 

In     MMM,   «Tft.:i:^»    llM 

M.    TOM      III''     '.(^ftg,    WWlo      I.  -M       X.    Ml'.      I:H.    I 

iii,  numbei  "i  iran»«oer:nii.  emtgranti 
ereas^i  <•»  444,7Ho.  ••!  uii..in 
went  to  iiranil,  107,048  to  the 


558 


ITALY'S  POSITION 


Plata,  310,991  to  the  United  States, 
and  2906  elsewhere.  It  has  been  esti- 
mated that  the  Italian  emigrants  an- 
nually send  back  to  the  mother  country 
some  $50,000,000,  of  which  probably 
$35,000,000  comes  from  the  United 
States,  while  another  $25,000,000  is 
annually  spent  in  Italy  by  foreign 
tourists. 

Though  the  sulphur  industry  has  not 
recovered  from  its  collapse  of  some  years 
ago,  and  is  in  a  far  from  flourishing 
condition,  the  production  of  the  lead, 
silver,  and  zinc  mines  has  increased 
50  per  cent  in  ten  years.  Manufactures 
are  in  a  most  prosperous  condition 
generally,  showing  large  increases  in 
the  last  decade.  The  output  of  silk  has 
remained  almost  stationary,  but  the 
production  of  chemicals,  beet-sugar, 
spirits,  and  beer,  has  more  than 
doubled.  Italy's  lack  of  coal  has  been 
largely  compensated  by  the  develop- 
ment of  her  water-power,  the  number 
of  ettowatt  hours  having  increased 
from  454,634,034  in  1903  to  1,826,740,- 
838  in  1913,  or  over  300  per  cent. 

Three  years  ago  Signore  Giolitti,  the 
Prime  Minister,  deeming  Italian  eco- 
nomic conditions  sufficiently  satisfac- 
tory for  his  purpose,  resolved  to  put 
the  finishing  touches  to  the  structure 
of  Italian  nationality  so  carefully 
erected  by  his  predecessors.  Whatever 
may  have  been  the  immediate  cause  of 
the  Italian-Turkish  War,  its  underlying 
reason  was  undoubtedly  the  desire  of 
the  Italian  government  to  complete  the 
work  of  national  unification  by  means 
of  a  fervid  appeal  to  the  patriotism  of 
the  people  in  calling  upon  them  to  fight 
for  Italy.  For  the  moment  Signore 
Giolitti's  policy  seemed  triumphantly 
successful.  With  Tripoli  and  Cyrenaica 
Italian  colonies,  Italians  began  to  pic- 
ture themselves  embarked  upon  a 
career  of  world-conquest  and  of  empire 
beyond  the  seas,  with  the  glories  of 
Imperial  Rome  reincarnate  under  the 


aegis  of  the  House  of  Savoy.  But  the 
enthusiasm  of  victory  and  the  dreams 
of  military  prowess  were  soon  forgotten 
in  the  dull  reality  of  paying  the  costs 
of  conquest. 

ii 

While  Italy  had  been  developing 
toward  nationhood  a  revolution  had 
been  quietly  taking  place  on  Italian 
soil,  which,  scarcely  noticed  and  hardly 
understood,  had  completely  changed 
the  form  of  Italian  political  life.  Until 
recently,  modern  Italy,  like  all  self- 
governing  countries  during  the  last 
half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  had  been 
ruled  by  a  middle-class  aristocracy,  a 
bourgeois  ruling  caste,  composed  of 
merchants  and  shopkeepers,  lawyers, 
physicians,  and  other  professional  men, 
who,  by  means  of  a  limited  franchise, 
were  able  to  exclude  the  vast  majority 
of  the  people  from  any  share  in  gov- 
ernment. But  the  proletariat,  so  long 
dormant,  at  last  awakened  to  self-con- 
sciousness, and  to  a  realization  of  its 
power,  and  the  last  Giolitti  ministry 
was  forced  to  grant  universal  manhood 
suffrage.  The  first  election  under  the 
changed  conditions  was  held  last  year, 
and  inaugurated  a  new  era  in  Italian 
history. 

Despite  the  growing  prosperity  of 
Italy,  the  burdens  of  taxation  have 
been  constantly  growing.  The  cost  of 
the  Triple  Alliance  has  progressed 
greatly  during  the  last  ten  years,  and 
has  made  Italy  one  of  the  most  heavi- 
ly taxed  countries  in  Europe,  in  pro- 
portion to  her  population.  In  1890, 
the  first  year  of  the  existence  of  the 
treaty,  the  total  revenues  of  the  king- 
dom were  Lire  1,540,001,000,  the  total 
expenditures  were  Lire  1,617,241,000; 
twenty-five  years  later  (1912-13)  the 
revenue  had  increased  to  Lire  2,528,- 
874,000  (about  40  per  cent),  and  the 
expenditures  to  Lire  2,536,488,000 


ITALY'S  POSITION 


559 


(about  37  per  cent),  while  from  1901 
to  1911,  the  population  had  increased 
only  6.6  per  cent. 

The  increased  cost  of  living,  due  to 
many  causes  other  than  increased  tax- 
ation, coupled  with  a  disproportionate- 
ly small  increase  in  wages,  spread  a 
spirit  of  great  discontent  throughout 
proletarian  Italy,  which  found  its  first 
opportunity  of  effective  expression  at 
the  first  election  held  under  universal 
suffrage.  Dissatisfied  Italians  are  no- 
thing if  not  thorough  in  the  means  they 
employ  in  the  effort  to  redress  their 
grievances.  There  are  four  political 
parties  in  Italy  which  are  frankly  revo- 
lutionary and  seek  by  varying  methods 
to  overturn  the  House  of  Savoy  and 
the  constitution.  The  Republicans 
and  Socialists  took  part  in  the  last  elec- 
tion with  the  avowed  purpose  of  using 
the  present  constitution  for  its  own 
undoing:  in  other  words,  with  the  ex- 
pressed intention  of  bringing  about  the 
social  revolution  by  peaceful  and  quasi- 
constitutional  means.  The  anarchists 
and  syndicalists  declined  to  go  to  the 
polls,  preferring  to  follow  a  policy 
of  propaganda  by  act;  in  other  words, 
they  seek  to  overturn  society  by  any 
unlawful  means,  such  as  the  general 
strike  or  open  and  active  violence. 
These  four  revolutionary  parties  work 
in  sympathy  and  harmony  with  one 
another,  and  probably  include  a  large 
majority  of  the  Italian  proletariat. 


in 

At  the  meeting  of  the  first  Parlia- 
ment elected  under  universal  suffrage 
Signore  Giolitti  found  himself  con- 
fronted by  a  Chamber  of  Deputies  con- 
taining more  than  a  third  of  Socialist 
and  Republican  members,  supported 
outside  by  a  large,  well-organized,  and 
enthusiastic  constituency,  composed  of 
all  the  revolutionary  elements,  and  a 
constitutional  majority  composed  of 


several  minority  groups  held  together 
in  a  'bloc*  by  the  force  of  Signore 
Giolitti's  personality,  by  gratitude  for 
favors  already  given,  and  by  the  hope 
of  favors  yet  to  come. 

Signore  Giolitti  is  the  most  experi- 
enced, the  most  resourceful,  and  the 
ablest  politician  in  Italian  public  life. 
He  has  been  four  times  prime  minister, 
and  during  the  intervals  between  his 
ministries  he  has  made  and  destroyed 
governments  almost  at  will.  For  fif- 
teen vears  he  has  been  the  dictator,  or 

V 

rather  the  *  boss,'  of  Italy.  When  he 
came  back  to  power  after  the  general 
election  the  problem  before  him  was 
peculiarly  difficult.  His  hold  upon  the 
Chamber,  and  therefore  upon  political 
life,  was  more  precarious  than  ever  in 
his  career.  For  the  first  time  he  was 
confronted  by  a  well-organized  and 
uncompromising  opposition,  which  re- 
fused to  be  pacified  and  declined  to 
be  bought.  His  own  followers  were 
frightened  by  the  strength  of  their  op- 
ponents, and  like  all  middle-class  poli- 
ticians were  inclined  to  compromise 
with  the  proletariat  on  the  first  trial 
of  strength. 

Two  questions  gave  him  the  great- 
est cause  for  alarm.  The  first  was  the 
demand  of  the  admirably  organized 
union  of  the  employees  in  the  state 
railways  for  an  increase  in  their  pay, 
amounting  to  nearly  Lire  15,000,000. 
The  second  was  the  necessity  of  meet- 
ing the  deferred  payment  of  the  cost 
of  the  Turkish  War. 

It  was  generally  recognized  that  the 
railway  employees  were  pitifully  un- 
derpaid ;  but  with  a  deficit  in  the  bud- 
get, and  with  the  highest  passenger 
and  freight  rates  on  earth,  the  prob- 
lem of  granting  the  demand  of  the  men 
presented  very  serious  difficulties. 

The  question  of  paying  the  price  of 
victory  over  the  Turks  was  even  more 
delicate.  Signore  Giolitti's  friends  had 
made  the  boast  that  the  war  in  Tripoli 


560 


ITALY'S  POSITION 


was  fought  without  borrowing  a  penny, 
and  without  increasing  taxation.  The 
statement  was  at  the  time  generally 
believed,  and  Signore  Giolitti  acquired 
much  fame  as  a  remarkable  financier. 
He  naturally  dreaded  the  repercussion 
upon  his  own  fortunes  of  the  discovery 
of  the  actual  state  of  affairs.  He  and 
his  supporters  insisted  that  the  sacri- 
fice entailed  by  membership  in  the 
Triple  Alliance  had  been  more  than 
compensated  by  the  complaisance  of 
Germany  and  Austria  in  keeping  the 
ring  while  Italy  and  Turkey  fought. 
These  financial  sacrifices  in  the  past 
were,  they  claimed,  the  only  cost  of 
the  Turkish  War.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
while  the  Giolitti  ministry  borrowed 
no  money  abroad,  it  did  borrow  money 
at  home  by  the  issue  of  treasury  notes 
to  the  amount  of  about  Lire  250,000,- 
000,  which  of  course,  have  had  to  be 
redeemed.  There  has  been  a  general 
impression  among  Italians  that  by 
some  mysterious  financial  magic  the 
Turkish  war  was  paid  for  out  of  econo- 
mies. It  actually  cost,  from  the  begin- 
ning of  hostilities  up  to  December  31, 
1913,  Lire  1,149,758,000,  or,  roughly, 
$230,000,000.  In  addition  to  this  the 
new  colonial  budget,  including  the  cost 
of  the  desultory  war,  which  still  re- 
quires the  presence  of  100,000  men  in 
Africa,  amounts  for  the  present  year 
to  Lire  84,000,000,  making  the  increase 
in  the  army  budget  for  this  year,  in 
a  time  of  nominal  peace,  the  sum  of 
Lire  250,000,000. 

Signore  Giolitti  is  no  longer  young, 
his  health  was  not  of  the  best,  and 
he  was  tired  of  office.  The  pro- 
blems before  him,  problems  of  his  own 
creation,  were  more  than  he  cared 
to  attempt  to  solve,  and  quite  unex- 
pectedly he  resigned.  He  shifted  the 
burdens  of  power  to  the  shoulders  of 
Signore  Salandra,  a  deputy,  who  had 
held  office  in  a  previous  government. 
Signore  Salandra  retained  three  mem- 


bers of  the  last  Giolitti  cabinet,  includ- 
ing the  Marchese  de  San  Giuliano  as 
Foreign  Minister. 

The  Salandra  government  began  its 
career  by  dodging  responsibility  wher- 
ever it  was  possible.  The  grievances  of 
the  railway  servants  were  referred  to 
a  commission,  with  the  promise  to  the 
men  that  some  increase  would  be  made 
in  the  rates  of  pay,  while  the  increases 
in  the  budget  were  laid  at  the  door  of 
Signore  Giolitti  and  his  colleagues. 

Signore  Salandra  was  beginning  to 
dream  of  a  quiet  and  uneventful  official 
career  when  the  syndicalist  general 
strike  of  last  June  rudely  awakened 
him.  The  general  strike  disclosed  the 
fact  that  the  anti-dvriastic  and  revolu- 

«/ 

tionary  forces  in  Italy  are  so  well  or- 
ganized and  so  powerful  that  no  gov- 
ernment can  afford  to  ignore  them.  For 
two  days  all  Italy,  and  for  a  week  Ro- 
magna  and  the  Marches,  lay  at  the 
mercy  of  the  mob. 

Speculation  as  to  how  a  man  of 
blood  and  iron  might  have  dealt  with 
the  situation  is  of  little  interest  in  com- 
parison with  actual  events.  Signore  Sa- 
landra appears  to  have  been  so  fearful 
of  losing  his  majority  in  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies  that  he  permitted  the  strike 
to  run  its  course,  until  the  strike  lead- 
ers in  their  own  good  time  brought  it 
to  an  end. 

On  the  adoption  of  the  budget,  Par- 
liament was  prorogued  and  Signore 
Salandra,  somewhat  weakened  in  pub- 
lic estimation  by  his  handling  of  the 
general  strike,  turned  his  attention  to 
repairing  the  damage  to  his  political 
reputation  caused  by  a  week  of  law- 
lessness. 

IV 

It  was  fortunate  for  Italy  that  when 
her  two  allies,  Germany  and  Austria, 
went  to  war  without  consulting  her 
and  with  an  unexpectedness  that  has 
no  parallel  in  history,  she  had  at  the 


ITALY'S  POSITION 


561 


head  of  her  Department  of  Foreign  Af- 
fairs one  of  her  few  statesmen.  The 
Marchese  di  San  Giuliano  is  a  Sicilian, 
the  head  of  an  old  and  wealthy  family, 
whose  estates  are  near  Catania,  on  the 
northern  slope  of  Etna.  He  was  trained 
by  Francesco  Crispi,  and  has  had  wide 
experience  in  the  Chamber  of  Depu- 
ties, in  diplomacy,  in  the  Department 
of  Foreign  Affairs,  and  in  the  Senate, 
where  he  now  sits.  More  than  almost 
any  man  in  contemporaneous  Italian 
public  life,  he  has  the  faculty  of  gaug- 
ing public  opinion  and  of  understand- 
ing just  how  far  government  can  go 
with  popular  support.  He  has  unques- 
tionably been  of  the  most  vital  serv- 
ice to  his  country,  and  to  his  chief,  in 
solving  the  crisis  precipitated  by  the 
declaration  of  war. 

The  problem  which  confronted  the 
Salandra  ministry  was  two-fold:  first, 
what  was  its  duty  to  the  allies  of  Italy? 
second,  what  was  its  duty  to  Italy  her- 
self? 

The  first  branch  of  the  problem  was 
of  comparatively  easy  solution :  neither 
Germany  nor  Austria-Hungary  had 
been  attacked,  in  fact  they  had  delib- 
erately and  in  cold  blood  brought  on 
the  war.  Italy  as  a  faithful  ally  was 
therefore  left  free  either  to  join  them  or 
to  remain  neutral ;  and  for  reasons  that 
will  presently  appear  she  chose  the 
latter  course. 

The  second  part  of  the  problem  was 
far  more  complicated,  but  neverthe- 
less was  capable  of  only  one  possible 
answer,  for  the  objections  to  her  join- 
ing the  allies  were  quite  as  obvious  as 
were  the  advantages  of  neutrality. 

The  objections  were  sentimental, 
economic,  and  political.  The  Triple 
Alliance  has  never  been  popular  with 
the  Italian  people.  It  has,  to  be  sure, 
flattered  their  pride  to  feel  that  their 
friendship  has  been  sought  by  two  of 
the  great  nations  of  the  earth;  and  when 
Crispi  concluded  the  Triplice,  Italians, 

VOL.  114 ^NO.  4 


closing  their  eyes  to  realities,  deluded 
themselves  with  the  belief  that  mem- 
bership in  the  alliance  necessarily  made 
them  the  equal  of  their  allies.  It  was, 
however,  not  long  before  they  found  a 
disposition  on  the  part  of  their  two 
associates,  and  especially  on  that  of 
Germany,  to  treat  Italy,  not  as  their 
equal,  but  as  the  junior  partner  in  the 
firm. 

The  losses  of  the  tariff  war  with 
France,  which  deprived  Italy  of  her 
best  market  for  wine,  and  which  was 
the  indirect  outcome  of  the  Triple 
Alliance,  were  never  made  good  by  her 
connection  with  the  two  Teutonic  pow- 
ers; so  that  years  ago  Italians  had 
begun  to  ask  themselves  whether  the 
loss  of  French  commercial  friendship, 
and  the  sacrifices  they  were  obliged  to 
make  in  supporting  a  great  army  and 
navy,  were  not  too  large  a  price  to 
pay  for  the  German  and  Austrian 

alliances. 

t 

The  act  of  good  will  which  permitted 
Italy  to  fight  Turkey  without  fear  of 
outside  complications  scarcely  made 
amends  for  what  the  Triple  Alliance 
had  cost  her  in  direct  expenditure  and 
in  indirect  loss.  But  most  potent  of  all 
the  reasons  for  the  unpopularity  of  the 
Triple  Alliance  is  the  racial  fact,  which 
from  the  beginning  of  all  time  has  made 
it  impossible  for  the  Latin  and  Teuton 
either  to  understand  or  like  each  other. 
Added  to  this  is  the  more  recent  but 
more  intense  hatred  of  the  Italians  for 
the  Austrians.  Every  Italian  believes 
that  the  Trentino  and  Trieste  ought  to 
belong  to  Italy.  The  spirit  of  nation- 
ality will  not  down,  and  so  long  as  the 
Austrian  Italians  call  to  their  brothers 
across  the  border  to  come  and  deliver 
them  from  the  Austrian  yoke,  the 
spirit  of  Italia  Irredenta  will  dictate 
the  reply.  Were  the  matter  to  be  left 
to  a  vote  of  the  Italian  people,  they 
would  far  rather  march  against  Austria 
for  the  liberation  of  their  brothers  than 


562 


ITALY'S  POSITION 


with  Austria  for  the  conquest  of  the 
world. 

Economically  the  risk  of  war  was 
greater  than  any  possible  gain.  For 
the  first  time  in  the  history  of  modern 
Italy  she  finds  herself  on  a  really  sound 
industrial  basis.  With  expanding  man- 
ufactures and  commerce,  with  agricul- 
ture flourishing,  and  with  a  general  and 
marked  increase  in  prosperity,  she  has 
at  last  definitely  emerged  from  eco- 
nomic medievalism  into  the  new  and 
modern  conditions  of  contemporaneous 
Europe.  She  is  already  holding  her 
own  with  her  industrial  rivals  in  many 
fields  of  endeavor,  and  given  a  few  more 
years  of  successful  effort,  she  ought  to 
be  able  to  appropriate  for  herself  a 
large  share  of  the  world  market  in 
directions  which  she  is  rapidly  making 
peculiarly  hers. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  the  capi- 
talistic and  industrial  classes  of  Italy 
saw  no  allurement  in  the  suggestion 
of  gambling  the  certainty  of  econo- 
mic prosperity  against  the  possibility 
of  military  glory. 


Strong  as  were  the  sentimental  and 
economic  objections  to  following  the 
fortunes  of  the  Triple  Alliance,  the 
political  objections  were  even  more 
insuperable. 

For  sentimental  and  economic  rea- 
sons the  Salandra  ministry  felt  that 
they  ought  not  to  go  to  war,  for  politi- 
cal reasons  they  felt  that  they  could 
not.  Under  certain  conditions  it  might 
have  been  possible  sufficiently  to  over- 
come the  anti-Teutonic  prejudice  of 
the  Italian  people,  so  that  they  would 
have  given  a  half-hearted  support  to 
the  Triplice;  it  might  even  have  been 
possible  to  reconcile  the  bourgeoisie  to 
the  necessary  economic  loss  involved 
in  an  unpopular  war;  but  it  is  extremely 
doubtful  if  Signore  Salandra  could  have 


obtained  the  support  of  the  proletariat 
in  a  war  waged  against  another  Latin 
nation. 

The  general  strike  of  last  June,  re- 
vealing as  it  did  the  marvelous  organ- 
ization and  discipline  of  the  Italian 
proletariat,  demonstrated  beyond  per- 
adventure  the  existence  of  an  Italy 
within  Italy,  of  which  until  then  the 
rulers  had  been  absolutely  ignorant. 

The  Italian  proletariat  have  other 
fish  to  fry  than  foreign  conquests.  They 
are  engaged  in  the  effort  to  overthrow 
the  existing  form  of  government  at 
home,  peacefully  if  possible,  forcibly  if 
necessary.  They  have  no  sympathy 
either  with  the  desires  of  the  Haps- 
burgs  or  with  the  ambitions  of  the 
Hohenzollerns,  regarding  both  as  the 
natural  enemies  of  laboring  men  in 
general  and  of  Italians  in  particular. 
The  only  inducement  which  would 
cause  them  to  throw  their  influence  on 
the  side  of  the  war,  would  be  some 
strong  appeal  to  their  passions  or  their 
imagination.  They  generally  supported 
the  war  with  Turkey,  while  it  lasted, 
as  they  were  inspired  by  the  hope  of  a 
renewal  of  Italian  world-power.  When 
Tripoli  had  been  conquered  and  the 
proletariat  discovered  that  they  were 
no  nearer  greatness  than  before,  they 
forgot  their  disillusionment  and  the 
hope  of  foreign  conquest,  and  once 
more  turned  their  thoughts  to  the  so- 
cial revolution  within  the  boundaries 
of  their  own  country. 

The  natural  impulsive  chivalry  of  the 
Italian  nature  would  undoubtedly  cause 
the  proletariat  to  sink  their  domestic 
differences,  and  fly  to  arms  were  their 
national  or  racial  sympathies  awak- 
ened. No  government  would  have  the 
slightest  difficulty  in  carrying  with  it 
the  vast  majority  of  the  Italian  peo- 
ple in  a  war  against  Austria  in  defense 
of  the  Italians  of  Trieste  or  the  Tren- 
tino,  or  against  Germany  in  behalf  of 
the  Latins  of  France.  But  no  govern- 


ITALY'S  POSITION 


563 


ment  would  find  it  possible  to  unite  the 
country  in  a  war  of  aggression  against 
nations  of  the  Latin  race,  or  to  count 
on  the  support  of  the  Italian  masses  in 
any  war,  unless  their  sympathies  or 
passions  were  aroused.  There  can  be 
no  question  that  Signore  Salandra  real- 
ized that  a  declaration  of  war  against 
Russia  or  France  would  have  been  the 
signal  for  a  general  strike  in  Italy, 
which  might  have  resulted  in  the  fall 
of  the  dynasty. 

Manifest  as  were  the  objections  to 
war,  the  advantages  of  neutrality  were 
equally  so.  During  hostilities  Italy  is 
in  a  position  to  lose  less  than  any  other 
neutral.  It  is  almost  inconceivable 
that  her  neutrality  should  be  uninten- 
tionally violated,  while  it  would  be  to 
no  power's  advantage  to  violate  it 
intentionally.  Happily  surrounded  by 
sea  on  all  sides  but  one,  she  is  protected 
on  the  north  by  the  natural  barrier  of 
the  Alps,  reinforced  by  the  buffer  neu- 
tral state  of  Switzerland  between  Ger- 
many and  a  part  of  Austria  and  herself. 
On  the  northwest  she  touches  south- 
eastern France,  and  on  the  northeast, 
southwestern  Austria,  —  in  both  cases 
belligerent  territory,  it  is  true,  but  far 
removed  from  the  scene  of  war.  None 
of  the  belligerents  wants  her  sword 
thrown  in  the  scale  against  it,  while  all 
know  that,  failing  her  active  support, 
her  neutrality  is  of  vital  importance. 
She  is  in  the  delightful  position  of  being 
feared  and  courted  by  all,  with  nothing 
to  lose  and  everything  to  gain  by  her 
neutrality. 

So  long  as  the  war  lasts  Italy  must 
necessarily  be  one  of  the  chief  sources 
of  supply  for  both  sides,  as  her  ports 
are  open  and  her  shipping,  so  much  as 
there  is  of  it,  is  free  to  carry  freight 
and  passengers  to  and  from  all  parts 
of  the  world.  Her  manufactures,  her 
commerce,  and  her  agriculture  will  be 
greatly  stimulated,  and  should  hostili- 
ties last  for  any  time,  will  receive  an 


impetus  which  will  endure  afterwards. 
No  matter  who  wins  she  must  profit, 
for  she  is  like  a  broker  in  an  active 
market,  who.  makes  his  commissions, 
no  matter  whether  prices  rise  or  fall. 

Should  Germany  and  Austria  con- 
quer, on  the  dismemberment  of  France 
which  will  follow  conquest,  Italy  will 
probably  fall  heir  to  Nice  and  Savoy, 
taken  from  her  by  Napoleon  III  over 
half  a  century  ago,  as  the  price  of  his 
friendship  in  her  quarrel  with  Austria; 
not  that  Germany  loves  Italy,  but  be- 
cause, in  dismembering  France,  it  will 
be  necessary  to  take  Nice  and  Savoy 
from  her,  and  Italy  is  the  only  power 
to  whom  they  can  be  given.  Whereas, 
if  Germany  and  Austria  lose,  the 
Trentino  and  Trieste  with  the  control 
of  the  Adriatic,  and  possibly  Albania, 
will  very  naturally  be  the  payment  for 
Italian  neutrality. 

Both  victor  and  vanquished  will 
emerge  from  the  war  in  a  greater  or  less 
degree  of  exhaustion,  while  most  of 
the  neutrals  will  have  suffered  severe- 
ly from  the  cost  of  defending  their 
neutrality.  Italy,  if  wisely  guided,  will, 
on  the  other  hand,  find  herself  on  the 
conclusion  of  peace  more  prosperous 
than  ever,  with  her  people  more  united 
than  at  any  time  since  the  beginning 
of  the  Turkish  War,  with  her  dynasty 
more  popular  than  in  years,  and  with 
discontent,  for  the  moment  at  least, 
somnolent;  more  respected  and  hon- 
ored among  the  nations;  more  power- 
ful, — •  in  short,  appreciably  nearer  the 
realization  of  her  dream  of  becoming  a 
first-class  power. 

Of  course,  the  plans  of  the  Salan- 
dra ministry  may  at  any  moment  come 
to  nothing.  Some  utterly  unexpected 
event  may  completely  upset  the  calcu- 
lations of  the  government.  The  sym- 
pathy of  the  Italians  for  the  French, 
and  their  growing  sympathy  for  the 
English,  together  with  their  antipathy 
to  the  Teutons,  may  cause  an  uprising 


564 


ITALY'S   POSITION 


of  the  people  on  behalf  of  France  and 
England,  should  Germany  crush  them. 
While  on  the  other  hand,  the  disgust 
of  the  Austrians  at  Italian  neutrality 
may  at  any  moment  precipitate  a  crisis 
which  will  lead  to  hostilities. 

It  does  not,  however,  seem  probable 
that  Italy  will  depart  from  the  course 
she  has  set  herself.  The  costs  and  diffi- 
culties of  war  and  the  advantages  of 
neutrality  are  both  so  great  that  Italy 
will  undoubtedly  prefer  to  be  ruled 
by  national  self-interest  rather  than  by 
any  passing  emotion. 

It  may  be  urged,  as  it  has  been  by 
the  Germans  and  Austrians,  and  also 
by  a  section  of  the  French  and  English 
press,  that  in  remaining  neutral  Italy 
has  been  influenced  entirely  by  selfish 
motives.  The  German  and  Austrian 
newspapers  have  called  upon  her  to 
remember  her  treaty  obligations  and 
declare  for  the  Triple  Alliance;  the 
English  and  French  newspapers  have 
urged  her  to  listen  to  the  call  of  old 
friendships  and  declare  for  the  Triple 
Entente.  Both,  however,  ignore  the 
fact  that  a  nation's  first  duty  is  to 
itself,  and  that  no  government  has 
the  right  to  allow  sentiment  to  in- 
terfere with  the  duty  it  owes  its  own 
people. 

In  proclaiming  neutrality,  the  Sal- 
andra  ministry  strictly  adhered  to  the 
letter  and  the  spirit  of  the  Triple 
Alliance.  To  have  fought  with  Ger- 
many and  Austria  would  have  been 
quixotic;  to  have  fought  against  them 
would  have  been  wrong.  Neutrality 
was,  in  every  way,  not  only  the  best 
policy  that  Italy  could  have  followed, 
but  as  we  have  seen,  it  was  probably 
the  only  course  open  to  the  government 
at  the  time. 

There  is,  moreover,  in  Italian  neu- 
trality a  moral  advantage  to  the  world 
at  large  that  ought  not  to  be  ignored. 
If  it  is  strictly  maintained,  when  the 
proper  time  comes  she  will  be  able  to 


offer  her  services  as  mediator  to  both 
sides,  with  more  prospect  of  success 
than  any  other  neutral  could  possibly 
have. 

It  may  very  well  be  that  in  this  war 
of  extermination  one  side  or  the  other 
will  win  so  conclusively  that  mediation 
will  be  out  of  the  question.  Should  the 
Teutons  conquer  overwhelmingly,  the 
destruction  of  France  will  be  inevit- 
able; while,  should  the  Teutons  be 
crushed,  the  dismemberment  of  both 
the  German  and  the  Austro-Hungar- 
ian  empires  will  follow  as  a  matter  of 
course.  In  either  event  the  victor  will 
scarcely  tolerate  the  services  of  the 
peacemaker. 

But  should  the  war  result  in  the  gen- 
eral financial  and  physical  prostration 
of  both  combatants,  —  and  such  an 
outcome  is  not  impossible,  —  our  very 
civilization  will  be  menaced  unless  a 
satisfactory  peace  can  be  concluded. 
Any  arrangement  for  the  cessation  of 
hostilities  that  is  not  conclusive  will 
result  in  a  renewal  of  the  war  at  the 
moment  that  either  side  has  sufficiently 
recovered  to  take  the  field  once  more. 
Under  such  conditions  a  lasting  peace 
can  be  brought  about  only  by  a  neutral 
power,  and  of  the  neutrals  hardly  any  is 
likely  to  be  of  use.  The  smaller  powers, 
including  those  of  South  America,  do 
not  carry  sufficient  weight,  while  there 
is  a  jealousy  of  the  United  States  and  a 
prejudice  against  us  in  certain  quarters 
which  would  doubtless  make  our  serv- 
ices unacceptable. 

Italy,  on  the  other  hand,  would  prob- 
ably be  least  objectionable  to  the  larg- 
est number  of  powers.  Her  influence  is 
important,  and  her  strength  is  great. 
If  she  can  preserve  even  the  semblance 
of  the  friendship  of  the  belligerents,  she 
will  be  in  the  best  possible  position  to 
assist  them  in  the  settlement  of  their 
differences,  whenever  conditions  may 
arise  which  will  make  such  settlement 
possible. 


ITALY'S  POSITION 


565 


VI 

The  early  history  of  the  Salandra 
ministry  did  not  give  promise  of  very 
great  strength  or  of  much  capacity.  It 
was  openly  opportunist,  inclined  to 
disingenuousness,  and,  to  say  the  least, 
neither  vigorous  nor  particularly  cour- 
ageous. It  followed  a  policy  of  post- 
poning action  whenever  possible,  and 
of  shifting  responsibility  to  the  far 
broader  shoulders  of  its  predecessors. 
Its  course  in  reference  to  the  demands 
of  the  railway  servants,  the  increased 
military  budget,  and  especially  its 
handling  of  the  general  strike,  gave 
faint  hope  to  any  friend  of  Italy  that  it 
would  be  capable  of  rising  to  meet  a 
really  great  emergency. 

But  to  the  surprise  of  Europe,  from 
the  moment  that  Austria  served  her 
ultimatum  on  Servia  an  entirely  new 
spirit  seemed  to  dominate  the  Italian 
government.  It  set  itself  a  definite 
objective  which  it  has  pursued  un- 
swervingly ever  since.  Weakness  gave 
place  to  strength,  hesitation  to  fixity  of 
purpose,  and  with  a  tact,  a  courtesy, 


and  a  firmness  worthy  of  the  best  dip- 
lomatic traditions,  it  has  gone  about  its 
business  serenely,  unmindful  alike  of 
the  abuse  of  Germany  and  Austria  and 
of  the  blandishments  of  England  and 
France. 

It  can  scarcely  be  unfair  to  Signore 
Salandra  to  credit  the  change  in  the 
conduct  and  character  of  his  govern- 
ment to  his  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs, 
and  it  can  safely  be  assumed  that  the 
Marchese  di  San  Giuliano  is  respon- 
sible for  the  transformation  of  Italian 
policy  from  vacillating  weakness  and 
failure  into  what  seems  to  be  complete 
success. 

The  very  difficult  task  of  preserving 
neutrality  could  not  have  been  begun 
with  more  sagacity  or  a  greater  display 
of  wise  statesmanship.  Whether  the 
Marchese  di  San  Giuliano  is  to  suc- 
ceed or  fail  time  alone  can  tell.  If  he 
fails  he  will  at  least  know  that  he  has 
failed  in  a  good  cause,  while  if  he  suc- 
ceeds the  world  will  appreciate  that 
he  has  not  only  saved  Italy  but  has 
done  much  for  the  civilization  of  our 
time. 


THE  KAISER  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 


BY   KUNO   FRANCKE 


[Striving  to  maintain  our  impartiality  in  the 
face  of  what  seem  to  us  arguments  of  incontro- 
vertible strength,  we  have  invited  the  following 
paper  from  Professor  Francke.  —  THE  EDITORS.] 

WHOEVER  or  whatever  may  have 
been  immediately  responsible  for  the 
terrible  cataclysm,  which  in  the  midst 
of  harvest  time,  like  a  Doomsday  of 
nations,  has  befallen  Europe  and  all 
mankind,  there  can  be  no  question  that 
German  ascendancy  of  the  last  half  cen- 
tury has  been  its  ultimate  cause.  It 
therefore  behooves  Germans  above  all 
others,  with  fear  and  trembling,  but 
without  flinching  or  subterfuge,  to 
search  their  hearts  and  to  ask  them- 
selves whether  they  can  really  go  into 
this  conflict  with  a  clear  conscience 
and  with  trust  in  the  justice  of  their 
cause. 

Whether  German  diplomacy  under 
the  regime  of  the  present  Emperor  has 
been  equal  to  its  task,  whether  its 
efforts  to  guard  and  to  increase  the 
Bismarckian  legacy  of  1870  have  al- 
ways been  guided  by  Bismarckian  fore- 
sight and  Bismarckian  sense  of  the 
attainable,  is  a  question  that  only  his- 
tory will  be  able  to  decide.  Certain  it  is 
that  the  guidance  of  German  destiny 
since  the  retirement  of  the  great  Chan- 
cellor has  been  confronted  with  well- 
nigh  insuperable  difficulties.  On  the 
one  hand,  a  people  brimming  over 
with  physical  and  intellectual  vitality, 
flushed  with  military  and  industrial 
success,  eager  for  activity  in  every 
field  of  enterprise  and  in  all  parts  of  the 
globe.  On  the  other  hand,  a  formidable 
array  of  obstacles  against  the  peaceful 
666 


and  natural  expansion  of  this  people: 
France,  unwilling  to  forget  her  national 
humiliation,  unequivocally  refusing  to 
acknowledge  the  settlement  of  1870  as 
final,  incessantly  preparing  for  the  day 
of  revenge,  persistently  attempting  to 
form  threatening  alliances  against  her 
hated  foe;  England,  nettled  by  German 
business  smartness,  alarmed  by  Ger- 
man naval  strength,  trying  to  isolate 
and  check  and  hem  in  the  upstart  in 
his  every  move;  Russia,  deeply  resent- 
ful of  the  setback  received  at  the  Berlin 
Congress  in  her  march  to  Constanti- 
nople, determined  to  use  the  Slav  up- 
heaval in  the  Balkans  as  a  means  of 
pushing  forward  to  the  Adriatic,  and 
thereby  throttling  German  influence 
in  the  East.  These  are  the  interna- 
tional difficulties  under  which  the  new 
Germany  has  had  to  struggle  onward. 

What  has  been  the  consequence  of 
this  oppressively  difficult  situation? 
How  has  Germany  met  it  ?  What  intel- 
lectual and  moral  forces  has  this  situa- 
tion brought  into  play? 

No  unprejudiced  observer  of  German 
affairs,  I  believe,  will  deny  that  it  is 
this  very  difficulty  of  maintaining  her 
national  preeminence  which  has  given 
to  contemporary  Germany  a  feeling  of 
solidarity  and  of  public  responsibility, 
an  eager  earnestness,  a  concentrated 
will-power,  a  sweep  and  momentum  of 
constructive  imagination  such  as  no 
other  nation  of  to-day  possesses.  After 
centuries  of  national  weakness  and 
obscurity,  the  German  could  at  last 
feel  again  that  he  was  a  part  of  a  great 
and  progressive  empire.  Wherever  he 


THE   KAISER  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 


567 


went  abroad  —  as  farmer,  as  business 
man,  as  colonial  administrator,  as  sail- 
or, as  scholar  and  teacher  —  he  felt  be- 
hind him  this  new  empire,  surround- 
ed by  rivalry  and  unfriendliness,  but 
steadfastly  holding  its  own,  steadfast- 
ly working  at  the  enrichment  of  its  re- 
sources, the  improvement  of  its  social 
conditions,  the  strengthening  of  its 
manhood.  And  when  he  returned  to 
his  native  land,  he  would  see  with  joy 
and  gratitude  that  not  only  in  military 
organization,  but  in  every  kind  of  pub- 
lic and  private  activity,  in  city-plan- 
ning,  in  care  for  the  poor,  in  industrial 
cooperation,  in  scientific  farming  and 
forestry,  in  research  of  every  kind,  in 
every  form  of  popular  instruction,  in 
literature  and  the  fine  arts,  Germany 
was  striding  ahead  of  the  rest  of  the 
world. 

Seldom  has  an  individual  been  so 
perfect  an  embodiment  of  a  national 
movement  as  Emperor  William  II  is  of 
this  new  Germany.  All  his  acts  and 
utterances  have  been  inspired  by  the 
one  desire  of  developing  German  char- 
acter to  its  utmost.  It  is  impossible  to 
go  through  the  four  volumes  of  his 
'  Speeches  and  Addresses '  without  be- 
ing profoundly  impressed  with  the  in- 
domitable striving  for  national  great- 
ness incarnated  in  this  man.  Richard 
Wagner's  Parsifal  and  the  Nietzschean 
Superman  seem  combined  in  him. 
Every  phase  of  life  appeals  to  him;  and 
in  every  phase  of  life  he  wants  his 
Germans  to  excel. 

He  admonishes  schoolboys  to  think 
of  what  their  country  will  need  of  them 
when  they  are  men,  to  abstain  from 
alcohol,  to  strengthen  their  bodies  and 
minds  by  hard  work  and  hard  sport, 
to  strive  after  that  harmony  of  life 
which  the  Greeks  possessed  and  which 
'is  sadly  lacking  to-day.'  He  appeals 
to  school-teachers  to  make  their  pupils 
above  all  at  home  in  the  things  nearest* 
at  hand,  to  make  achievement  rather 


than  knowledge  the  goal  of  instruction. 
He  holds  up  to  university  students  the 
spiritual  heroes  of  the  German  past, 
from  Walther  von  der  Vogelweide  to 
Schiller  and  Goethe,  and  warns  them 
*  not  to  waste  their  strength  in  cosmo- 
politan dreams,  or  in  one-sided  party 
service,  but  to  exert  it  to  make  stable 
the  national  idea  and  to  foster  the 
noblest  German  thoughts.'  His  own 
sons  he  urges  to  labor  incessantly  to 
make  themselves  true  personalities, 
taking  as  their  guide  Jesus,  '  the  most 
personal  of  all  personalities,'  to  make 
their  work  a  source  of  joy  to  their  fel- 
lowmen,  —  'for  there  is  nothing  more 
beautiful  than  to  take  pleasure  jointly 
with  others,'  —  and  where  this  is  im- 
possible, to  make  their  work  at  least 
contribute  something  useful.  Upon  his 
officers  he  impresses  the  extreme  neces- 
sity of  firmness  of  character;  for  'vic- 
tories are  won  by  spiritual  strength.' 

Addressing  the  large  mine-owners  of 
Prussia,  he  insists  that  it  is  the  duty  of 
the  State  to  regulate  'the  protection 
which  the  workingman  should  enjoy 
against  an  arbitrary  and  limitless  ex- 
ploitation of  his  labor;  the  limitation 
of  child-labor  with  reference  to  the  dic- 
tates of  humanity  and  of  the  laws  of 
natural  development;  the  position  of 
woman  in  the  house  of  the  laboring 
man,  which  is  morally  and  economical- 
ly of  the  greatest  importance  for  the 
family  life.' 

Speaking  to  the  professors  of  the 
University  of  Berlin,  he  points  out  the 
need  of '  institutions  that  transcend  the 
limits  of  a  university  and  serve  no- 
thing but  research,  free  from  the  de- 
mands made  by  instruction,  although 
in  close  touch  with  the  university.' 
At  a  gathering  of  German  sculptors 
and  painters  he  proclaims  that  'art 
should  be  a  help  and  an  educational 
force  for  all  classes  of  our  people,  giv- 
ing them  the  chance,  when  they  are 
tired  after  hard  labor,  of  growing 


568 


THE   KAISER  AND   HIS   PEOPLE 


strong  by  the  contemplation  of  ideal 
things.  Attention  to  ideals  is  one  of  the 
greatest  tasks  of  culture,  and  all  our 
people  must  work  at  it,  if  we  are  to  set 
a  good  example  to  the  other  nations; 
for  culture,  in  order  to  do  its  task  well, 
must  permeate  every  stratum  of  soci- 
ety. But  it  cannot  do  this  if  art  refuses 
its  help  and  pushes  people  into  the 
gutter  instead  of  elevating  them.' 

The  need  of  human  fellowship  and 
mutual  forbearance  for  national  pur- 
poses he  impresses  upon  a  Westphalian 
audience  by  reference  to  personal  expe- 
riences :  *  During  my  long  reign  I  have 
had  to  do  with  many  people,  and  have 
suffered  much  at  their  hands;  often 
they  have  hurt  me  unconsciously,  but 
often  also,  I  regret  to  say  it,  very  inten- 
tionally. When  in  such  moments  my 
anger  threatened  to  master  me  and  I 
was  tempted  to  avenge  myself,  I  have 
asked  myself,  how  best  can  wrath  be 
stilled  and  charity  grow  strong?  I  have 
found  only  one  answer,  and  that  was 
based  on  the  observation  that  all  men 
are  human  and  even  if  they  hurt  us, 
they  have  souls  given  them  from  on 
high,  whither  all  of  us  wish  to  return. 
Thanks  to  their  souls,  they  too  carry 
with  them  parts  of  the  Creator.'  And 
at  the  Prize  Singing  Contest  at  Frank- 
fort, for  male  choruses,  instituted  by 
him,  in  the  presence  of  thousands  of 
singers  of  all  classes  of  society  he  extols 
the  simplicity  of  the  good  old  German 
folk-song  against  the  artificiality  and 
affectedness  of  modern  tone-paintings, 
and  he  thanks  among  the  singers  par- 
ticularly the '  men  of  the  brawny  hand, 
the  large  number  of  men  who  have 
come  from  the  hammer,  the  anvil,  and 
the  forge.  They  must  have  sacrificed 
to  this  work  the  sleep  of  many  a 
night.' 

Perhaps  the  most  impressive,  how- 
ever, of  all  these  utterances  and  the  one 
most  characteristic  of  contemporary 
German  feeling,  is  a  passage  from  a 


speech  delivered  soon  after  the  Emper- 
or's return  from  Palestine.  *  During 
my  stay  in  that  foreign  country,  where 
we  Germans  miss  the  woods  and  the 
beautiful  sheets  of  water  which  we 
love,  I  often  thought  of  the  lakes  of 
Brandenburg  and  their  clear  sombre 
depths,  and  of  our  forests  of  oaks  and 
pines.  And  then  I  said  to  myself,  that 
after  all  we  are  far  happier  here  than 
in  foreign  lands,  although  the  people  of 
Europe  often  pity  us.  Surely,  many 
and  varied  experiences  of  an  elevating 
nature  I  have  had  in  that  country, 
partly  religious,  partly  historical,  and 
partly  also  connected  with  modern  life. 
My  most  inspiring  experience,  however, 
was  to  stand  on  the  Mount  of  Olives,, 
and  see  the  spot  where  the  greatest 
struggle  ever  fought  in  the  world,  the 
struggle  for  the  redemption  of  man- 
kind, was  fought  out  by  one  man.  This 
experience  induced  me  to  renew  on 
that  day  my  oath  of  allegiance,  as  it 
were,  to  God  on  high.  I  swore  to  do  my 
very  best  to  knit  my  people  together, 
and  to  destroy  whatever  tended  to  dis- 
integrate them.' 

These  are  the  utterances  of  an  indi- 
vidual. But  they  are  typical  of  what 
millions  of  Germans  feel,  what  Ger- 
many as  a  nation  feels.  Nothing  could 
be  more  erroneous  than  to  think  that 
German  ascendancy  of  the  last  genera- 
tion has  been  merely  industrial  and 
commercial.  A  new  idealism,  a  substan- 
tial enthusiasm  for  good  government, 
for  social  justice,  for  beauty  and  joy, 
for  fullness  and  richness  of  individual 
character,  have  accompanied  it. 

Can  there  be  any  doubt  that  Ger- 
many to-day  is  the  best  governed 
country  of  the  world?  How  utterly 
absurd  it  is  to  speak  of  the  present 
conflict  —  as  many  American  newspa- 
pers do  —  as  a  conflict  between  mil- 
itary despotism,  represented  by  Ger- 
many, and  peaceful  democracy,  repre- 
sented by  the  strange  partnership  of 


THE   KAISER  AND   HIS   PEOPLE 


569 


Russia,  Japan,  England,  and  France. 
How  sad  it  is  to  see  men  like  Bergson 
and  Maeterlinck  so  hopelessly  deluded 
as  to  invoke  their  countrymen  against 
*  the  German  barbarians,  the  enemy  of 
mankind.'  Where  in  Germany  is  there 
a  parallel  to  the  travesties  upon  justice 
to  which  the  decisions  of  French  courts 
and  juries,  from  the  degradation  of 
Dreyfus  to  the  acquittal  of  Mme. 
Caillaux,  have  accustomed  the  world? 
Where  in  Germany  is  there  —  or  at 
least  has  there  been  until  this  dreadful 
War  engulfed  her  —  a  brutalized  pro- 
letariat such  as  is  the  spectre  of  London 
and  Liverpool?  Where  in  Germany  is 
there  anything  comparable  to  the  as- 
tounding corruption  of  official  Russia, 
made  manifest  in  the  Russo-Japanese 
war?  It  is  certainly  not  an  accident, 
that  neither  Syndicalism,  so  rampant 
both  in  France  and  England,  nor  Anar- 
chism, the  terror  of  Russian  autocracy, 
has  gained  any  foothold  on  German 
soil.  The  enthusiasm  for  good  govern- 
ment, shared  alike  by  Liberals,  Con- 
servatives, Clericals,  and  Socialists,  has 
prevented  it.  Indeed,  the  Emperor  on 
the  one  hand,  the  Socialist  party  on 
the  other,  are  the  two  most  unimpeach- 
able witnesses  to  the  passionate  Ger- 
man zeal  for  good  government. 

The  German  Socialists  of  to-day  are 
something  entirely  different  from  what 
they  were  thirty  or  forty  years  ago. 
They  have  ceased  to  be  revolution- 
ary; they  have  become  a  party  of 
constructive  reform.  They  contain 
the  intellectual  and  moral  elite  of  the 
German  workingmen.  They  are  per- 
forming a  most  valuable  service  in 
raising  the  standard  of  life  and  the 
level  of  citizenship  of  the  whole  labor- 
ing class.  They  are  devoting  their 
energy,  not  to  Utopian  dreams  or,  as 
the  I.  W.  W.  are  doing  in  this  country, 
to  the  propaganda  of  destruction,  but 
to  practical  tasks  of  economic  organ- 
ization, such  as  the  establishment  of 


vast  cooperative  societies  and  the  intro- 
duction of  compulsory  life-insurance 
for  all  union  members,  and  to  educa- 
tional enterprises  of  all  sorts.  As  mem- 
bers of  the  city  councils  in  all  the 
larger  German  towns,  they  are  exert- 
ing a  strong  and  wholesome  influence 
upon  city  administration  all  over  the 
Empire,  and  as  the  strongest  single 
party  in  the  Reichstag  they  take  an 
important  part  in  national  legislation, 
mostly  with  the  opposition,  but  not 
exclusively  so.  For  it  will  be  remem- 
bered that  the  Socialist  party  voted 
for  the  extraordinary  tax  bill  of  1912, 
needed  to  carry  out  the  military  reform 
of  that  year.  And  it  seems  most  prob- 
able that  the  assertion  of  the  German 
Chancellor  that  the  Socialist  party  in 
the  present  catastrophe  is  loyally 
standing  by  the  national  defense,  is 
literally  true.  Indeed,  it  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Socialist  party  who,  at  the 
special  Reichstag  session  of  August  4, 
moved  the  adoption  of  the  govern- 
ment's bill  for  a  war  appropriation  — 
a  motion  which  was  carried  without  a 
dissenting  voice. 

Only  in  one  point  have  the  Social- 
ists unflinchingly  and  unrelentingly  ar- 
rayed themselves  against  the  present 
governmental  system,  and  in  doing  so 
they  are  laying  bare  the  one  grave 
defect  of  imperial  Germany:  the  ar- 
rogance and  overbearing  of  the  mili- 
tary and  bureaucratic  class.  Closely 
allied  as  this  defect  is  with  the  sterling 
rectitude  and  splendid  efficiency  of 
German  military  and  civil  officials,  it  is 
an  anomaly  in  modern  Germany.  One 
effect  of  the  stupendous  sacrifices  to 
which  the  entire  nation  is  now  being 
summoned,  will  be  to  sweep  away  the 
artificial  barriers  which  until  now  have 
prevented  Germany  from  reaping  the 
full  fruit  of  her  otherwise  unequalled 
methods  of  government. 

But  it  is  not  only  in  good  govern- 
ment and  social  efficiency  that  Ger- 


570 


THE  KAISER  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 


many  during  the  last  forty  years  has 
outstripped  most  other  countries :  Ger- 
man ascendancy  has  also  manifested 
itself  with  striking  rapidity  and  mas- 
siveness  in  the  things  that  make  for 
beauty  and  joy  and  the  adornment  of 
life.  While  Paris  architecturally  still  re- 
tains the  stamp  of  the  second  Empire, 
London  that  of  the  Victorian  era,  and 
while  in  the  French  provinces  and  the 
smaller  English  towns  building  pro- 
ceeds at  a  slow  pace  and  along  old  lines, 
Berlin,  Hamburg,  Bremen,  Hanover, 
Cologne,  Kassel,  Darmstadt,  Frank- 
fort, Nuremberg,  Munich,  not  to  speak 
of  many  other  German  towns,  have 
undergone  veritable  revolutions  during 
the  last  generation:  new  city  halls, 
theatres,  opera-houses,  museums,  uni- 
versity buildings,  hospitals,  railway 
stations,  department  stores,,  stately 
mansions  and  model  cottages,  have 
arisen  everywhere,  and  in  it  all  a  new 
and  typically  German  style  of  archi- 
tecture seems  to  be  developing.  Much 
of  it  is  heavy.  But  there  certainly  is 
not  any  longer  that  academic  imita- 
tion and  formal  eclecticism  of  pseudo- 
Gothic  and  pseudo-Renaissance  mem- 
ory; there  is  abundant  evidence  of 
original  and  powerful  imagination,  and 
an  unmistakable  striving  for  stateli- 
ness,  proportion,  symmetry,  and  sweep 
of  outline.  And  a  similar  reaching  out 
toward  high  goals  is  to  be  found  in 
the  other  arts. 

What  country  is  there  in  which  the 
drama,  the  opera,  and  the  orchestra 
exert  as  deep  and  noble  an  influence 
as  in  Germany,  with  its  multitude  of 
princely  or  civic  theatres,  its  careful 
training  for  the  theatrical  and  musical 
professions,  its  well-informed  and  rev- 


erently receptive  audiences?  In  what 
other  country  could  have  happened 
what  Professor  Max  Friedlaender  of 
Berlin  University  told  me  happened  to 
him  some  years  ago?  He  was  invited 
by  a  club  of  workingmen  in  the  Krupp 
iron  works  at  Essen  to  deliver  to  them 
a  lecture  on  some  musical  subject.  He 
accepted  the  invitation,  and  held  an 
audience  of  more  than  a  thousand 
workmen  and  their  families  —  most  of 
them  undoubtedly  of  socialistic  per- 
suasion —  for  over  an  hour  listening 
attentively  to  his  presentation  of  Jo- 
hann  Sebastian  Bach.  These  men  are 
now  in  the  regiments  that  have  been 
hurled  against  the  forts  of  Liege  and 
Namur. 

Finally.  Is  it  a  presumption  to  say 
that  there  is  more  honest  striving  for 
fullness  of  individual  character  in  Ger- 
many than  in  other  countries?  I  be- 
lieve that  there  is;  and  I  believe  that 
this  also  is  a  part  of  that  eager  contest 
for  ascendancy  in  which  Germany  has 
gradually  outdistanced  her  neighbors 
—  outdistanced,  but  not  threatened. 

Is  she  now  to  be  made  to  pay  for  all 
her  efforts  at  self-improvement?  Have 
these  efforts  not  been  more  than  merely 
national  achievements?  Have  they  not 
been  a  gain  to  humanity  at  large? 
Must  she  defend  these  achievements 
against  a  world  in  arms?  If  this  desper- 
ate situation  has  been  brought  about 
by  the  very  best  there  is  in  German 
character,  then  it  must  be  accepted  as 
part  of  the  tragedy  of  human  great- 
ness; and  the  only  help  left  to  Germany 
and  her  Emperor  is  to  cling  to  the 
Horatian,  — 

Si  fractus  illabatur  orbis, 
Impavidum  ferient  ruinae. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


HINDSIGHT 

SUPPOSE  that  those  having  the  ad- 
ministratiom  of  affairs  in  Germany  had 
thought  more  of  future  generations 
than  of  present  glory  and  prowess  and 
might,  and  suppose  that  they  had  been 
of  a  disposition  to  look  at  things  from 
a  philosophical  standpoint,  with  minds 
open  to  the  truth,  —  they  might,  until 
July,  1914,  have  reasoned  thus:  — 

The  great  need  of  Germany  is  more 
territory.  Its  population  is  very  dense, 
its  people  industrious,  and  it  needs  a 
larger  field  for  development.  While  it 
manages  its  own  affairs  with  consum- 
mate ability,  it  has  not  been  wholly 
successful  in  ruling  foreigners.  For 
forty-three  years  it  has  administered 
Alsace-Lorraine,  but  it  has  not  estab- 
lished contentment  among  its  people. 
On  its  eastern  border  the  Poles  under 
its  rule  are  not  satisfied  despite  the 
best  German  methods  of  government 
that  have  been  applied  to  them,  and 
a  similar  discontent  and  unrest  pre- 
vails among  the  Danes  in  the  north 
in  Schleswig-Holstein.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  German  people  are  peaceful 
and  law-abiding;  except  for  the  heavy 
burden  of  military  duties,  they  are  as 
well  content  as  any  others,  and  it  would 
appear  that  so  far  as  the  Germans 
themselves  are  concerned,  the  methods 
of  government  and  rule  are  sound.  In 
other  words,  they  might  have  said,  *  We 
Germans  are  good  housekeepers  at 
home,  but  are  less  successful  abroad. 
Additional  proof  of  this  is  the  constant 
trouble  that  neighbor  Austria  has  in 
governing  Slavs  and  Italians.  They 
are  never  out  of  difficulties  over  there. 
So  instead  of  trying  to  convert  foreign- 


ers into  Germans  by  force,  let  us  let 
foreigners  work  out  their  own  salva- 
tion —  and  raise  more  Germans.  If 
foreigners  want  to  immigrate  and  be- 
come Germans,  they  shall  be  welcome; 
but  instead  of  conquering  them  against 
their  will,  —  in  which  event  they  do  not 
seem  to  develop  into  German  patriots, 
—  we  shall  accept  them  only  when  they 
want  to  come.' 

This  is  not  a  royal  idea,  nor  is  it  in 
accord  with  Prussian  traditions;  but 
the  great  gifts  of  the  German  people  to 
the  world,  their  ideals,  their  philosophy, 
their  science,  their  music,  and  their 
poetry,  have  not  been  developed  under 
royal  or  imperial  decree,  nor  are  they 
the  outcome  of  Prussian  traditions. 

The  philosophical  ruler  and  his  cab- 
inet whom  I  am  imagining  would  have 
observed  that  the  available  earth  is 
largely  in  the  hands  of  strong  powers, 
and  that  the  cost  of  gaining  by  the 
sword  sparsely  settled  and  fertile  land 
near-by  is  too  severe  a  burden  upon 
future  generations  to  be  considered 
until  every  other  effort  has  failed.  War 
kills  off  the  best  human  breeding-stock 
no  matter  which  side  wins.  So  the 
proposal  to  trade  would  naturally  pre- 
sent itself.  The  Germans  are  masters 
at  trading.  In  looking  over  available 
territory  near-by  they  could  not  fail 
to  observe  that  the  northern  strip 
of  Africa,  comprising  parts  of  Tunis, 
Algiers,  and  Morocco,  is  the  very  best 
part  of  the  world  now  open  to  settle- 
ment. The  desirability  of  this  region 
has  long  been  in  German  minds,  as  we 
have  occasionally  been  reminded  by 
the  incident  at  Agadir  and  by  other 
signs.  But  since  the  foreign  office  of 
the  Empire  has  been  in  Berlin  rather 

571 


572 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


than  in  Cologne,  Darmstadt,  or  Frank- 
furt, the  only  method  considered  has 
been  force,  and  until  the  outbreak  of 
the  war  this  has  failed. 

Now,  suppose  that  the  suggestion  had 
been  made  to  the  French  authorities, 
with  no  ultimatum  involved  and  with 
no  reference  to  the  royal  and  imperial 
grandfather  of  the  present  Kaiser  or  to 
anything  else  save  the  business  in 
hand,  that  Alsace  and  Lorraine,  despite 
over  forty  years  of  German  rule,  still 
remained  largely  French  in  sentiment, 
and  that  it  had  been  borne  in  upon  the 
German  government  that  the  French 
people  were  evidently  desirous  of 
obtaining  possession  of  them  again. 
The  German  government  might  have 
added  that  it  believed  that  if  these 
provinces  were  to  come  under  French 
rule  again,  this  might  occur  without 
abuse  to  the  people  living  there.  Ger- 
many's new  policy  being  German  rule 
for  German  people,  and  these  provinces 
persevering  in  their  French  sentiments, 
they  might  well  have  been  ceded  back 
to  France  in  consideration  of  other 
territory  and  a  right  of  way  to  reach  it. 
The  land  for  which  these  provinces 
might  have  been  exchanged  is  that  to 
which  we  have  referred  on  the  border 
of  the  Mediterranean  in  Northern 
Africa,  now  under  French  rule.  Its 
extent  and  area  could  have  been  deter- 
mined by  agreement.  This  was  at  one 
time  the  garden-spot  of  the  earth,  is 
rich  in  minerals,  and  Germany  has 
enough  people  to  inhabit  it  and  develop 
it.  With  all  cause  of  war  between  the 
two  nations  removed,  the  means  of 
reaching  the  Mediterranean  from  Ger- 
many should  not  have  been  an  im- 
possibility. 

My  impression  is  that  the  French 
would  have  accepted  such  a  proposal 
from  the  Germans,  would  have  been 
generous  in  giving  up  a  large  share  of 
their  North  African  possessions,  and 
that  they  would  have  fallen  upon  the 


Germans'  necks  and  embraced  them, 
instead  of  shooting  them  as  they  are 
doing  now.  Germany  and  France 
would  have  been  a  pair  of  nations  work- 
ing together  in  entire  amity.  There 
might  have  been  a  little  difficulty  with 
England,  but  with  France  and  Ger- 
many united  in  friendship,  and  the  new 
slogan  of  German  rule  for  German 
people,  with  no  desire  to  control  for- 
eigners, in  full  effect,  the  sting  would 
have  been  taken  from  their  develop- 
ment. So  far  as  the  Arab  tribes  of  that 
part  of  North  Africa  were  concerned, 
German  civilization  would  not  have 
been  acceptable  to  them,  and  they 
would  have  had  to  move  away  in  time. 
It  would  have  been  a  little  trouble 
instead  of  the  great  trouble  now. 

The  plan  would  not  have  found  favor 
with  the  Court  at  Vienna,  but  we  are 
now  thinking  less  of  dynasties  than  we 
are  of  the  German  people.  The  Aus- 
trian methods  of  imposing  German 
rule  upon  Slavic  peoples  would  not 
have  found  favor  in  Germany,  where 
the  people,  minding  their  own  business, 
would  have  seen  no  Muscovite  menace. 
It  would  not  be  the  first  time  that 
Germany  and  Austria  have  disagreed. 
Indeed,  in  course  of  time,  the  German 
part  of  Austria  might  have  preferred 
to  be  a  part  of  a  great,  strong  German 
empire,  rather  than  to  persevere  in  the 
unsuccessful  attempt  to  turn  unwilling 
Slavs  into  Germans. 

Then  there  would  have  been  no  war, 
—  no  great  war.  In  Eastern  Europe 
the  Hungarians  and  the  Slavs  might 
be  blowing  bugles  and  killing  one 
another,  but  the  Germans  would  have 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  They  would 
have  said,  *  It  is  their  affair,  let  them 
rule  themselves.  Our  work  is  to  raise 
the  best  Germans  for  the  future.  And 
we  have  some  military  work  to  do  in 
North  Africa.' 

Then  Germany  would  have  become 
really  great.  Other  nations  would  have 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


573 


cut  down  their  armament  as  she  cut 
down  hers,  and  the  Peace  of  Europe 
would  have  prevailed.  Belgium  would 
not  have  been  violated.  And  all  about 
the  East,  both  far  and  near,  German 
merchants  and  German  ships  would 
have  been  welcome,  and  her  thousands 
and  thousands  of  young  men,  the 
flower  of  her  youth  now  rotting  in  un- 
marked graves  with  grief  as  their  only 
legacy,  would  have  begotten  their  kind, 
and  a  new  and  great  race  of  people 
would  have  arisen  to  enjoy  the  good 
will  of  the  world.  Now  the  cowards 
and  the  inefficient  and  the  weak  will 
beget  the  next  generation — after  their 
kind. 

All  this  might  have  been,  for  the 
Germans  are  very  amenable  to  sugges- 
tion from  their  rulers.  It  might  have 
come  to  pass  if,  under  the  imperial 
crown,  there  had  been  as  much  phil- 
osophy and  welcome  to  the  truth  as 
there  were  dreams  of  prancing  horses 
and  waving  plumes  and  the  smoke  of 
battle. 

LE   NOUVEAU   PAUVRE 

FROM  olden  time  it  has  been  the 
privilege  and  the  pleasure  of  human- 
ity to  deride  the  newly  rich;  comedy, 
satire,  and  other  forms  of  expression, 
literary  and  unliterary,  have  borne 
witness  to  the  desire  to  point  out  the 
lack  of  standard,  the  ostentation,  the 
selfish  gloating  over  individual  pos- 
session, of  those  who  have  been  robbed 
by  swift  prosperity  of  a  sense  of  values. 
Even  in  our  new  country,  with  its  sud- 
den fortunes,  we  know  well  how  to 
punish  by  gibe  and  jest  those  whose 
recent  wealth  gives  them  an  undue 
sense  of  their  own  importance,  result- 
ing in  undue  display.  We  make  great 
sport  of  le  nouveau  riche;  who  is  there 
to  laugh  at  le  nouveau  pauvre  and  put 
him  in  his  place? 

Under  the  impact  of  new  thought  in 


regard  to  social  rights  and  wrongs,  and 
our  large  sense  of  responsibility  in  the 
matter  of  earth's  unfortunates,  we  are 
developing  a  new  type,  very  limited  in 
number,  and,  I  fancy,  limited  in  geo- 
graphic distribution,  —  I  should  not 
think  of  offering  these  reflections  to 
any  but  a  New  England  magazine!  — 
of  those  who  flaunt  a  new  type  of  re- 
cent wealth.  That  old  boasting  in  re- 
gard to  one's  material  possessions  has 
given  place,  in  these,  to  new  boasting 
in  regard  to  what  one  has  not.  I  can 
almost  imagine  a  seventeenth-century 
writer  of  character-portraits  sketching 
the  type  as  follows :  — 

'He  is  of  a  demure  sadness,  and  go- 
eth  poorly  clad' — or  it  might  even  be 
she;  —  'his  countenance  weareth  ever 
a  look  of  mild  reproof,  and  ever  he 
watcheth  to  detect  extravagance  in  his 
neighbor's  apparel;  his  right  hand 
moveth  nervously  lest  his  left  know 
that  which  it  doeth;  he  walketh  as  one 
who  would  fain  keep  step  with  his  fel- 
lows, yet  is  ever  apart,  wrapt  in  a  sad 
separateness.' 

Standards  of  value  alter;  there  are 
riches  and  riches.  It  is  not  mere  differ- 
ence in  local  conviction;  time  as  well  as 
space  has  something  to  do  with  Ithe 
change;  but  surely  I  detect  nowadays 
among  the  chosen  few,  new  causes  for 
self-congratulation,  a  new  vainglori- 
ousness.  I  cannot  be  mistaken  in  re- 
membering in  the  atmosphere  about 
my  far-off  childhood,  pride  in  worldly 
goods,  in  glossy  horses,  in  ruffled 
gowns  of  silk  and  lace;  unquestionably 
I  remember  a  reverential  tone  in  speak- 
ing of  the  rich,  deepening  to  awe  in 
speaking  of  the  very  rich.  Now,  how 
different!  We  look  with  pity  upon  the 
multi-millionaire;  a  suggestion  that  he 
is  no  better  than  he  should  be  is  in  our 
very  way  of  saying  his  name.  A  shrug 
of  the  shoulders,  a  lifting  of  the  eye- 
brows at  the  mere  mention  of  great 
riches,  betrays  our  inner  standards. 


574 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


Doubt  as  to  whether  even  honesty,  let 
alone  other  virtues,  could  be  his  has 
been  instilled  into  our  minds  by  all 
that  we  have  read  concerning  him  and 
his  kind.  We  act,  somewhat  prema- 
turely, as  if  we  were  already  within 
that  kingdom  of  heaven  whose  en- 
trance is  so  needle-hard  for  the  rich.  In 
all  this  we  are  a  trifle  over-assured,  for 
the  fact  that  we  lack  the  plutocrat's 
wealth  is  no  proof  that  we  have  those 
other,  more  precious  spiritual  posses- 
sions whose  absence  we  scorn  in  him. 

But  human  nature  is  human  nature 
always,  in  rich  folk  and  in  poor;  the 
sources  of  inner  vanity  are  perhaps 
over-quick  to  reflect  the  possibility  of 
changed  standards.  Many  of  us  are 
growing  a  bit  ostentatious  in  our  pov- 
erty. Do  we  not  point  with  pride  at 
the  clothes  we  do  not  have,  the  pleas- 
ures we  forego,  the  luxuries  in  which 
we  would  not  for  any  consideration  in- 
dulge? We  wear  again  the  old  street 
suit,  and  loftily  remark  to  our  friends 
that  we  cannot  afford  to  be  tailored 
anew  every  winter.  We  sit  upon  plat- 
forms at  meetings  wherein  the  prob- 
lems of  the  poor  are  discussed,  tricked 
out  in  ancient  garments,  worn  a  trifle 
histrionically.  There  is  a  touch  of  mor- 
al snobbery  in  our  attitude  as  we  tell 
how  little  we  spend  on  ourselves,  how 
frugally  we  lunch,  in  what  Spartan 
fashion  we  dine,  with  an  ensuing  si- 
lence suggestive  of  the  long  list  of  good 
causes  that  we  are  helping  on.  Vulgar- 
ly rich  in  convictions,  airily  intolerant 
of  those  who  have  not  as  great  posses- 
sions as  we,  we  flaunt  our  wealth,  with 
a  certain  lack  of  good  taste,  in  the  faces 
of  those  less  opinionated  than  our- 
selves. We  are  a  bit  self-conscious  in 
displaying  the  evidences  of  this  shame- 
less monopoly  of  virtue,  and  wear  a 
gentle  air  of  patronage  toward  our  less 
fortunate  fellows.  Can  it  be,  —  surely 
it  cannot  be  that  the  old  warning  could 
apply  here,  and  that  this  air  of  superi- 


ority may  prove  more  of  an  obstacle 
than  the  camel's  hump  at  Heaven's 
gate! 

That  look  of  reproof  on  the  part  of 
some  of  the  leaders  of  modern  social 
endeavor  toward  those  who  do  not 
hold  their  convictions,  is  full  of  dan- 
ger. Humble-minded  self-indulgence 
is  perhaps  better  than  this;  here,  at 
least,  one  is  one  with  one's  fellows. 
The  situation  is  full  of  irony;  endeav- 
oring to  share  more  generously  our 
worldly  possessions  with  the  poor,  per- 
haps even  considering  the  possibility 
of  common  ownership,  we  hoard  in 
more  than  the  old  individualistic  man- 
ner these  new  virtues  which  our  fel- 
lows have  not  yet  acquired.  Human 
progress  is  notoriously  full  of  contra- 
dictions; here  is  one  that  gives  pause 
for  thought.  In  moving  toward  that 
era  of  more  fully  realized  human  bro- 
therhood, we  are  perhaps  losing  as 
much  as  we  gain :  that  old  sense  of  kin- 
ship with  man  as  man,  breaking  under 
the  strain  and  stress  of  newly-discov- 
ered conviction  which  many  fail  to  un- 
derstand or  to  adopt.  Proud  spiritual 
walls  are  just  as  prone  to  keep  one's 
neighbor  out  as  are  high-piled  walls  of 
brick  and  stone,  even  with  glass  on 
top.  How  a  sense  of  moral  superiority 
locks  its  possessor  in,  cuts  him  off  from 
his  kind!  At  the  stern  mention  of  a 
new  creed  one  can  often  hear  a  sound  as 
of  a  key  turning  in  a  lock,  and  one 
knows  that  here  is  another  soul  con- 
demned to  solitary  imprisonment  in 
its  own  virtue,  until  some  friendly  imp 
of  failure  or  transgression  sets  it  free. 

Humble,  as  it  behooves  the  poor  to 
be,  in  the  presence  of  those  rich  in 
theory,  many  merely  watch  and  wait. 
Each  theorist  is  sure  that  his  wealth  is 
the  only  real  wealth;  each,  that  his 
panacea  will  cure  all  social  ills.  But, 
aware  of  the  complexity  of  human  ail- 
ments, the  many-sidedness  of  human 
wrongs,  what  is  one  to  do?  Keeping 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


575 


step  with  one  agitator,  we  lose  step 
with  another,  —  perhaps  lose  step  with 
simple  humankind  in  keeping  step 
with  either.  Alack,  and  well-a-day! 
Meanwhile,  one  yearningly  recalls  that 
instinctive  human  sympathy,  ante- 
dating social  convictions,  based  on  the 
ordinary  experiences  of  the  threshold 
and  the  hearth.  This  also  has  its  fine 
uses;  it  may  be  the  most  precious  thing 
there  is:  this  sense,  below  difference 
of  faith,  of  oneness  with  one's  kind,  of 
common  destiny  in  this  common  pre- 
dicament. In  this  dim  path  whereon 
we  struggle,  groping  our  way,  it  is  well 
to  keep  in  touch  with  our  fellows,  no 
matter  what  the  differences  between  us 
in  worldly  or  in  moral  rank  or  station. 
As  for  these  new  riches  of  professed 
poverty,  we  stop  to  ponder.  They  may 
not  all  be  real ;  shall  we  gloat  before  we 
are  sure?  Many  a  fortune  of  dollars  or 
of  nuggets  or  of  ideas  proves  to  have 
sandy  foundations  and  melts  away. 
Perhaps  here,  as  elsewhere,  those  who 
have  had  their  wealth  long  enough  to 
forget  it  are  no  longer  self-conscious 
enough  to  gloat.  Those  whose  interest 
in  their  neighbors  is  too  recent  to  be 
human  instinct,  whose  discovery  of  a 
common  humanity  is  too  fresh  to  seem 
part  of  them,  who  cannot  care  for  their 
fellows  and  forget  that  they  are  caring, 
who  cannot  feel  kindliness  without 
flaunting  it,  who  cannot  sit  in  the  pre- 
sence of  their  kind  without  implying 
that  their  kind  has  no  such  wealth  of 
love  for  humanity,  are  assuredly  lack- 
ing in  spiritual  good  breeding.  My 
lady,  newly  rich,  proudly  conscious  of 
her  priceless  furs  and  jewels,  is  perhaps 
less  vain  than  my  lady  newly  poor, 
proudly  conscious  of  her  priceless  con- 
victions and  habits  that  make  her  not 
as  others  are.  Tradition  has  delivered 
to  our  laughter,  for  just  chastisement, 
the  newly  rich;  shall  not  the  newly 
poor,  for  similar  reasons,  be  delivered 
to  the  laughter  of  the  world? 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  ON  THE  BEND 

I  WONDER  if  other  wayfarers  through 
New  England  greet,  as  I  do,  with  spe- 
cial affection  the  old  house  on  the  bend 
of  the  road?  It  is  so  characteristic  of 
an  earlier  civilization,  so  suggestive  of 
a  vanished  epoch  —  and  withal  so  pic- 
turesque! Even  if  you  are  unfortunate 
enough  to  '  tour '  in  a  motor-car,  which 
of  course  is  far  from  the  ideal  way  to 
savor  the  countryside,  still  you  cannot 
miss  the  old  house  on  the  bend,  even 
though  you  do  miss  the  'feel'  of  the 
land,  the  rise  and  dip  of  the  road,  the 
fragrance  of  the  clematis  by  the  wall, 
the  already  fading  gold  of  the  evening 
primroses  when  you  start  off  after 
breakfast. 

Even  for  a  motorist,  however,  the 
old  house  on  the  bend  stands  up  to 
view,  especially  if  you  are  on  the 
front  seat  with  the  driver.  The  car 
swings  into  a  straightaway,  lined,  per- 
haps, with  sugar  maples  and  gray 
stone  walls.  Between  the  trunks  are 
vistas  of  the  green  fields  and  far  hills. 
But  the  chief  vista  is  up  the  white  per- 
spective of  the  road,  which  seems  to 
vanish  directly  into  the  front  door  of 
the  solid,  mouse-gray  house  on  the 
bend. 

The  ribbon  of  road  rushes  toward 
you,  as  if  a  great  spool  under  your 
wheels  were  winding  it  up.  The  house 
rushes  on  with  it;  grows  nearer;  details 
emerge.  You  see  the  great  square 
chimney;  the  tiny  window-panes,  six 
to  a  sash,  some  of  them  turned  by 
time,  not  into  the  purple  of  Beacon 
Hill  but  into  a  kind  of  prismatic  sheen 
like  oil  on  water;  the  bit  of  classic 
egg-and-dart  border  on  the  door-cap; 
the  aged  texture  of  the  weathered  clap- 
board; the  graceful  arch  of  the  wide 
woodshed  entrance,  on  the  kitchen 
side;  the  giant  elm  rising  far  above  the 
roof.  You  rush  on  so  near  to  the  house, 
indeed,  that  the  car  seems  in  imminent 


576 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


danger  of  colliding  with  the  front  door, 
when  suddenly  the  wheels  bite  the 
road,  you  feel  the  pull  of  centrifugal 
force,  and  the  car  swings  away  at  right 
angles,  leaving  an  end  view  of  the 
ancient  dwelling  behind  you,  so  that 
when  you  turn  for  a  final  glance  you 
see  the  long  slant  of  the  roof  at  the 
rear,  going  down  within  six  or  eight  feet 
of  the  ground. 

Such  is  the  view  from  a  motor-car. 
If  you  are  traveling  on  foot,  however, 
there  is  much  more  to  be  observed, 
such  as  the  great  doorstep  made  from  a 
broken  millstone,  the  gigantic  rambler 
by  the  kitchen  window,  the  tiger  lilies 
gone  wild  in  the  dooryard,  and  above 
all,  the  view  from  the  front  windows. 
Since  the  house  was  visible  far  up  the 
road,  conversely  a  long  stretch  of  the 
road  is  visible  from  the  house.  Stand- 
ing in  front  of  it,  you  can  see  a  motor  or 
wagon  approaching  a  mile  away,  and 
from  the  end  windows,  too,  can  be  seen 
all  approaching  vehicles  from  the  other 
angle.  Moreover,  if  you  lived  within, 
you  could  not  only  see  who  was  com- 
ing, but  you  could  step  out  of  your 
door  a  pace  or  two  and  converse  with 
him  as  he  passed.  The  old  house  is 
strategically  placed. 

When  it  was  built,  a  century  or  even 
a  century  and  a  half  ago,  no  motors 
went  by  on  that  road,  and  not  enough 
of  any  kind  of  traffic  to  raise  a  dust. 
The  busy  town  to  the  south,  the  sum- 
mer resort  to  the  north,  were  alike 
small  villages,  given  over  to  agricul- 
ture. There  were  no  telephones,  no 
newspapers  even.  Fortunate  indeed 
was  the  man  whose  farm  abutted  on  a 


bend,  for  there  he  could  set  his  house, 
close  to  the  road,  viewing  the  ap- 
proaches in  either  direction,  and  no 
traveler  could  get  by  him,  or  at  any 
rate  by  his  wife,  without  yielding  the 
latest  gossip  from  the  town  above  or 
below,  perhaps  from  the  greater  world 
beyond.  The  high-road  was  then  the 
sole  artery  of  commerce,  of  communi- 
cation, of  intercourse  of  man  with  man. 

How  neighborly  was  the  house  on  the 
bend,  shedding  its  parlor-candle  rays 
like  a  beacon  by  night  down  the  mile 
of  straightaway,  or  flapping  its  chintz 
curtains  in  the  June  sunshine!  What  a 
testimony  it  is,  in  its  present  gray  ruin, 
to  the  human  hunger  for  news  and 
gossip  and  friendliness! 

The  old  order  has  changed,  indeed. 
We  no  longer  build  on  the  bend.  We 
don't  have  bends  if  we  can  help  it.  They 
are  dangerous  and  hard  to  maintain.  A 
house  on  one  would  be  uninhabitable 
with  the  dust.  We  do  not  seek  the 
neighborliness  of  the  road,  but  retire  as 
far  as  we  can  to  the  back  of  our  lot, 
with  our  telephone  and  newspaper. 
The  old  house  on  the  bend  halfway 
between  Lenox  and  Stockbridge  now 
stands  deserted.  From  country  es- 
tates dimly  seen  in  their  remote  pri- 
vacy of  trees  and  gardens,  the  stone 
highway  leads  to  other  estates  equally 
remote  and  scornful  of  publicity.  Be- 
tween them  the  motors  rush.  The  old 
house  on  the  bend  is  dusty  and  de- 
serted, and  every  passing  car  kicks  up 
some  bit  of  crushed  stone  into  its  tan- 
gled dooryard.  It  looks  pathetically 
down  the  road  with  unseeing  eyes,  the 
last  relic  of  a  vanished  order. 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


NOVEMBER,  1914 


RAB  AND  DAB 


A  WOMAN  RICE-PLANTER'S  STORY 


BY   PATIENCE   PENNINGTON 


Peaceville,  Sept.  22.  Went  down  to 
Casa  Bianca  to  rouse  the  hands  to  ac- 
tion to-morrow,  for  we  are  to  begin 
cutting  Marshfield.  I  found  the  boy 
who  blew  himself  up  with  gunpowder 
two  days  ago,  in  great  suffering.  Dress- 
ed his  face  and  hands,  using  a  feather 
to  cover  them  with  oil.  He  is  a  distress- 
ing object. 

I  gave  orders  that  every  man,  wo- 
man, and  child  should  be  in  the  field 
early  to-morrow,  and  promised  to  be 
down  early  myself. 

Sept.  23.  Just  as  I  was  getting  into 
the  wagon  very  early  this  morning, 
carrying  linen  rags  and  olive  oil  to 
dress  Nero's  burns,  and  lunch  for  my- 
self, and  a  few  pears  and  things  to  give 
the  hands,  I  saw  a  pitiful  little  black 
figure  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  steps. 
It  was  Jonadab,  the  little  black  pock- 
marked pygmy  who  has  been  coming  all 
summer  to  beg  for  kitchen  scraps,  and 
old  garments,  and  anything  I  would 
or  could  give.  He  stutters  fearfully. 

'What  is  it,  Jonadab?'  I  asked;  *I 
am  in  a  great  hurry  to-day,  so  you 
must  talk  quick.' 

After  what  seemed  to  me  a  long  time 

VOL.  114 -NO.  5 


and  many  convulsions  of  his  little 
frame,  he  shot  out, '  Ma  bery  sick.  'E 
bad  off,  en  'e  baig  yu  fuh  cum.' 

I  told  Jim  to  drive  to  his  mother's 
house,  which  I  knew  was  not  far  off  in 
the  pine  woods,  but  just  how  far  I  did 
not  know,  for  though  I  had  sent  things 
to  her  constantly,  I  had  never  been  to 
her  house  myself. 

The  road  was  well-nigh  impassable 
for  the  wagon,  and  Jim,  being  provoked 
at  this  interruption,  drove  very  fast 
and,  it  seemed  to  me,  recklessly.  At 
last  I  said  to  him,  'Stop;  and  I  will 
walk  the  rest  of  the  way  with  Jonadab.' 
The  pine  forest  shimmered  and  glit- 
tered in  the  slanting  rays  of  the  early 
morning  sun.  Every  blade  of  grass  was 
laden  with  dew  diamonds,  and  the  slip- 
pery, brown  pine-needles  were  damp 
under  my  feet. 

When  I  started  on  this  diversion 
from  my  plans  I  was  distinctly  irri- 
tated at  the  delay  caused  by  this  extra 
drive  of  two  miles.  It  seemed  so  all- 
important  to  me  to  get  to  Casa  Bianca 
early;  for  with  the  hands  I  have,  six 
acres  is  as  much  as  I  can  get  cut  in  one 
day,  and  there  are  twenty-six  acres 
in  the  field.  And  this  is  such  a  stormy 
season  of  the  year.  But  as  I  walked 


578 


RAB  AND  DAB 


through  the  solemn  pines  with  the 
little  shriveled  gnome  ahead  of  me  to 
show  the  path,  I  heard  the  voice  of  God 
in  the  sough  of  the  pines,  and  a  change 
came  over  my  spirit.  The  sense  of 
hurry  and  impatience  left  me. 

Jonadab  in  a  little  while  pointed 
through  the  pines,  and  I  saw  a  little 
log  cabin.  In  the  doorway  two  atoms 
of  black  humanity  were  sitting  very 
near  together,  and  Jonadab  volunteer- 
ed the  information  that  they  were  his 
little  brother  and  his  youngest  sister. 
As  they  saw  me  they  rose  and  disap- 
peared into  the  house,  and  I  followed. 

There  were  two  rooms.  The  first 
one  had  a  very  unsteady  pine  table, 
two  chairs,  and  three  pots  in  the  fire- 
place. I  passed  through  this  to  the 
inner  room,  where  on  the  floor  lay  a 
woman,  terribly  swollen,  her  eyes  pro- 
truding from  her  head,  her  breath  com- 
ing in  quick,  heavy  sobs.  She  seemed 
unconscious.  Two  Negro  women  who 
had  just  come  in  stood  beside  her.  One 
was  her  mother,  with  whom  she  had 
quarreled  a  year  ago,  and  who  had 
never  come  near  her  through  her  long 
months  of  suffering  and  illness,  leaving 
her  alone  with  her  little  children.  But 
to-day,  hearing  from  a  neighbor  that 
Abby  was  dying,  she  rushed  in,  too 
late  to  be  of  any  use.  v| 

I  knelt  down  on  the  dirty  floor  be- 
side the  sick  woman,  and  tried  to  give 
her  some  milk  and  stimulant  which  I 
had  brought.  But  her  teeth  were 
closed  and  refused  to  admit  the  spoon, 
and  I  realized  that  she  was  actually 
dying.  Then  I  laid  my  hand  on  her 
clammy  one,  and  bending  low,  I  said, 
'Abby,  can  you  hear  me?'  There  was 
no  sign  of  comprehension  or  conscious- 
ness. I  was  very  eager  to  make  her 
hear,  so  I  went  on  speaking  very  slow- 
ly and  distinctly:  *I  will  take  care  of 
your  two  little  boys  and  see  that  they 
never  want.  Do  you  understand?  I 
will  take  Jonadab  and  Rechab  myself, 


and  care  for  them.'  Then  there  was  a 
slight  quivering  of  the  eyelids,  a  faint 
token  of  assent  and  satisfaction,  before 
the  stony  stare  of  death  returned. 

I  prayed  aloud  with  all  my  soul  for 
the  spirit  which  was  struggling  to  leave 
its  poor  earthly  tenement;  while  the 
women  moaned  and  swayed  and  ejac- 
ulated, 'Yes,  Laud;  do,  Laud,'  as  the 
sentences  of  the  prayer  for  the  dying 
fell  fervently  on  the  still,  hot  air,  and 
the  groans  of  the  dying  woman  were 
less  loud.  Then  I  sang,  — 

'  Jesus,  Lover  of  my  soul, 
Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly.' 

The  women  and  children  joined  with 
their  high,  clear  voices,  and  while  they 
sang,  *  Cover  my  defenseless  head  with 
the  shadow  of  thy  wing/  the  last 
painful  breaths  were  drawn,  and  the 
immortal  spirit  took  its  flight  and  re- 
turned to  God  who  gave  it,  and  who 
is  merciful  and  loving,  and  knows  all 
the  struggles,  all  the  temptations,  all 
the  warping  influences  which  had  kept 
it  from  its  highest  possibilities. 

I  talked  with  Rachael,  the  mother, 
who,  now  that  the  poor  daughter  was 
gone,  spoke  of  her  with  loud  and  hys- 
terical affection.  When  I  offered  to 
take  the  children  she  said  that  she,  the 
grandmother,  was  the  person  to  take 
them;  no  one  would  do  for  them  as  she 
would  and  she  could  not  think  of  giving 
them  up  to  anybody.  I  was  surprised, 
but  pleased,  at  this  her  suddenly 
aroused  maternal  feeling,  and  acqui- 
esced in  it,  saying,  *  Very  well,  Rachael, 
I  agree  with  you  that  you  are  the  pro- 
per person  to  take  care  of  the  children, 
and  that  no  one  can  do  it  as  well.  I 
will  provide  everything  that  the  two 
boys  need,  their  food  and  clothing; 
just  let  me  know  what  they  need.' 

By  this  time  the  house  was  full  of 
excited  neighbors,  lamenting  and  go- 
ing on  as  though  they  had  been  active 
friends  of  the  poor  deceased.  I  pro- 
mised to  send  what  was  needed  for 


RAB  AND  DAB 


579 


Abby's  *  laying  out.'  They  said  the 
'Chuch'  would  provide  the  coffin, 
and  attend  to  the  funeral,  for  she  was 
'Babtist  member,  in  full  standin',  en 
belonged  to  de  sassiety,  en  dey  was 
boun'  to  bury  um.' 

Having  done  the  little  I  could,  I 
left  the  house  of  death,  much  exhausted 
and  agitated,  to  return  to  the  work-a- 
day  world  outside.  I  drove  home  and 
told  Chloe  to  send  one  of  my  gowns 
and  two  sheets  to  Rachael  at  once;  and 
then  started  on  the  twelve-mile  drive 
to  Casa  Bianca. 

When  I  got  there  I  had  my  saddle 
put  on  Mollie,  and  rode  down  the  rice- 
field  banks  to  Marshfield.  There  were 
the  gayly  dressed  women,  laughing, 
singing,  talking,  as  they  cut  down  the 
golden  heads  with  great  dexterity; 
laying  them  on  the  stubble  so  that  the 
sun  could  dry  them  enough  to  tie  to- 
morrow. The  gay  scene,  which  usually 
gave  me  so  much  pleasure,  only  sad- 
dened me  now.  The  tragedy  I  had 
witnessed  haunted  me,  and  I  wonder- 
ed how  in  the  eyes  of  the  great  Judge 
of  all  things  my  life  would  compare 
with  that  whose  end  I  had  seen. 

I  reproached  myself  bitterly  for 
never  having  visited  her  before.  I  had 
sent  her  supplies:  food,  clothing,  and 
so  forth,  —  yes ;  but  that  was  not  all.  If 
I  had  only  gone  to  see  her  and  talk  with 
her,  I  should  not  now  be  filled  with 
self-condemnation.  God  forgive  me 
for  not  giving  her  my  time.  What 
are  all  my  occupations  in  comparison 
with  helping  a  human  soul?  My  dear 
little  niece  went,  I  know,  and  read  the 
Bible  to  her  on  Sunday  afternoons,  but 
I  was  always  '  too  busy '  or  *  too  tired ' 
to  go.  Woe  is  me! 

And  so  the  long,  blazing  summer  day 
wore  on  -  -  a  day  of  penance  —  and  the 
words  of  Good's  wonderful  poem,  'The 
Lady's  Dream,'  rang  in  my  ears:  — 

But  Evil  is  wrought  by  want  of  thought, 
As  well  as  want  of  heart, 


II 

The  above  extract  from  my  diary 
shows  how  Rab  and  Dab  first  came 
into  my  life.  During  the  autumn  I 
kept  in  touch  with  them,  seeing  them 
daily.  I  sent  them  food  and  clothing, 
and  tried  to  see  if  Rachael  was  doing 
full  justice  to  them.  She  was  an  excel- 
lent cook,  and  had  been  employed  in 
that  capacity  by  some  ladies  in  the  vil- 
lage. But  as  soon  as  she  took  the  chil- 
dren she  gave  up  her  place,  saying  that 
she  could  not  attend  to  the  children 
and  her  work;  as  the  boys  had  two 
older  sisters  of  twelve  and  fourteen,  this 
was  evidently  not  the  real  reason. 

Abby  had  been  so  helpless  in  her  ill 
health  with  her  large  family,  that  some 
of  the  gentlemen  of  the  neighborhood 
had  secured  for  her  a  monthly  allow- 
ance from  the  county,  and  though  I 
had  told  Rachael  I  would  see  that  this 
was  continued  for  the  children,  five  in 
number,  she  feared  that  her  having  a 
place  as  cook,  and  consequently  being 
self-supporting  might  prevent  it,  so 
she  gave  up  her  situation  and  lived 
on  the  provisions  allowed  the  children, 
with  the  result  that  the  little  ones 
looked  hungry  and  continued  their 
stealing.  The  whole  family  had  learned 
from  infancy  to  go  into  the  fields  with- 
in their  reach  and  grabble  potatoes, 
to  gather  unripe  corn  for  roasting  ears, 
to  catch  every  chicken  and  steal  all 
the  eggs  which  were  not  under  lock 
and  key.  The  two  elder  girls  had  been 
taken  up,  tried,  and  found  guilty  of 
theft  before  the  poor  mother's  death. 
Their  only  punishment  had  been  to  be 
kept  in  confinement  until  the  crops 
were  harvested. 

This  rich  lowland  rice-planting  re- 
gion would  be  a  paradise  if  people 
could  live  on  their  plantations  all  the 
year  round;  but  the  Anglo-Saxon  has 
always  been  susceptible  to  malarial 
fever,  and  in  the  early  settlement  of 


580 


RAB  AND  DAB 


the  country  suffered  much  from  it. 
After  some  years  they  found  that  by 
leaving  their  beautiful  homes  on  the 
rivers  with  their  luxuriant  tropical 
growth  during  the  hot  months,  and 
living  in  the  belt  of  pine  forest  (which 
is  generally  found  a  few  miles  inland 
from  the  rivers),  they  secured  perfect 
health.  With  this  knowledge  the 
planters  joined  in  selecting  some  high, 
sandy,  well-drained  spot  in  the  original 
forest,  and  built  lodges  with  big  rooms 
and  wide  piazzas  in  large  shady  yards, 
and  at  the  end  of  May  they  moved 
their  families  from  the  plantation  and 
remained  in  the  health-giving  pines  un- 
til the  first  heavy  frost  in  November, 
when  the  little  villages,  so  gay  and 
populous  all  summer,  were  left  silent 
and  deserted  during  the  winter.  Peace- 
ville  is  one  of  these  hamlets  of  refuge 
from  mosquitoes  and  malaria,  and  is 
only  four  miles  from  my  plantation 
and  winter  home,  Cherokee,  and  here 
I  spend  the  hot  months,  driving  back 
to  the  ricefields  every  day  to  look 
after  the  work. 

This  year,  when  I  left  Peaceville 
early  in  November,  I  established  the 
orphans  and  their  grandmother  in  one 
of  the  outbuildings  in  my  yard,  as  it 
was  much  more  comfortable  than  the 
little  log  hut  in  the  woods.  After  the 
move  I  tried  to  see  them  at  least  once 
a  week.  I  soon  saw  a  change  for  the 
worse:  they  got  thinner  and  thinner, 
with  swollen  faces  and  large  stomachs 
like  the  famine  pictures  from  India  I 
was  seeing  in  the  illustrated  papers. 

One  bitter  cold  day  in  January, 
Elihu,  who  is  the  blackest  of  my  re- 
tainers, being  of  such  a  rich  shade  that 
his  mother  always  spoke  of  him  as  'dat 
black  nigger/  a  man  whom  I  have 
helped  out  of  every  variety  of  trouble, 
and  who  has  a  feeble  desire  to  help  me 
in  return,  if  it  can  be  done  with  no 
effort  beyond  speech,  came  to  tell  me 
that  he  heard  that  Rachael  was  going 


to  move  to  Gregory,  the  county  seat, 
eighteen  miles  away,  on  that  day.  In 
spite  of  the  cold,  I  ordered  the  buck- 
board  at  once  and  drove  out  to  see 
Rachael.  I  found  the  house  in  great 
confusion,  —  bedding  tied  up  in  huge 
bundles,  boxes  and  trunks  corded,  and 
Rachael  in  her  Sunday  best. 

*  Why,  Rachael,  where  are  you  going 
this  cold  morning?' 

'Well,  ma'am,  I'm  goin'  to  move  to 
town.  I  got  chillun  dere  to  help  me.' 

'I  think  that  is  a  great  mistake, 
Rachael.  Here  you  have  no  house  rent, 
you  have  all  the  wood  you  can  burn 
without  paying  a  cent,  and  your  daugh- 
ter lives  very  near  you.  If  your  sons 
are  willing  to  help  you,  let  them  send 
you  what  they  can  spare;  it  will  go 
much  further  here/ 

But  Rachael  had  made  up  her  mind 
and  was  not  to  be  dissuaded.  She  was 
tired  of  the  country,  and  was  going  to 
move  to  town.  She  had  hired  an  ox- 
wagon  to  take  her  to  the  river,  where 
she  would  take  the  steamer. 

When  I  had  tried  every  argument 
without  avail,  I  said,  'Then  I  will 
take  the  boys  with  me.  I  am  not  willing 
for  them  to  starve  or  spend  their  time  in 
jail  for  stealing/  Turning  to  the  child- 
ren, crouching  over  the  fire,  I  said, 
'  Jonadab,  do  you  want  to  go  with  me? ' 

He,  after  many  convulsions,  shot 
out,  'Yes,  'um/ 

Rechab  was  inside  the  huge  fire- 
place behind  the  logs,  squatting  down; 
an  extraordinary-looking  black  shrimp. 

'Rab,  do  you  want  to  go  with  me?' 

Rab's  little  black  face  was  stolid 
and  expressionless  like  some  little  old 
man's.  It  was  some  time  before  he 
could  be  made  to  understand  the  situ- 
ation, but  when  at  last  his  grand- 
mother pulled  him  out  of  the  chimney, 
and  cuffing  him,  said,  'Speak  up,  boy, 
speak  up/  he  grunted  out,  'Um/  and 
nodded  his  head  violently. 

Then  I  told  Rachael  that  she  must 


RAB  AND  DAB 


sign  a  paper  giving  up  all  claim  to  the 
children,  to  which  she  responded  vo- 
ciferously, '  'Tain'  no  nuse  for  me  to 
sign  a  paper,  Miss  Patience.  You  'se 
welcome  to  the  chillun.  I'se  heartily 
tired  of  dem;  dey  's  jes'  nachully  bad 
chillun;  deys  tek  after  dey  pa,  what  was 
a  furrin  man,  en  corrupted  my  daugh- 
ter. You  kin  tek  'em  en  welcome.' 

Then  the  women  assembled  in  the 
room  to  see  Rachael's  departure,  be- 
gan to  exclaim,  'My  law,  Aun'  Ra- 
chael,  dem  chillun  sho'  is  lucky.  Miss 
Patience  'ull  do  de  bes'  for  dem  po' 
mudderless  ting';  and  so  on. 

I  called  for  the  last  shirts  I  had  made 
the  children,  but  these  could  not  be 
found.  Whether  they  were  so  securely 
packed  up  as  to  be  out  of  reach,  or 
whether  Rachael  had  sold  them,  I 
never  knew,  for  I  lost  patience  and 
took  the  boys  out  to  the  buckboard 
in  their  rags.  There  my  dainty  little 
niece  Aline,  who  was  waiting  for  me, 
was  filled  with  dismay  at  sight  of 
them,  and  exclaimed,  'Aunt  Patience, 
you  are  not  going  to  take  them  now, 
with  us?' 

'Yes,  they  are  coming  now  with  us,9 
I  answered,  in  a  voice  of  such  deter- 
mination that  Aline  said  no  more. 

In  the  back  of  the  buckboard,  for- 
tunately, there  were  some  tow-sacks 
which  I  was  taking  home.  I  had  the 
boys  climb  into  the  buckboard,  cov- 
ered them  with  the  sacks,  and  drove 
off  rapidly.  In  a  little  while  a  small 
voice  made  itself  heard  from  behind: 
'I  cold.'  I  put  Rab  into  one  of  the 
sacks,  tied  it  round  his  neck  securely, 
covered  him  with  the  others,  and  drove 


on. 


Ill 


I  shall  never  forget  the  consterna- 
tion which  took  possession  of  the  yard 
when  I  reached  home.  Jim,  my  good 
man-of-all-work,  said  nothing  when  I 
told  him  to  help  the  children  out  and 


release  Rab  from  the  sack;  but  as  I  led 
the  two  forlorn  mites  through  the 
yard  to  the  old  wash-house,  where 
there  were  two  rooms,  one  occupied  by 
Goody,  the  cook,  I  was  aware  of  very 
black  looks  on  all  sides. 

I  did  not  appear,  however,  to  see 
them,  but  said  to  the  cook,  'Goody, 
I  put  these  children  in  this  room  next 
to  you,  and  I  beg  you  to  give  an  eye 
to  them.  I  will  not  ask  you  to  do  any- 
thing for  them,  for  I  will  look  after 
them  myself  as  much  as  possible,  only 
at  night  give  an  ear  to  them.' 

Goody,  who  was  a  very  short,  plump 
little  figure,  neat  and  tidy  but  very 
ugly,  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height, 
about  four  feet  six  inches,  and  said, 
'Miss  Patience,  dem  chillun  is  too 
duhty  for  lib  in  de  room  nex'  me.' 

'Yes,  Goody,  I  know  they  are  ter- 
ribly dirty,  but  we  are  going  to  try  and 
make  them  different.  You  know  the 
Good  Father  promises  a  special  bless- 
ing to  those  who  help  the  orphan,  and 
I  feel  sure  you  will  wish  to  get  some  of 
that  blessing.' 

Then  I  promptly  left,  having  put  the 
children  on  a  bench  by  the  fireplace, 
where  I  had  Jim,  on  whose  help  I  can 
always  count,  make  a  fire. 

And  then  Aline  and  I  rushed  upstairs, 
and  soon  the  sewing-machine  was  in 
rapid  operation.  That  day  we  cut  and 
made  a  suit  apiece  for  the  waifs,  so 
that  when  I  had  them  scrubbed  that 
night  their  old  clothes  could  be  burn- 
ed. Besides  this  we  made  a  mattress 
to  fill  with  nice,  clean  straw  for  their 
bed,  and  got  blankets  and  comforts  for 
their  bedding. 

When  I  called  on  Chloe  to  find  the 
blankets  I  could  best  spare  from  the 
house,  her  aspect  was  truly  appalling. 
Chloe  had  been  the  comfort  of  my  life 
for  years,  having  made  it  possible,  by 
her  devotion  and  faithfulness,  for  me 
to  live  in  the  old  home  alone  since  my 
mother's  death,  with  no  white  person 


RAB  AND  DAB 


within  a  mile  or  two;  so  that  she  had 
been  a  friend  as  well  as  servant.  This 
terrible  innovation,  however,  was  al- 
most more  than  Chloe  could  bear  with 
respectful  equanimity.  She  looked  so 
stolid  and  unsympathetic  that  I  felt 
obliged  to  make  a  little  speech  some- 
what like  that  I  had  made  to  Goody, 
about  the  blessing  promised  to  those 
who  care  for  the  orphan,  but  Chloe  an- 
swered with  great  dignity,  'Miss  Pa- 
tience, of  course  I'm  only  a  sarvant, 
en  of  course  you  know  better  en  me, 
but  I  tink  't  is  a  bery  dangrus  ting  to 
harber  furriners  in  yo'  ya'd,  en  more- 
ober,  chillun  ob  a  teefin'  fambly.  I 
would  n't  say  a  wud  if  dey  was  we  own 
people  orphan,  but  I  kyant  undertek 
to  tek  keer  ob  no  furrin  chillun.' 

There  was  a  distinct  note  of  rebel- 
lion in  this  speech,  and  I  answered 
promptly,  'I  have  not  asked  you  to 
take  care  of  them,  Chloe.  I  will  do 
that.  But  I  thought  you  would  wish 
to  share  the  promised  blessing.  I  see, 
however,  that  you  do  not  realize  what  a 
serious  thing  it  is  to  reject  a  blessing.' 

And  passing  on  to  the  sewing-room, 
I  worked  with  enthusiasm,  stopping 
reluctantly  for  dinner,  and  by  sun- 
down everything  was  finished. 

Then  we  formed  a  procession:  Jim 
ahead  with  a  huge  kettle  of  hot  water, 
then  Chloe  with  soap  and  towels,  and 
Aline  and  I  behind.  The  tub  had  al- 
ready been  put  by  the  fire  in  the  or- 
phans' room.  They  were  washed  and 
scrubbed  thoroughly  with  hot  water 
and  carbolic  soap,  their  new  nighties 
put  on,  and  their  old  clothes  burned. 
After  this  was  done,  and  the  tub  was 
removed,  I  had  them  kneel  down  and 
say  the  dear  little  child's  prayer  which 
has  helped  so  many  children  through 
so  many  dark  nights :  —  . 

Jesus,  tender  Shepherd,  hear  me, 
Bless  thy  little  lamb  to-night, 

Through  the  darkness  be  Thou  near  me, 
Keep  me  safe  till  morning  light. 


Then  they  got  into  their  nice  clean 
bed,  and  we  left  them. 

It  took  Aline  and  me  days  of  hard 
sewing  to  complete  the  boys'  new  out- 
fit. Neither  of  us  was  accustomed  to 
make  boys'  clothes,  and  the  want  of 
patterns  worried  us  a  good  deal;  and 
then  the  number  of  buttonholes  seemed 
alarming;  but  we  invented  some  pat- 
terns not  requiring  so  many. 

The  second  day  after  their  arrival 
Chloe  came  in  and  said,  *  Miss  Patience, 
you  got  to  be  bery  pertickler  how  you 
feed  dese  chillun.  Ef  you  give  dem 
much  as  dey  want  you'll  kill  dem  sho.' 

'Very  well,  Chloe,  use  your  discre- 
tion about  it.  I  leave  their  feeding  to 
you.' 

'Yes,  ma'am,  cause  dey  is  mos' 
starved,  en  dey  kyant  satisfy.  I  give 
dem  dey  dinner,  and  befo'  I  start  wid 
mine  dey  done  dem  own,  and  den  dey 
look  at  mine  so  pitiful  I  'bleege  to  give 
'em  mo',  but  Jim  say  't  is  dangrus  to 
feed  'em  too  much.' 

Jim  told  me  that  when  he  was  eating 
his  dinner  one  day,  Rab,  .having  fin- 
ished his  own,  watched  him  with  such 
greedy  eyes  that  he  said,  'Rechab, 
you  ain't  had  enuff?' 

Rab  answered,  '  No  sah,  I  neber  had 
me  belly  full  in  me  life.' 

'Well,  Rab,  we'll  stall  you.  Dat's 
what  we'll  hab  to  do,  Chloe.  Dey's 
been  here  ten  days,  and  dere's  no  dan- 
ger now.  We'll  stall  dem.' 

Chloe  agreed,  so  the  next  day  the 
plan  was  carried  out.  More  dinner  was 
cooked  than  usual,  and  the  boys  were 
given  plate  after  plate  until  they  said 
they  had  had  enough,  and  then  Jim  and 
Chloe  felt  that  they  had  accomplished 
a  feat,  and  assured  me  that  there  would 
never  in  future  be  any  trouble  in  satis- 
fying them.  I  only  heard  of  this  after 
it  was  over,  for  I  would  have  forbidden 
it  as  dangerous,  never  having  heard  of 
such  a  thing. 

I  gave  the  elder,  Dab,  a  little  axe, 


RAB  AND  DAB 


583 


and  told  him  he  could  get  the  fallen 
branches  of  the  oaks  which  covered 
the  park  in  front  of  the  house,  and 
carry  them  to  the  kitchen  for  the  stove. 
This  he  did  with  delight,  bringing  them 
in  a  cart  made  of  a  box  on  wooden 
wheels,  Rab  always  trotting  behind; 
and  after  a  while  they  lost  their  stolid 
look. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  me  to  find 
that  Chloe  was  thawing  toward  the 
outcasts.  Jim  was  always  good  to 
them  and  gave  all  the  help  he  could, 
for  Jim  had  a  boy  of  his  own  about  the 
size  of  Jonadab  and  his  heart  was  ten- 
der to  them. 

It  was  not  long  before  Goody  an- 
nounced that  she  was  going :  she  could 
not  stand  those  dirty  children  in  the 
room  next  to  her.  I  was  greatly  shocked 
at  this.  She  had  been  with  me  a  long 
time,  and  was  an  excellent  cook>  clean, 
cheerful,  honest,  and  willing  until  the 
arrival  of  the  orphans.  I  talked  with 
her,  and  told  her  they  were  already 
improving,  and  soon  would  be  quite 
different.  There  was  no  use.  Go  she 
would.  Her  dignity  was  injured  as 
well  as  her  feelings.  It  was  a  great  loss 
to  me.  She  not  only  cooked,  but  look- 
ed after  the  poultry,  and  besides  I  had 
grown  fond  of  the  little  old  woman. 

Now  Chloe  had  to  cook  and  she  was 
a  splendid  cook;  but  she  had  left  the 
kitchen  on  account  of  ill  health,  and 
I  feared  another  breakdown  if  she  un- 
dertook the  cooking  as  well  as  the 
maid's  work. 

However,  she  was  eager  to  do  it,  and 
I  looked  out  for  some  one  to  take  care 
of  the  poultry.  Bonaparte  told  me 
that  he  heard  C  in  thy  was  at  a  neigh- 
boring plantation,  very  poor,  and  he 
thought  I  might  get  her,  and  as  he 
said  it  would  be  a  great  help  to  her  I 
told  him  to  get  her.  So  C  in  thy  came 
and  took  possession  of  the  room  Goody 
had  left,  next  to  the  children.  She  was 
only  middle-aged,  but  she  seemed  very 


helpless  and  a  little  cracked.  She  was 
to  get  three  dollars  a  month  and  her 
food.  She  had  been  very  friendless  and 
poor,  and  being  what  Chloe  calls  a 
'Maus  nigger,'  which  means  she  had 
belonged  to  the  same  master,  she  was 
acceptable  to  the  other  servants.  She 
was  perfectly  delighted  to  get  the  place, 
and  never  met  me  in  the  yard  without 
making  a  deep  courtesy,  clasping  her 
hands  and  looking  up  to  heaven  and 
making  known  her  joy.  *  Ain't  yo'  see, 
my  Maussa  always  did  tek  keer  of  him 
people,  en  now  'e  gone,  but  'e  ain't  fur- 
git  me.  'E  sen'  'e  chile  for  find  me,  en 
bring  me  home  en  tek  keer  of  me.  Yes, 
'e  send  'e  chile  for  mind  me.' 

Her  light  work  was  well  done,  and 
she  was  good  to  the  children,  and  they 
were  beginning  to  look  happy,  to  my 
great  satisfaction.  One  night  when  I 
went  to  hear  their  prayers  Aline  heard 
them  singing,  and  motioned  to  me  not 
to  make  a  noise.  The  door  was  ajar, 
and  we  looked  in.  The  two  little  boys 
were  sitting  on  their  wooden  stools  in 
front  of  a  very  bright  lightwood  fire, 
staring  into  it,  swaying  back  and  forth 
in  time  to  the  rhythm  of  the  strange 
little  hymn  they  were  singing.1 

It  seemed  to  me  wonderful  that 
these  little  children,  who  appeared  to 
be  about  six  and  four  years  old,  should 
remember  words  and  tune  so  well. 

Every  Sunday  afternoon  I  taught 
them  a  very  easy  little  form  of  cate- 
chism used  for  very  young  children. 
When  I  asked  Jonadab  the  first  ques- 
tion, 'Who  made  you?'  with  violent 
contortions  he  shot  out,  'My  ma.' 

'Yes,'  I  explained,  'but  God  made 
your  mother,  and  you  and  everything 
else  in  the  world.' 

The  next  question  is,  'What  did  He 
make  you  for?' 

Again  Dab  shot  out  a  prompt  an- 
swer, 'Fo'  work.' 

The  answer  in  the  little  book  is, 

1  See  page  584. 


584 


RAB  AND  DAB 


'For  his  glory.'  I  was  puzzled  how  to 
combine  the  two  ideas  to  reach  his 
comprehension.  Labor  are  est  or  are,  and 
this  little  black  mortal  could  only  glo- 
rify his  Maker  by  doing  with  all  his 
heart  his  very  small  duties. 

After  this  I  gave  up  using  the  regu- 
lar catechism,  and  told  them  the  won- 
derful story  of  the  Creation  and  Re- 
demption of  the  world  in  my  own 
words,  and  they  soon  learned  to  tell  it 
themselves  with  dramatic  effect.  That 
story  of  the  whole  garden  being  at  the 
disposal  of  Adam  and  Eve,  except  the 
one  tree  whose  fruit  they  were  forbid- 
den to  touch,  appealed  strongly  to  their 
understanding,  and  when  they  told  of 


the  temptation  they  always  said,  'Sa- 
tan tu'n  'eself  into  a  black  snake,  en  'e 
crawl  up  to  Eve,  en  'e  say,  "Eat  un, 
'e  good,  en  'e'll  mek  yo'  wise,"  en  den 
Eve  eat  urn.' 

I  always  allowed  them  to  tell  it  to 
me  in  their  own  way,  and  being  well 
acquainted  with  the  black  snake,  they 
preferred  it  to  the  word  serpent.  I 
then  taught  them  a  simple  hymn  which 
they  seemed  to  find  very  difficult,  and 
then  I  let  them  sing  one  of  their  own 
little  hymns,  'sperituals,'  the  nigs  call 
them;  and  in  this  way  I  heard  all  they 
knew,  and  going  at  once  to  the  piano, 
I  tried  to  write  them  down  in  the  keys 
in  which  the  waifs  sang  them. 


-*- 


Oh -ye!   No  -  e     Oh  -  ye    Noa',  H'ist   de    win  -  da    le'     de     duv' cum    een. 


-•-      -9- 

I  ain't  go -in'  to   call    yu  ful  no  mo',  H'ist    dewin-da    le'   de    duv' cum  een. 


3 

b         j 

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-_i           r 

V           1 

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i 

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*  .        ! 

• 

fy  • 

I  buil' dis  a'ak  on  God  dry   Ian',  H'ist    de  win -da     le'    de     duv1  cum   een. 


/L  b           J 

I 

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Ifh        i    22        « 

• 

I       J 

s 

1 

V 

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M         9 

. 

,          9 

7y  • 

Oh -ye     No  -  e      oh  -  ye    Noa',  H'ist    de  win  -  da      le'     de     duv' cum  een. 


IV 

As  soon  as  I  had  an  opportunity  I 
bought  each  of  them  a  suit  of  'store 
clothes.'  I  got  them  for  four  and  six 
years,  but  they  were  a  little  large.  Still, 
the  boys  gloried  in  them  and  wore 
them  on  Sundays. 

Their  joy  was  to  take  the  little  axe 
and  cut  and  bring  in  load  after  load 
of  the  small  dead  limbs  which  make 
splendid  hot  fires,  and  they  won  their 


way  into  Chloe's  heart  by  keeping  the 
kitchen  woodbox  full.  By  the  spring 
they  had  become  very  merry,  and  the 
change  in  them  from  stolid  indiffer- 
ence to  intelligent  interest  in  every- 
thing, gave  me  great  pleasure. 

There  was  one  great  trouble  and 
distress  as  they  grew  happy  and  at 
home.  The  propensities  I  had  hoped 
would  disappear  entirely  with  sufficient 
food  and  clothing  began  to  peep  out. 
Not  an  egg  could  ever  be  got  for 


RAB  AND  DAB 


585 


the  house.  The  boys  watched  the  hens 
and  knew  their  nests;  and  they  stole 
out  early  in  the  morning  before  any 
one  was  awake,  took  all  the  eggs  into 
their  room,  ate  some,  hid  some,  and 
sold  some  to  any  one  and  for  anything. 
Chloe's  utmost  vigilance  could  not  come 
up  with  them. 

The  second  spring  they  were  with  us, 
Chloe  had  raised  a  number  of  broods 
of  beautiful  chickens  to  the  size  of  part- 
ridges. Then  they  began  to  disappear 
rapidly.  I  said  to  Chloe,  *I  fear  it  is 
our  cat/  Chloe  answered,  '  'T  is  var- 
mint, Miss  Patience.  Ef  it  was  de  cat 
I  would  see  um  for  sartain,  kase  I  'se 
very  watchful.  But  you  kyant  ketch 
varmint.  Dey  favors  de  daak.' 

One  evening  Chloe  had  been  to  the 
garden  about  an  eighth  of  a  mile  from 
the  house  to  pick  green  peas.  She  had 
left  Rab  in  charge  of  the  yard,  and  she 
suddenly  remembered  that  she  had  not 
locked  her  room  door,  so  she  returned 
earlier  than  was  her  wont.  As  she  ap- 
proached she  saw  Rab  sitting  on  the 
kitchen  steps  where  she  had  told  him 
to  stay,  and  her  heart  glowed  as  she 
said  to  herself,  'Rechab  is  sholy  get- 
tin'  to  be  a  sma't  boy  to  tek  keer  of 
de  ya'd  so  good.'  He  was  shelling  an 
ear  of  corn  and  the  great  crowds  of 
little  Plymouth  Rocks  were  running 
over  the  steps  and  his  knees,  eager  to 
get  the  corn  as  it  fell. 

Chloe's  heart  stopped  beating,  for 
suddenly  Rab  made  a  dive,  caught  a 
chicken,  seized  it  by  the  feet,  swung  it 
round  rapidly,  then  cracked  its  neck 
with  his  teeth,  and  stuffed  it  into  the 
bosom  of  his  shirt.  Chloe  rushed  for- 
ward and  seized  him.  Having  caught 
him  thus  red-handed,  she  shook  him 
and  screamed,  *  You  wicked  boy,  I  seen 
yo'  kill  dat  chicken.' 

Rab  tried  to  escape,  but  she  held 
him,  and  made  him  take  the  little 
warm  body  from  his  shirt. 

'Aint   yo'  shame  to   ac'  so  awful, 


Rab?  I  trus'  yo',  and  leP  yo'  in  charge 
of  the  ya'd,  en  I  ketch  yo'  en  see  yo' 
wid  my  own  eye  crack  dat  checken 
neck  wid  yo'  wicked  teeth.  Ain't  yo' 
feared  the  debbil  '11  come  for  yo'  dis 
minit  en  carry  yo'm  straight  to  hell? 
I  feel  um  a-comin'.  Tell  me  de  trufe 
befor'  'e  get  yo',  boy.  I  don't  want 
yo'  for  bu'n.' 

Thus  exhorted  and  adjured,  terror 
seized  Rab,  and  he  cried,  *Aun'  Chloe, 
don'  let  de  debbil  ketch  me,  en  I  '11  tell 
yo'  all.  I  done  kill  twenty.  I  eat  some, 
en  I  hide  some  under  de  grape-har- 
bor, en  I'll  sho'  yo'  de  place  ef  yo'll 
save  me  from  de  debbil.' 

He  took  her  under  the  grape-arbor 
and  to  several  places  where  he  had  the 
bodies  hid. 

When  Chloe  told  me,  I  was  wretched, 
and  my  first  thought  was  that  she  did 
not  give  the  child  enough  to  eat.  But 
when  I  suggested  this,  Chloe  was  indig- 
nant, and  said  in  an  unnecessarily  loud 
tone  of  voice  that  Jonadab  and  Rechab 
ate  more  than  Jim  and  Ben  the  field 
hand  and  herself  put  together.  'An' 
as  fo'  yo',  Miss  Patience,  Rechab  eat 
mo'  in  one  day  than  yo'  eat  in  a  week. 
Meat,  en  rice,  en  turnip,  en  greens, 
en  tetta,  en  molasses,  not  to  say  all  de 
aig,  so  dat  I  kyant  so  much  as  gi'  yo'  a 
biled  aig  fo'  yo'  breakfast.  No,  ma'am, 
Miss  Patience,  don'  'cuse  me  o'  not 
feedin'  dat  chile,  fo'  I  does  stuff  'im. 
Lessen  yo'  'lows  me  to  give  'im  a  good 
licken,  Satan's  bound'  to  carry  dat 
chile  off  bodily.' 

Up  to  this  time  I  had  insisted  on 
moral  suasion  as  the  right  method  of 
dealing  with  the  boys.  In  their  old  life 
they  had  been  accustomed  to  beating 
and  harsh  words,  and  I  wanted  them 
to  have  a  change  in  their  experiences, 
and  so  I  had  shamed  them  for  bad  con- 
duct and  rewarded  them  for  good  con- 
duct. Now,  however,  justice  and  Chloe 
demanded  severity.  Rechab  had  to 
suffer  in  his  little  black  body  for  the 


586 


RAB  AND  DAB 


evil  deeds  thereof,  so  I  authorized 
Chloe  to  execute  what  she  considered 
suitable  punishment,  knowing  I  could 
trust  to  her  tender  heart  not  to  be  too 
severe. 

Chloe's  method  of  administering  the 
rod  was  unique.  'Now,  Rab,'  she  said, 
'I  goin'  to  bag  yo'  befo'  I  lick  yoV 

Rab  cried  aloud  for  mercy,  but  she 
was  firm,  and  put  a  sack  over  the  cul- 
prit's head  and  tied  it  round  his  waist, 
and  then  proceeded  with  much  noise 
and  flourish  to  lay  on  a  light  switch. 
Rechab,  however,  made  a  great  out- 
cry, and  promised  volubly  never  to  do 
so  any  more;  and  certainly  for  a  while 
he  abstained  from  chicken  slaughter. 

V 

That  November  I  had  gone  to  the 
State  Fair  and  committed  a  great  ex- 
travagance. I  had  bought  a  pair  of 
beautiful  white  turkeys  from  the  Van- 
derbilt  farm  at  Biltmore.  They  cost 
what  seemed  an  enormous  price,  but 
they  were  said  to  be  hardy  and  to  have 
a  very  domestic  and  contented  turn  of 
mind,  never  wandering  far  from  home. 

My  great  difficulty  in  raising  tur- 
keys had  been  their  roaming  propen- 
sities. They  would  wander  off  to  a  dis- 
tance and  get  caught  by  foxes  and 
other  varmint.  But  I  had  high  hopes 
of  raising  a  great  many  with  this  new 
variety.  One  day  in  May  the  poultry 
yard  was  in  great  excitement.  Mrs. 
Vander  had  been  sitting  on  twenty- 
five  eggs  for  a  month,  and  they  were 
expected  to  hatch.  Mr.  Vander,  who 
weighed  forty  pounds,  strutted  about 
in  great  pride. 

When  Chloe  went  to  feed  Mrs.  V. 
that  evening,  she  found  twenty-four 
beauties  in  the  nest.  Her  joy  and 
pride  were  almost  equal  to  Mr.  V.'s. 
The  little  turkeys — pee-pees,  as  Chloe 
called  them — were  only  two  weeks  old 
when  the  time  came  to  move  to  the 


pine  land  for  the  summer,  so  the  dear 
little  roly-poly  yellow  things  were  put 
in  a  basket  and  taken  out  tenderly  in 
the  buckboard,  while  Mrs.  V.  was 
made  comfortable  in  a  small  coop  and 
followed  with  the  other  poultry  in  the 
wagon. 

I  had  had  a  new  house  built  for  the 
distinguished  family,  all  wired  so  that 
no  harm  could  befall  them,  and  yet 
they  would  have  plenty  of  fresh  air, 
and  they  were  very  happy  when  they 
found  themselves  together  in  such  de- 
lightful quarters  after  the  trials  of  the 
move. 

As  soon  as  we  had  settled  down  after 
the  move  I  sent  Jonadab  to  school, 
there  being  one  in  the  little  pine-land 
hamlet  of  Peaceville,  under  the  aus- 
pices of  the  church,  and  kept  by  two 
ladies,  mother  and  daughter.  They 
were  charming  women,  the  mother  still 
beautiful,  showing  her  Greek  descent 
in  her  perfect  features  and  exquisite 
skin ;  both  so  refined,  so  thorough  and 
conscientious, — they  certainly  were  as 
near  saints  as  mortal  women  ever  get 
to  be.  She  had  been  an  heiress,  and 
had  married  a  wealthy  rice-planter, 
but  had  been  left  after  the  war  with 
nothing  but  her  land,  of  which  she 
could  make  no  use  without  money  to 
pay  for  labor.  No  one  will  ever  know 
what  privations  she  went  through  with 
her  children  after  her  husband's  death, 
for  she  never  made  any  moan,  and 
brought  up  her  children  to  do  with- 
out, smilingly.  What  a  power  it  gives 
when  one  has  learned  to  do  without! 

For  twenty-five  cents  a  month  for 
each  child  they  gave  up  their  whole 
time  and  strength  to  guiding  the  little 
dusky  minds  in  the  path  of  learning. 
They  returned  the  quarter  Jonadab 
carried,  saying  it  would  give  them 
pleasure  to  teach  him  without  pay, 
and  his  days  of  joy  began. 

At  an  early  hour  every  morning,  in 
a  blue  denim  suit  with  a  spotless  white 


RAB  AND  DAB 


587 


shirt,  and  his  blue  denim  school-bag  on 
his  shoulder,  he  traveled  to  school,  a 
broad  grin  on  his  black  face.  I  had 
feared  that  the  strange  hesitation  and 
convulsion  of  his  speech  would  make 
him  a  very  trying  pupil,  but  the  good 
ladies  sent  excellent  reports  of  him. 
He  was  very  attentive  and  docile,  and 
learned  quickly. 

I  thought  Rechab  was  too  young 
and  mischievous  to  go  to  school,  and 
so  he  made  things  lively  at  home.  As 
soon  as  Jonadab  returned  and  sat  down 
to  study  his  lessons,  Rab  sat  beside 
him,  and  Dab  taught  him  the  spelling 
orally,  so  that  Rab  could  spell  appar- 
ently just  as  well  as  Dab,  only  he  knew 
not  a  single  letter. 

During  the  summer  I  went  to  the 
mountains  to  visit  a  sister,  and  things 
went  on  very  satisfactorily.  I  had  Jim 
write  me  a  weekly  letter  telling  all 
that  went  on  at  the  plantation  and  in 
the  yard,  and  he  reported  everything 
as  serene  until  the  autumn,  when 
Chloe  announced  in  a  letter  the  death 
of  Mr.  Vander  and  the  disappearance 
of  all  the  little  V.'s,  and  in  a  delicate 
way  hinted  that  their  death  had  not 
been  a  natural  one,  but  accused  no  one. 

I  knew  from  the  mysterious  tone  of 
the  letter  that  something  was  very 
wrong,  and  when  I  got  home  the  tale 
was  told.  Rechab  had  chased  and 
killed  Mr.  Vander,  and  caught  the  lit- 
tle ones  and  either  eaten  or  sold  them. 
Mrs.  Vander  had  been  wounded,  but 
Chloe  had  nursed  her  back  to  health. 
It  was  a  sad  outcome  of  my  experi- 
ment in  improved  stock,  and  I  was  at 
a  loss  what  to  do,  but  finally  I  con- 
cluded to  appear  ignorant  of  Rab's 
evil  deeds  during  my  absence. 

The  boys  were  quite  well  and  much 
grown.  They  seemed  delighted  to  see 
me  back,  as  were  all  the  servants  and 
the  Negroes  on  the  plantation. 

The  first  week  in  November  the  move 
from  the  pine  land  back  to  the  river, 


that  bete  noire  of  life  on  a  rice-planta- 
tion, was  accomplished.  Cinthy,  who 
had  been  left  in  the  yard  alone  during 
the  summer,  was  overjoyed  to  see  the 
return  of  the  household.  She  had  the 
yard  raked  very  clean,  no  weeds,  no 
dead  leaves  anywhere;  so  I  presented 
her  with  a  calico  frock  and  a  new  pair  of 
shoes,  and  her  cup  of  joy  seemed  over- 
flowing. I  wanted  her  to  try  on  the 
shoes  at  once  so  that  if  they  did  not 
fit  I  could  exchange  them.  I  had  got 
the  number  she  told  me  she  wore, 
—  threes;  but  the  vanity  of  giving  a 
number  which  is  entirely  too  small  is 
very  common  among  the  Negroes,  and 
I  wanted  to  see  for  myself  if  these 
fitted. 

But  Cinthy  refused  to  try  them  on, 
saying,  *  To-night  I  gwine  wash  me 
foot,  en  I'll  try  de  sho'  on  to-morrow 
when  me  foot  clean.' 

The  next  morning  as  I  sat  at  the 
breakfast-table,  Chloe  came  in  to  say 
that  Cinthy  did  not  'feel  so  well.' 

I  was  much  surprised,  for  she  had 
seemed  so  well  and  so  gay  the  day  be- 
fore. 

'Is  she  in  bed,  Chloe?'  I  asked. 

'Oh,  no,  ma'am,  I  leP  um  de  sit  by 
de  fire,  but  'e  say  'e  ain't  feel  so  good.' 

I  poured  out  and  sweetened  heavily 
a  cup  of  coffee  and  took  it  out  at  once 
to  Cinthy's  room.  I  knocked,  but  get- 
ting no  answer  pushed  the  door  open 
and  went  in.  Cinthy  was  saying  her 
prayers,  kneeling  by  the  bed;  so  I  sat 
down  on  the  little  bench  by  the  fire,  and 
set  the  cup  of  coffee  on  the  hearth. 

After  a  few  minutes,  thinking  she 
had  fallen  asleep,  I  went  to  her  and 
laid  my  hand  gently  on  her  shoulder. 
To  my  horror,  the  whole  figure  shook 
just  as  though  I  had  touched  a  doll. 
Cinthy  was  dead!  It  was  a  dreadful 
shock.  By  her  side  were  the  new  shoes 
yet  untried.  The  bed  was  tidily  made 
up,  the  room  swept,  and  everything 
around  was  neat  and  commonplace, 


588 


RAB  AND  DAB 


but  the  mighty  dignity  of  Death  had 
entered  the  poor  room,  and  there  was 
a  great  pathos  in  the  solemn  figure. 
She  had  sunk  on  her  knees  to  hear  the 
Master's  summons.  Simple,  unlearned 
Cinthy  had  been  called  up  higher.  She 
knew  the  great  secret  of  the  hereafter. 

I  called  Chloe,  who  almost  fainted 
when  I  told  her.  I  called  Bonaparte, 
my  head  man  and  carpenter,  and  sent 
Jim  for  the  doctor  ;  but  there  was  no- 
thing to  be  done.  It  was  heart  disease 
of  which  no  one  had  any  suspicion.  I 
sent  down  to  Cinthy's  son,  who  lived 
in  Gregory,  and  her  friends  were  noti- 
fied and  they  assembled  promptly  and 
sang  'sperituals'  and  recounted  Cin- 
thy's virtues,  which  they  all  seemed 
now  to  appreciate. 

The  son,  who  owned  his  house  and 
lot  in  town,  a  horse  and  buggy  and 
pair  of  oxen,  had  never  thought  of  pro- 
viding his  mother  with  the  smallest 
comfort  while  she  lived.  Now,  how- 
ever, he  paid  her  his  tribute  of  tears. 
I  had  Bonaparte  make  a  coffin,  buying 
all  the  necessary  things  at  the  neigh- 
boring country  store;  and  as  I  could 
get  nothing  that  looked  nice  for  the 
inside,  I  took  my  work-basket  out 
under  an  oak  tree,  and  pinked  out 
yards  and  yards  of  white  trimming, 
which  was  greatly  admired.  I  cut  a 
deep  scallop,  and  then  a  cluster  of  holes 
in  it,  which  gave  a  very  fine  effect. 

It  was  a  relief  to  sit  out  under  the 
canopy  of  Heaven  and  have  this  me- 
chanical occupation  while  I  recovered 
from  the  shock  and  agitation.  I  had 
given  Chloe  a  nice  outfit  from  my  own 
things  for  the  *  laying-out,'  and  a  large 
bow  of  black^  ribbon  for  Cinthy's  neck. 
All  of  these  little  adornments  of  the 
empty  shell  mean  so  much  to  Negroes, 
and  I  knew  I  could  in  no  other  way 
do  as  much  for  the  limited  faithful 
creature. 

The  simple  funeral  took  place  the 
next  day  with  much  circumstance,  and 


its  wild  minor  music,  so  descriptive  of 
death  as  a  terror,  brought  to  my  mem- 
ory the  many  nights  when  as  a  child 
I  had  covered  my  head  with  the  bed 
clothing  to  keep  from  my  ears  that 
heart-breaking  wail;  and  even  now,  as 
the  last  rites  were  being  paid  to  Cinthy 
in  the  bury  ing-ground  they  all  love 
so  well,  some  of  the  same  feeling  crept 
upon  me,  and  it  was  hard  to  realize 
that  'Death  is  swallowed  up  in  Vic- 
tory,' that  it  is  truly  only  the  Gate  to 
Life. 

Beside  her  parents  and  grandparents 
Cinthy  was  laid  to  rest.  Then  came 
the  disposal  of  her  '  ting.'  The  son  said, 
magnanimously,  that  he  wanted  noth- 
ing, so  Chloe  proceeded  to  distribute 
the  little  treasures  among  the  few 
friends  who  had  been  kind  to  Cinthy 
when  she  was  in  need,  before  I  found 
her,  and  'brought  her  home,'  as  she  al- 
ways said.  It  was  very  little, — a  cook- 
ing pot,  a  spider,  a  tub,  her  bedding, 
and  clothing,  including  the  new  calico 
dress;  but  they  were  much  prized  by 
the  recipients.  No  one  wanted  her  litr 
tie  bedstead,  a  neat  little  home-made 
frame;  but  Cinthy  thought  a  great  deal 
of  it  for  it  was  made  of  'Indian  Pride,' 
she  said.  I  had  this  put  out  in  the  or- 
chard, and  the  untried  shoes  I  took 
back  to  the  house. 

I  told  Jim  he  must  take  the  boys  to 
sleep  in  his  house  for  a  while  till  the 
sense  of  emptiness  in  the  next  room 
had  passed  away;  so  he  invited  them; 
but  Jonadab  refused,  saying  they  did 
not  want  to  leave  their  room;  and  they 
slept  next  to  the  empty  room  without 
one  thought  of  fear,  and  after  a  month 
begged  me  to  let  them  move  into  Cin- 
thy's room,  which  had  been  scoured 
and  whitewashed.  I  consented,  and 
they  moved  in  and  seemed  delighted 
with  their  new  quarters. 

During  this  winter  Jonadab  con- 
tinued to  go  to  school,  though  it  gave 
him  a  walk  of  eight  miles  and  I  thought 


UNIFORMS  FOR  WOMEN 


589 


it  was  too  far  for  such  a  little  fellow. 
He  was  anxious  to  go,  however,  and 
insisted  that  it  was  not  too  far,  and 
proved  that  he  was  right  by  growing 
in  health  and  strength  all  winter.  He 
brought  my  mail  with  him  every  day 
from  the  post-office,  which  was  just 
opposite  his  schoolhouse  in  Peaceville. 
He  had  a  hoop  from  a  barrel  which  he 


rolled  along  the  level  road,  and  made 
the  distance  in  very  short  time,  and  ap- 
parently without  fatigue.  Rab  wanted 
to  go  too,  but  I  would  not  consent,  and 
he  spent  his  time  getting  *  bresh '  with 
the  little  axe  and  the  little  cart.  He 
still  indulged  his  great  fondness  for 
eggs,  but  was  willing  to  divide  now, 
and  brought  some  to  the  house. 


(To  be  continued.) 


UNIFORMS  FOR  WOMEN 


BY   W.   L.    GEORGE 


THE  change  which  has  come  over 
politics  reflects  closely  enough  the 
change  which  has  come  about  in  the 
direction  of  man's  desire.  Diplomacy 
and  the  affairs  of  kings  have  given  place 
to  wages  and  the  housing  of  the  poor; 
that  which  was  serious  has  become 
pompous;  that  which  was  of  no  account 
now  stands  in  the  foreground.  And  so 
it  is  not  absurd  to  suggest  that  one  of 
those  things  which  once  made  jests  for 
the  comic  paper  and  the  Victorian 
paterfamilias  has,  little  by  little,  with 
the  spread  of  wealth,  become  a  problem 
of  the  day,  a  problem  profound  and 
menacing,  full  of  intimations  of  social 
decay,  not  far  remote  in  its  reactions 
from  the  spread  of  a  disease. 

That  problem  is  the  problem  of  wo- 
men's dress,  or  rather  it  is  the  problem 
of  the  fashions  in  women's  dress. 
Women  have  never  been  content  mere- 
ly to  clothe  themselves,  nor,  for  the 
matter  of  that,  until  very  recently, 


have  men;  but  men  have  grown  a  new 
sanity  while  women,  if  we  read  aright 
the  signs  of  the  times,  have  grown 
naught  save  a  new  insanity.  We  have 
come  to  a  point  where,  for  a  great  num- 
ber of  women,  the  fashions  have  be- 
come the  motive  power  of  life,  and 
where,  for  almost  every  woman,  they 
have  acquired  great  importance.  Wo- 
men classify  each  other  according  to 
their  clothes;  they  have  corrupted  the 
drama  into  a  showroom;  they  have 
completely  ruined  the  more  expensive 
parts  of  the  opera  house;  they  have  in- 
vaded the  newspapers  in  myriad  para- 
graphs, in  fashion-pages,  and  do  not 
spare  even  the  august  columns  of  the 
most  dignified  papers.  This  preoccu- 
pation does  not  exist  among  men.  We 
have  had  our  dandies  and  we  still  have 
our  *  nuts'  and  dudes;  but  it  never 
served  a  man  very  well  to  be  a  dandy 
or  a  beau,  and  most  of  us  to-day  sus- 
pect that  if  the  'nut'  were  broken,  he 
would  be  found  to  contain  no  kernel. 
Men  have  escaped  the  fashions  and 


590 


UNIFORMS  FOR  WOMEN 


therewith  they  have  spared  themselves 
much  loss  of  energy  and  money.  For 
it  is  not  only  the  fashions  that  matter: 
it  is  the  cost  of  women's  clothes,  the  in- 
trinsic cost ;  it  is  their  continual  changes 
for  no  reason,  changes  which  some- 
times produce,  and  sometimes  destroy, 
beauty;  sometimes  promote  comfort, 
and  often  cause  torture.  But  always  by 
their  drafts  upon  its  wealth  women  lead 
humanity  nearer  to  poverty,  envy,  dis- 
content, frivolity,  starvation,  prostitu- 
tion, —  to  general  social  degradation. 
Nothing  can  mitigate  these  evils  until 
woman  is  induced  to  view  clothing  as 
does  the  modern  man,  until,  namely, 
she  decides  to  wear  uniform. 


ii 

The  costliness  of  women's  clothes 
would  not  be  so  serious  if  the  fashions 
did  not  change  at  so  bewildering  a 
speed.  We  have  come  to  a  point  where 
women  have  not  time  to  wear  out  their 
clothes,  flimsy  though  they  be;  where 
we  ought  to  welcome  the  adulteration 
of  silk  and  wool;  where  we  ought  to 
hope  that  every  material  may  get  shod- 
dier and  more  worthless,  so  that  the 
new  model  may  have  a  chance  to  jus- 
tify its  short  life  by  the  badness  of  the 
stuff.  To-day  women  will  quite  openly 
say,  *  I  won't  buy  that.  I  could  n't  wear 
it  out.'  They  actually  want  to  wear  out 
their  clothes!  The  causes  of  this  are 
obvious  enough.  We  are  told  that  there 
are  'rings'  in  Paris,  London,  and 
Vienna  which  decree  every  few  months 
that  the  clothes  of  yesterday  have  be- 
come a  social  stigma;  this  is  true,  but 
much  truer  is  the  view  that  women  are 
in  the  grasp  of  a  new  hysteria;  that, 
lacking  the  old  occupations  of  brewing, 
baking,  child-rearing,  spinning,  they 
are  desperately  looking  for  something 
to  do.  They  have  found  it :  they  are  un- 
doing the  social  system. 
,.  It  was  not  always  so.  It  is  true 


that  all  through  history,  even  in  bib- 
lical times,  moralists  and  preachers 
inveighed  against  the  gewgaws  that 
woman  loves.  They  cried  out  before 
they  were  hurt;  if  he  were  alive  to- 
day, Bossuet  might,  for  the  first  time, 
fail  to  find  words. 

To  the  old  curse  of  cost  we  have  add- 
ed change,  as  any  student  of  costume 
will  confirm;  for  in  past  ages  the  cloth- 
ing of  women  did  not  change  very  rap- 
idly. There  is  hardly  any  difference 
between  the  costume  of  1755  and  that 
which  Queen  Marie  Leszczynska  wore 
ten  years  later ;  in  Greece,  between 
B.C.  500  and  400,  the  Ionic  chiton  and 
himation  varied  but  little  ;  the  Doric 
chiton  did  not  vary  at  all;  the  varia- 
tions in  the  over-mantle  were  not  con- 
siderable. Any  examination  of  early 
sculpture,  of  Attic  vases  or  of  terra 
cottas,  will  show  that  this  is  true.  The 
ladies  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  court,  to- 
gether with  their  royal  mistress,  wore 
the  same  kind  of  clothes  through  their 
adult  years.  Their  clothes  were  some- 
times costly,  but  when  bought  they 
were  bought,  and  until  worn  out  were 
not  discarded.  And  our  grandmothers 
had  that  famous  black-silk  dress,  so 
sturdy  that  it  stood  up  by  itself,  very 
like  a  Victorian  virtue;  it  lasted  a  life- 
time, sometimes  became  an  heir-loom. 

There  was  no  question  then  of  fash- 
ion following  on  fashion  at  a  whirling 
pace-.  Women  were  clothed,  sometimes 
beautifully,  sometimes  hideously,  but 
at  any  rate  they  scrapped  their  gowns 
only  when  they  were  worn  out;  now 
they  scrap  them  as  soon  as  they  have 
been  worn.  The  results  of  this  I  deal 
with  further  on,  but  here  already  I  can 
suggest  these  results  by  quoting  a  few 
facts.  Before  me  lies  one  of  Messrs. 
Barker's  advertisements;  it  seems  that 
there  are  reception  gowns,  restaurant 
gowns;  that  there  are  coats  for  the 
races,  and  coats  for  the  car,  wraps  for 
one  thing,  and  wraps  for  another —  and 


UNIFORMS  FOR  WOMEN 


591 


the  advertisement  adds  that  these  are 
the  'latest  novelties'  for  'the  coming 
season/  and  that  all  this  is  'for  the 
spring.'  And  then  there  is  an  adver- 
tisement of  Messrs.  Tudor  Brothers, 
who  have  gowns  for  Ascot,  and  —  this 
is  quite  true  —  gowns  for  Alexandra 
Day. 

I  have  looked  in  vain  for  gowns  for 
July  23,  for  gowns  to  be  worn  between 
a  quarter  past  eleven  and  half-past 
twelve  in  the  morning,  and  for  special 
mourning  gowns  for  a  cousin's  step- 
father. Some  occasions  are  shamefully 
disregarded.  They  are  not  disregarded 
by  everybody;  at  least  I  presume  that 
the  lady  quoted  by  Mrs.  Cobden- 
Sanderson  in  her  lecture  in  March,  who 
possessed  one  hundred  and  ten  night- 
dresses, could  cope  with  any  eventu- 
ality; there  is  the  lady,  mentioned  to 
me  by  a  friend  who  made  some  Amer- 
ican investigations  for  me,  who  pos- 
sesses one  hundred  and  fifty  pairs  of 
slippers.  There  is,  too,  the  Bon  March6 
in  Paris,  where,  out  of  a  staff  of  six 
thousand  to  seven  thousand,  are  em- 
ployed fifteen  hundred  dressmakers, 
and  where  there  is  a  special  workroom 
for  the  creation  of  models. 

As  all  these  people  must  find  some- 
thing to  do,  they  create,  unless  they 
merely  steal  from  the  dead;  but  one 
thing  they  always  do,  and  that  is  de- 
stroy yesterday.  Out  of  their  activities 
comes  a  continual  stream  of  new  colors 
and  new  combinations  of  colors,  of  high 
heels  and  low  heels,  gilt  heels  and  jew- 
eled heels;  they  give  us  the  spat  that  is 
to  keep  out  the  wet  and  then  the  spat 
that  does  not  keep  out  the  eye.  Before 
me  lies  a  picture  of  a  spat  made  of  lace; 
another  of  a  skirt  slit  so  high  as  to  re- 
veal a  jeweled  garter.  That  is  creation, 
and  I  suppose  I  shall  be  told  that  that 
is  art.  It  is  art  sometimes,  and  very 
beautiful,  but  beauty  does  not  make  it 
live;  in  fact  beauty  causes  the  creation 
to  die  more  swiftly,  because  the  more 


appealing  it  is,  the  more  it  is  worn :  as 
soon  as  it  is  worn  by  the  many,  the 
furious  craving  for  distinction  sweeps 
down  upon  it  and  slays  it.  There  are 
several  mad  women  in  the  St.  Anne  asy- 
lum in  Paris  whose  peculiar  disease  is 
that  they  cannot  retain  the  same  idea 
for  more  than  a  few  seconds ;  they  ring 
the  changes  on  a  few  hundreds  of  ideas. 
Properly  governed,  their  inspirations 
might  be  valuable  in  Grafton  Street. 

I  do  not  think  the  end  is  near;  indeed, 
fashions  will  be  more  extreme  to-mor- 
row than  they  are  to-day.  The  contin- 
ual growth  of  wealth,  and  the  difficulty 
of  spending  it  when  it  clots  in  a  few 
hands,  will  make  for  a  greater  desire 
to  spend  more,  more  quickly,  more 
continually,  and  in  wilder  and  wilder 
forms.  The  women  are  to-day  having 
individual  orgies;  to-morrow  will  come 
the  saturnalia. 

in 

There  is  a  clear  difference  between 
the  cost  of  women's  clothes  and  of 
men's.  It  is  absolutely  impossible  to 
dress  a  woman  of  the  comfortable  class- 
es for  the  same  amount  per  annum  that 
will  serve  her  husband  well.  I  must 
quote  a  few  figures  taken  from  Boston, 
New  York,  and  London. 

Boston. — Persons  considered:  those 
having  $4500  to  $7500  a  year. 

Average  price  of  a  suit  (coat  and 
skirt),  $40  ready  to  wear;  made  by  a 
dressmaker  of  slight  pretensions,  $125 
to  $225. 

Afternoon  dresses,  ready  to  wear, 
$125  to  $225. 

Evening  dresses,  absolute  minimum, 
$50;  fashionable  frocks,  $200  to  $350. 

On  an  income  of  $7500  a  woman's 
hat  will  cost  $25;  variation,  $20  to  $45; 
hats  easily  attain  $125. 

Veils  attain  $5 ;  opera  cloaks  in  stores, 
$90  to  $250.  Dressmakers  charge  $450 
to  $600. 


592 


UNIFORMS  FOR  WOMEN 


New  York.  —  Winter  street  dress, 
$225. 

Skunk  muff  and  stole,  $200. 

Hats  for  the  year,  at  least  $250  to 
$300. 

Foot-wear,  $250  per  annum. 

I  am  informed  that  a  lady  in  active 
society  can  *  manage  with  care'  on 
$2500,  but  really  needs  $4500  to  $5000. 

A  *  moderate'  wardrobe  allows  for 
*  extremely  simple'  gowns  costing  $125 
each;  the  lady  in  question  requires  at 
least  six  new  evening  dresses  and  six 
remodeled,  per  annum.  She  wore  an 
average  set  of  furs,  price  $1500. 

London.  —  Debenham  &  Freebody 
blouse,  $10. 

Ponting's  Leghorn  hat,  $8.  Gorringe 
straws,  $12  to  $14. 

I  am  informed  that  where  the  house- 
hold income  is  $3500  to  $7500  a  year 
the  ordinary  prices  are  as  follows:  — 

Coats  and  skirts,  $50  to  $75. 

Evening  dresses,  $75  to  $120. 

Hats,  $7.50  to  $20. 

Silk  stockings  are  cheap  at  $1.50,  and 
veils  at  $1.50. 

Now  these  are  all  moderate  figures 
and  will  shock  nobody,  but  if  they  are 
compared  with  the  prices  paid  by  men, 
they  are,  without  any  question  of  fash- 
ion, outrageous.  I  believe  they  are  high 
because  it  is  men  and  not  women  who 
pay,  because  the  dressmaker  trades  on 
man's  sex-enslavement.  But  I  am  con- 
cerned just  now  less  with  causes  than 
with  facts,  and  would  rather  ask  how 
the  modest  $100  evening  gown  com- 
pares with  the  man's  $63  dress  suit 
(by  a  good  tailor).  How  does  the  $63 
coat  and  skirt  compare  with  a  man's 
lounge  suit,  price  $36  by  anybody  save 
Poole,  and  by  him  only  $52.50?  No 
man  has,  I  believe,  paid  more  than  $9 
for  a  silk  hat,  while  his  wife  pays  at 
least  $20.  The  point  is  not  worth  labor- 
ing, it  is  obvious;  while  every  man 


knows  that  a  'good  cut'  does  not  ac- 
count for  the  discrepancy,  as  he  too 
pays,  but  pays  moderately,  for  the  art 
of  a  good  tailor.  And,  mark  you,  apart 
from  cost,  men's  clothes  last  indefinite- 
ly, while  women's,  if  they  have  the  mis- 
fortune to  last,  must  be  given  away. 

The  prices  I  have  quoted  are  moder- 
ate prices,  and  I  cannot  resist  the  temp- 
tation to  give  some  others  which  are 
not  unusual.  I  am  informed  that  $400 
can  easily  be  charged  for  an  afternoon 
dress,  $1000  for  an  evening  dress,  $200 
for  a  coat  and  skirt;  that  it  is  quite  easy 
to  spend  $5000  a  year  on  underclothes 
and  $250  on  an  aigrette.  I  observe  a 
Maison  Lewis  Ascot  hat,  price  $477. 
Yantorny  will  not  make  a  shoe  under 
$60;  a  pair  of  his  shoes  made  of  feathers 
is  priced  by  him  at  $2400. 

As  for  totals:  I  have  private  infor- 
mation of  an  expenditure  of  $30,000 
a  year  on  dress;  one  of  $70,000  is  re- 
ported to  me  from  America.  I  have 
seen  a  bill  for  dress  and  lingerie  alone 
incurred  at  one  shop:  $35,000  in  twelve 
months. 


IV 

It  might  be  thought  that  this  ghastly 
picture  speaks  for  itself,  but  evidently 
it  does  not,  as  hardly  anybody  takes 
any  notice  of  the  question.  I  will  ven- 
ture to  draw  attention  to  the  results  of 
what  is  happening,  ignoring  the  abnor- 
mal figures,  because  I  wish  to  reason 
from  what  happens  all  the  time  rather 
than  from  what  happens  now  and  then, 
to  figure  the  position  in  which  the 
world  finds  itself  because  women  do 
not  hesitate  to  spend  upon  their  clothes 
a  full  ten  per  cent  of  the  household  in- 
come. This  figure  is  correct:  such  in- 
quiries as  I  have  been  able  to  make 
among  women  of  my  acquaintance 
prove  it.  Out  of  a  joint  income  of  $12,- 
500  a  year  one  woman  spends  $1350  a 
year  on  clothes;  another,  out  of  $5750 


UNIFORMS  FOR  WOMEN 


593 


a  year,  last  year  $655;  a  third,  out 
of  $8000  a  year,  $700,  but  she  is  a 
*  dowdy/ 

In  households  of  moderate  means, 
where  a  certain  social  status  is  kept  up, 
where,  for  instance,  a  woman  takes 
$500  a  year  out  of  $5000,  while  her  hus- 
band dresses  well  on  $200,  when  all  ex- 
penses have  been  paid  there  is  money 
for  little  else;  fixed  charges,  children, 
service,  taxes,  swallow  up  the  rest. 
There  is  hardly  anything  left  for  books, 
barely  for  a  circulating  library;  there  is 
very  little  for  the  theatre  and  for 
games;  holidays  are  taken  in  hideous 
lodgings  at  the  sea-side  because  a  com- 
fortable bungalow  costs  too  much.  The 
money  that  should  have  provided  the 
most  important  thing  in  human  life, 
namely  pleasure,  is  on  the  woman's 
back. 

In  the  lower  classes  the  case  is  in  a 
way  still  worse.  I  do  not  mean  work- 
men's wives,  for  any  old  rag  will  serve 
the  slaves,  —  but  their  daughters! 
Recently  a  coroner's  inquest  in  Soho 
showed  that  a  girl  had  practically 
starved  herself  to  death  to  buy  fine 
clothes,  and  it  is  not  an  isolated  case. 
For  the  last  eight  years  I  have  been  in- 
vestigating the  condition  of  working- 
women,  and,  so  far  as  typists,  manicur- 
ists, and  tea-shop  girls  are  concerned,  I 
assert  that  their  main  object  in  leav- 
ing the  homes  where  they  are  kept  is 
to  have  money  for  smart  clothes;  they 
flood  the  labor  market  at  blackleg 
prices,  to  buy  finery  and  for  no  other 
reason.  They  go  further :  while  making 
the  necessary  inquiries  for  my  novel, 
A  Bed  of  Roses,  I  scheduled  the  cases 
of  about  forty  London  prostitutes.  In 
about  25  per  cent  of  the  cases  the  origi- 
nal cause,  direct  or  contributory,  was  a 
desire  for  luxury  which  took  the  form  of 
fine  clothes.  Now  these  women  tell  one 
what  they  think  one  would  like  to  hear, 
and,  where  they  scent  sympathy,  as 
much  as  possible  attribute  their  fall  to 

VOL.  114 -NO.  5 


man's  deceit.  But  acumen  develops  in 
the  investigator;  the  figure  of  25  per 
cent  is  correct  or  may  even  be  an  un- 
derestimate. 

The  conclusion  is  that  from  fifteen 
thousand  to  twenty-five  thousand  wo- 
men now  on  the  streets  of  London  have 
been  brought  there  by  a  desire  for  self- 
adornment.  Meanwhile  there  is  no 
labor  available  for  the  poor  consumer, 
because  the  energy  of  the  dressmaker 
is  diverted  toward  the  rich;  while  Miss 
So-and-So  is  paid  $4000  a  year  to  design 
hats,  the  working-wife  wears  a  man's 
cap  rescued  from  the  refuse-heap. 

I  shall  be  told  that  the  rich  are  not 
responsible  for  the  luxurious  desires  of 
the  poor;  but  that  is  evidently  -  non- 
sense :  the  rich  themselves  are  not  inno- 
cent of  prostitution;  I  have  had  re- 
ported the  case  of  a  well-paid  Russian 
dancer  whose  dress  bills  are  paid  by 
two  financiers;  that  of  a  French  actress 
who  calmly  states  that  she  needs  three 
lovers,  one  for  her  hats,  one  for  her 
lingerie,  and  one  for  her  gowns;  and  a 
close  inquiry  into  the  'bridge  losses' 
which  occasionally  provoke  the  fall  of 
rich  men's  daughters  will  show  that 
these  are  dressmakers'  bills.  All  this  is 
not  without  its  effect  upon  the  poor. 
The  girl  of  the  lower  classes,  hypnotized 
by  fashion-plates,  compelled  to  witness 
at  the  doors  of  fashionable  churches,  in 
the  street,  at  the  music-halls,  and  even 
at  the  picture-palaces,  the  continu- 
ous streaming  past  of  the  fashion  pag- 
eant, develops  an  intolerable  desire  for 
finery.  You  may  say  that  she  is  wrong, 
that  she  should  practice  self-denial, 
but  this  is  not  an  age  of  self-denial;  lux- 
ury is  in  the  air,  we  despair  of  happi- 
ness and  take  to  pleasure,  we  feel  the 
future  life  too  far  ahead,  we  want  to 
enjoy.  It  is  natural  enough,  especially 
for  girls  who  are  young  and  who  feel 
unfairly  out-classed  by  richer  women 
who  are  neither  as  young  nor  as  beau- 
tiful; but  still  it  is  base.  If  baseness  is 


594 


UNIFORMS  FOR  WOMEN 


to  go,  the  lesson  must  come  from  the 
top;  if  there  is  to  be  self-denial,  then 
que  messieurs  les  assassins  commencent ! 
Until  the  rich  woman  realizes  that  her 
example  is  her  responsibility  it  will  be 
fair  to  say  that  the  Albemarle  Street 
$500  gown  has  its  consequence  in  a  pro- 
stitute on  the  Tottenham  Court  Road. 

The  rich  woman  herself  does  not 
escape  scot  free.  It  is  obvious  that  the 
woman  chiefly  occupied  with  thoughts 
of  dress  develops  a  peculiar  kind  of  fri- 
volity, that  she  becomes  unfit  to  think 
of  art,  the  public  interest,  perhaps  of 
love.  She  is  the  worst  social  product,  a 
parasite,  and  she  is  not  even  always 
beautiful.  Sometimes  she  is  insane: 
the  investigations  of  Dr.  Bernard  Holz 
and  of  Dr.  Rudolf  Foerster  connect 
the  mania  for  fashion  with  paranoia, 
and  have  elicited  extraordinary  facts, 
such  as  the  collection  of  clothes  by  in- 
sane women,  and  such  as  cases  of  pyro- 
mania  which  coincided  with  a  craze  for 
dress. 

It  is,  indeed,  quite  possible  that  some 
women  might  go  mad  if  they  perma- 
nently felt  themselves  less  well-dressed 
than  their  fellows;  and  that  is  the  crux 
of  the  fashion  idea.  Woman  does  not 
desire  to  be  beautifully  dressed:  she 
desires  to  be  more  beautifully  dressed 
than  her  fellows.  She  wishes  to  insult 
and  humiliate  her  sisters,  and,  as  mod- 
ern clothes  are  costly,  she  does  not  hes- 
itate to  give  full  play  to  human  cruelty, 
to  use  all  the  resources  of  the  rich  hus- 
band on  whom  she  preys  to  satisfy  her 
pride  and  to  apply  her  arrogant  ingenu- 
ity to  the  torture  of  her  sisters.  And  I 
said,  'She  wants  to  be  more  beautiful.' 
Is  that  quite  right?  Partly,  though 
what  woman  mainly  seeks  is  not  to  be 
beautiful  but  to  be  fashionable;  the 
words  have  become  synonymous.  Yet 
the  fashions  are  not  always  beautiful; 
sometimes  they  are  hideous,  break 
every  line  of  the  body,  make  it  awk- 
ward, hamper  its  movements.  If 


women  truly  wanted  to  be  beautiful 
they  would  not  follow  the  fashions :  our 
little  dark,  sloe-eyed  women  would 
dress  rather  like  the  Japanese,  and  our 
big,  ox-eyed  beauties  would  appear  as 
Greeks;  but  no,  Juno,  Carmen,  and 
Dante's  Beatrice,  all  together  and  all 
in  turn,  don  first  the  crinoline  and  then 
the  hobble  skirt. 

Nor  do  they  want  to  attract  men. 
They  think  they  do  but  they  do  not,  for 
they  know  perfectly  well  that  few  men 
realize  what  they  wear,  that  all  they 
observe  is  *  something  blue '  or  an  effect 
they  call  *  very  doggy ' ;  they  know  also 
that  men  do  not  wed  the  dangerous 
smart,  but  the  modest;  that  men  fear 
the  implication  that  smart  women  are 
unvirtuous,  and  that  they  certainly 
fear  their  dressmakers'  bills.  Nor  is  it 
even  true  that  women  want  many  new 
clothes  so  as  to  be  clean:  if  that  were 
true,  men  in  their  well-worn  suits  could 
not  be  touched  with  a  pitchfork.  The 
truth  is  that  changes  in  fashion  are  a 
habit  and  a  hysteria,  an  advertisement, 
an  insult  offered  by  wealth  to  poverty, 
a  degradation  of  women's  qualities 
which  carries  its  own  penalty  in  the 
form  of  growing  mental  baseness. 


Well,  what  shall  we  do?  Women 
must  wear  uniform.  Strictly,  they  al- 
ready do  wear  uniform,  for  what  is  a 
fashion  but  a  uniform?  Some  years  ago 
when  musquash  coats  (and  cheaper 
velveteen)  were  'in,'  and  hats  were 
very  small,  there  were  in  London  scores 
of  thousands  of  young  women  so  ex- 
actly alike  that  considerable  confusion 
was  caused  at  tube  stations  and  such 
other  places  where  lovers  meet;  this 
simplifies  the  problem  of  choosing  the 
new  uniform.  Let  it  not  be  thought 
that  I  wish  women  to  dress  in  sack- 
cloth, though  they  will  certainly  dress 
in  sackcloth  if  ever  sackcloth  comes 


UNIFORMS  FOR  WOMEN 


595 


in;  I  do  not  care  what  they  wear  pro- 
vided they  do  not  continually  alter  its 
form,  and  provided  it  is  not  too  dear. 
The  way  in  which  old  and  young,  tall 
and  short,  fat  and  thin,  force  them- 
selves into  the  same  color  and  the  same 
shape  is  sheer  socialism;  I  merely  want 
to  carry  the  uniform  idea  a  little  fur- 
ther, to  make  it  a  permanent  uniform. 

We  already  have  uniforms  for  wo- 
men, apart  from  the  fashions,  uniforms 
which  never  change :  those  of  the  nurse, 
the  nun,  the  parlor-maid,  the  tea-girl. 
We  have  national  costumes,  Dutch, 
Swiss,  Irish,  Japanese,  Italian;  we  have 
drill-suits  and  sports-dresses.  And  they 
are  not  ugly.  All  these  uniformed 
women  have  as  good  a  chance  of  mar- 
riage as  any  others,  and  her  ladyship 
gains  as  many  proposals  on  the  golf- 
links  as  at  night  on  the  terrace.  I  would 
suggest  that  women  should  have  two 
or  three  uniforms  of  a  kind  to  be  de- 
cided, which  would  never  change,  and, 
I  repeat,  they  need  not  be  ugly  uni- 
forms. 

Men's  uniforms  are  not  ugly;  I 
would  any  day  exchange  my  lounge 
suit  for  the  uniform  of  a  guardsman 
—  if  I  might  wear  it.  In  this  'if  is 
the  essence  of  the  whole  idea,  the  whole 
practicability  of  it.  Men  wear  uniform, 
that  is  to  say  lounge-suits  in  certain 
circumstances,  morning  coats  in  others, 
evening  clothes  in  yet  others.  They 
never  vary.  We  are  told  that  they  vary. 
Tailors  show  new  suitings,  the  papers 
print  articles  about  men's  fashions,  and 
perhaps  a  button  is  added  or  a  lapel  is 
lengthened,  and  that  is  all.  Nobody 
cares.  Men  follow  no  fashions  so  far  as 
the  fable  of  men's  fashions  is  true;  they 
dare  not  do  so  because  to  do  so  serves 
them  ill  in  society.  A  man  who  dares  to 
break  through  the  uniform  idea  of  his 
sex  is  generally  dubbed  a  *  bounder';  if 
he  is  one  of  the  very  young  fancy- 
socked,  extreme-collared  kind,  people 
smile  and  say, '  It  '11  wear  off  with  time.' 


And  women,  who  tolerate  the  dandies 
at  tea-time,  love  the  others. 

The  uniform  would  have  to  be 
brought  in  by  a  group  of  leaders  of 
fashion  determined  to  abolish  fashion. 
I  could  sketch  a  dozen  uniforms,  but 
women  would  make  a  great  to-do,  for- 
getting that  most  fashions  are  created 
by  men,  so  I  will  confine  myself  to 
timid  suggestions. 

1.  For  general   out-door  wear   the 
coat  and  skirt  is  the  best,  together  with 
a  blouse.  Lace  and  insertion  should  be 
abandoned,  and  I  feel  that  the  skirt  is 
too  long  for  walking;  this  month  it  is 
certainly  too  tight  to  enable  a  woman 
to  get  into  an  omnibus  or  railway-car- 
riage gracefully.   Probable  price,  com- 
plete, $50. 

2.  For  summer  wear,  a  plain  blouse 
and  skirt;  not  the  atrocious  blouse  end- 
ing at  the  belt,  but  the  beautiful  tunic- 
blouse  that  falls  over  the  hips.    Both 
blouse  and  skirt  would  need  to  be  made 
of  a  permanently  fixed,  plain,  and  uni- 
colored  material.  Total  cost,  $25. 

3.  If  the  skirt  were  shortened,  leg- 
gings, gaiters,  and  stockings  would  have 
to  be  standardized;  the  shoe-buckle, 
being  too  costly,  would  disappear. 

4.  A  fixed  type  of  hat,  without  fea- 
thers or  aigrettes,  made  in  straw  and 
trimmed    with    flowers;    produced    in 
scores  of  thousands,  it  ought  not  to 
cost  more  than  $2.50. 

5.  A  fixed   type  of  evening-gown, 
price  $24  or  $32,  without  any  lace  or 
trimmings,  sequins,  paillettes;  without 
overlays  of  flimsies  of  any  kind;  no 
voile,  no  pongee  silk,  no  chiffon,  no 
charmeuse  or  tulle,  no  crepe  de  Chine, 
no  muslin,  but  a  stuff  of  good  quality, 
hanging  in  straight  folds.  Jewelry  to  be 
banned. 

6.  The  afternoon  dress  should  be 
completely  suppressed;  it  responds  to 
no  need. 

7.  The  total  annual  cost  would  be 
about  $150. 


596 


UNIFORMS  FOR  WOMEN 


I  shall  be  asked  whether  this  can  be 
done.  I  think  it  can.  Recently  the 
Queen  of  Italy  created  a  vogue  for  coral 
ornaments  among  the  Roman  ladies  so 
as  to  restore  their  livelihood  to  the  fish- 
ermen of  Torre  del  Greco.  That  points 
the  way;  we  do  not  need  sumptuary 
laws,  though,  in  times  to  come,  when 
capitalism  is  nothing  but  a  historical 
incident,  we  may  have  passed  through 
such  laws  into  a  fuller  freedom.  It  is 
enough  to  decree  that  any  variation 
from  the  new  standard  is  bad  form. 
Human  beings  will  break  all  laws,  but 
they  shrink  if  you  tell  them  that  they 
are  infringing  the  rules  of  etiquette. 
There  are  many  men  to-day  who  would 
like  to  wear  satin  and  velvet :  they  dare 
not  because  it  is  bad  form.  If,  there- 
fore, a  permanent  clothing  scheme  were 
established  by  strong  patrons,  if  it  were 
agreeable  to  the  eye,  which  is  easy  to 
arrange,  I  believe  that  fashions  could 
be  fixed  because  it  would  be  known 
that  a  woman  who  went  beyond  the 
uniform  must  either  be  disreputable  or 
suffer  from  bad  taste. 


VI 

I  shall  be  told  that  I  am  warring 
against  art.  That  is  not  true:  some 
fashions  are  beautiful,  some  are  hide- 
ous. Who  would  to-day  wear  the  crin- 
oline? Who  would  wear  the  gigot 
sleeve?  They  are  ugly  —  but,  stay! 
Are  they?  Will  they  not  be  worn  in 
an  adapted  form  some  time  within  the 
next  generation?  They  will,  because 
fashions  are  not  works  of  art;  they  are 
only  fashions.  Women  do  not  adapt 
the  fashions  to  themselves,  they  adapt 
themselves  to  the  fashions,  and  it  is  a 
current  joke  that  even  woman's  anat- 
omy is  adjusted  to  suit  the  clothes  of 
the  day. 

Doubtless  I  shall  be  challenged  on 
this,  and  told  that  woman's  individu- 
ality expresses  itself  in  her  clothes. 


That  again  is  not  true;  the  girl  with  a 
face  like  a  Madonna  will  wear  a  ballet- 
skirt  if  it  comes  in,  and  if  she  has  to 
'adapt '  the  ballet-skirt  to  the  Madonna 
idea  I  should  like  to  know  how  it  is  go- 
ing to  be  done.  Indeed  the  one  thing 
woman  avoids  doing  is  expressing  her 
individuality;  she  wants  what  Oscar 
Wilde  called  '  the  holy  calm  of  feeling 
perfectly  dressed,'  that  is,  like  every- 
body else,  and  a  little  more  expensively. 

It  may  be  retorted,  however,  that 
uniform  is  not  cheap.  That  again  is  un- 
true. When  a  uniform  is  standardized, 
turned  out  in  quantities  and  never 
varied,  it  can  be  made  very  cheaply. 
Men's  clothing,  which  is  not  fully 
standardized,  is  such  that  no  man  need 
spend  more  than  $250  a  year.  That  is 
the  condition  I  want  for  women.  Of 
course  it  will  make  unemployed,  and 
our  sympathy  will  be  invoked  for  dress- 
makers thrown  out  of  work:  that  is  the 
old  argument  against  railways  on  be- 
half of  coaches,  against  the  mule-jenny, 
against  every  engine  of  human  pro- 
gress, and  it  is  sheer  barbarism.  Labor 
redistributes  itself;  money  wasted  on 
women's  clothes  will  be  used  in  other 
trades  which  will  reabsorb  the  labor 
and  make  it  useful  instead  of  sterile. 

An  apparently  more  powerful  argu- 
ment is  that  uniform  would  deprive 
women  of  their  individuality :  it  cannot 
be  much  of  an  individuality  that  de- 
pends upon  a  frock,  and  I  am  reduced 
to  wonder  whether  some  women  lose 
their  personality  once  their  frock  is 
taken  off.  Still,  there  is  a  little  force 
in  the  argument,  for  it  seems  to  lead 
to  the  conclusion  that  beautiful  wo- 
men will  enjoy  undue  advantage  when 
dressed  as  are  the  ill-favored.  But 
this  is  not  a  true  conclusion;  it  is  not 
even  true  to  say  that  one  cannot  be 
distinctive  in  uniform,  as  anybody  will 
realize  who  compares  a  smart  soldier 
with  an  untidy  one.  I  have  myself  worn 
a  soldier's  coat  and  know  what  care 


UNIFORMS  FOR  WOMEN 


597 


may  make  of  it.  Nor  do  I  believe  that 
the  beautiful  would  win;  by  winning 
is  meant  winning  men,  but  we  know 
perfectly  well  that  it  is  not  body  which 
wins  men:  it  wins  them  only  to  lose 
them  after  a  while.  It  is  something  else 
which  wins  men:  individuality,  wit, 
gayety,  cleverness,  or  cleverness  clever 
enough  to  appear  foolish.  And  we  men 
who  wear  uniform,  does  not  our  indi- 
viduality manage  to  attract?  It  does; 
and  indeed  I  go  further:  I  assert  that 
fashions  smother  individuality  because 
they  are  tyrannical  and  much  more 
obtrusive  than  uniforms.  Woman's 
charms  are  to-day  dwarfed  because  men 
are  dazzled  and  misled  by  the  mere- 
tricious paraphernalia  which  clothe 
woman;  the  true  charms  have  to 
struggle  for  life.  I  want  to  give  them 
full  play,  to  enable  men  to  choose  bet- 
ter and  more  sanely,  no  longer  the 
empty  odalisque  but  the  woman  whose 
personality  is  such  that  it  can  domi- 
nate her  uniform.  That  will  be  a  true 
race  and  a  finer  than  the  game  of  sex- 
temptation  which  women  think  they 
are  playing. 

It  may  be  said  that  uniform  will  do 
away  with  class-distinctions,  that  one 
will  no  longer  be  able  to  tell  a  lady  from 
one  who  is  not.  That  is  not  true.  What 
one  will  no  longer  be  able  to  tell  is  a 
rich  woman  from  a  poor  one;  and  who 
is  to  complain  of  that?  Surely  it  will 
not  be  men,  for  it  is  not  true,  I  repeat, 
that  men  admire  extravagant  clothes; 


nor  are  they  tempted  by  them;  nor  do 
women  dress  to  tempt  them:  at  any 
rate  the  seduction  of  Adam  was  not 
compassed  in  that  way. 

Besides,  women  give  away  their  own 
case:  if  their  clothes  were  intended 
to  attract  men  then  surely  married 
women  would  cease  to  follow  the  fash- 
ions unless,  which  I  am  reluctant  to 
conclude,  they  still  desire  to  pursue 
after  marriage  their  nefarious,  heart- 
breaking career. 

The  last  suggestion  is  that  women 
would  not  wear  the  uniform.  Not  fol- 
low a  fashion?  This  has  never  hap- 
pened before. 

I  adhere  therefore  to  my  general  view 
that  if  woman  is  to  be  diverted  from 
the  path  that  leads  straight  toward  a 
greater  degradation  of  her  faculties;  if 
household  budgets  are  to  be  relieved 
so  as  to  leave  money  for  pleasure  and 
for  culture;  if  true  beauty  is  to  take  the 
place  of  tinsel,  feathers,  frills,  ruffles, 
poudre  de  riz  ;  if  middle-class  women  are 
to  cease  to  live  in  bitterness  because 
they  cannot  keep  up  with  the  rich;  if 
the  daughters  of  the  poor  are  no  longer 
to  be  stimulated  and  corrupted  by  ex- 
ample into  poverty  and  prostitution,  it 
will  be  necessary  for  the  few  who  lead 
the  many  to  realize  that  simplicity, 
modesty,  moderation,  and  grace  are  the 
only  things  which  will  enable  women  to 
gain  for  themselves,  and  for  men,  peace 
and  satisfaction  out  of  a  civilization 
every  day  more  hectic. 


THE  MAILED  FIST  AND  ITS  PROPHET 


BY   H.    L.    MENCKEN 


OF  all  the  public  critics  of  the  Ger- 
mans in  modern  times,  not  even  except- 
ing H.  G.  Wells,  Napoleon  III,  and  the 
ravished  burghers  of  Louvain,  there 
has  been  none  who  belabored  the  Te- 
desco  skull  with  harder  blows,  or  got 
fiercer  joy  out  of  the  delivery  of  them, 
than  Friedrich  Wilhelm  Nietzsche,  her- 
etic, rhapsodist,  and  prophet  of  the 
superman. 

The  business,  with  Nietzsche,  took 
on  the  virulence  and  dignity  of  a  grande 
passion.  It  was  at  once  his  vocation, 
his  vice,  and  his  substitute  and  apol- 
ogy for  a  religion.  In  the  first  book 
of  his  philosophical  canon,  written 
amid  the  Hochs  and  band-brayings  of 
the  year  following  Worth  and  Sedan, 
he  made  his  formal  entry  into  the  arena 
with  a  sort  of  blanket  challenge  to  the 
whole  of  German  culture,  denouncing 
it  out  of  hand  as  a  pseudo-scientific 
sentimentalism,  a  Philistine  yielding 
to  the  slippered  and  brummagem,  a 
wholesale  begging  of  questions.  And 
in  his  last  book  of  all,  dashed  off  at 
feverish  speed  as  the  darkness  closed 
in  upon  him,  he  returned  once  more 
to  the  attack,  and  in  full  fuming  and 
fury. 

No  epithet  was  too  outrageous,  no 
charge  was  too  far-fetched,  no  manipu- 
lation or  interpretation  of  evidence 
was  too  daring,  to  enter  into  his  fero- 
cious indictment.  He  accused  the  Ger- 
mans of  stupidity,  superstitiousness, 
and  silliness;  of  a  chronic  weakness 
for  dodging  issues,  a  fatuous  'barn- 

598 


yard  'and  'green-grazing '  contentment; 
of  yielding  supinely  to  the  commands 
and  exactions  of  a  clumsy  and  unintel- 
ligent government;  of  degrading  edu- 
cation to  the  low  level  of  mere  cram- 
ming and  examination-passing:  of  a 
congenital  inability  to  understand  and 
absorb  the  culture  of  other  peoples, 
and  particularly  the  culture  of  the 
French;  of  a  boorish  bumptiousness 
and  an  ignorant,  ostrich-like  compla- 
cency; of  a  systematic  hostility  to 
men  of  genius,  whether  in  art,  science, 
or  philosophy  (so  that  Schopenhauer, 
dead  in  1860,  remained  'the  last  Ger- 
man who  was  a  European  event ') ;  of 
a  slavish  devotion  to  'the  two  great 
European  narcotics,  alcohol  and  Chris- 
tianity ' ;  of  a  profound  beeriness,  a  spir- 
itual dyspepsia,  a  puerile  mysticism,  an 
old-womanish  pettiness,  an  ineradica- 
ble liking  for  'the  obscure,  evolving, 
crepuscular,  damp,  and  shrouded.' 

The  German  soul,  he  argued,  was 
full  of  'caves,  hiding-places,  and  dun- 
geons.' German  taste  was  the  negation, 
the  antithesis,  the  torture  and  death  of 
taste.  German  music  was  at  once  in- 
toxicating and  stupefying,  'a  first-rate 
nerve-destroyer,  doubly  dangerous  to  a 
people  given  to  drinking.'  German  wit 
had  no  existence.  German  cookery  was 
'a  return  to  nature,  that  is,  to  canni- 
balism.' Germany  itself  was  'the  flat- 
land  of  Europe.' 

And  having  made  all  these  charges, 
Nietzsche  by  no  means  tried  to  evade 
their  implications,  however  embarrass- 
ing. Did  his  denunciation  of  German 
music  collide  with  the  massive  fact  of 


THE  MAILED  FIST  AND   ITS  PROPHET 


599 


Wagner?  Then  he  was  far  from  dis- 
mayed. Wagner,  on  the  one  hand,  was 
a  mountebank,  a  sentimentalist  in  dis- 
guise, a  secret  Christian;  and  on  the 
other  hand,  he  was  not  a  German  at  all, 
but  a  Jew !  (His  true  name  was  Geyer, 
that  is,  vulture.  It  was  but  a  step  from 
Geyer  to  Adler,  —  that  is,  eagle, —  and 
where  is  there  a  more  thoroughly  Jew- 
ish patronymic?  I  do  not  burlesque: 
somewhere  in  Nietzsche  you 'will  find 
the  actual  passage.)  And  Bismarck? 
Wasn't  he,  at  least,  a  German?  By 
no  means!  He  was  an  East  German, 
which  is  to  say,  a  Slav.  (And  so  was 
Luther !) 

As  for  Nietzsche  himself,  the  one  firm 
faith  of  his  life  was  his  belief  in  his 
Polish  origin.  He  cultivated  a  disor- 
derly, truculent,  and  what  he  conceived 
to  be  Polish  facade,  wearing  an  enor- 
mous and  bristling  mustache.  He  wrote 
a  book,  which  was  privately  printed,  to 
prove  that  the  true  form  of  his  name 
was  Nietzschy,  and  that  it  was  Polish 
and  noble.  It  delighted  him  when  the 
people  at  some  obscure  watering-place, 
deceived  by  his  looks,  nicknamed  him 
'The  Polack.'  The  one  unforgivable 
insult  was  to  call  him  a  German. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  all  this 
heaping  of  scorn  upon  everything  Ger- 
man won  few  readers  for  Nietzsche 
among  the  yeomen  of  the  Germany 
that  he  attacked,  and  even  fewer  ad- 
mirers. His  charges  were  too  strident, 
too  extravagant,  too  offensive,  to  win 
any  serious  attention.  The  Germans  of 
the  seventies,  in  point  of  fact,  were 
quite  as  close  to  his  caricature  as  the 
English  of  the  fifties  had  been  to  the 
caricature  of  Thackeray,  but,  still  dizzy 
with  success,  they  were  anything  but 
ready  to  hear  or  acknowledge  the  truth. 
And  so  the  earlier  of  his  books,  say 
down  to  1876  or  thereabout,  were  sent 
into  that  Coventry  which  is  as  crushing 
to  books  as  to  men. 

The  stray  reviews  that  survive  were 


all  printed  in  papers  of  limited  circu- 
lation, and  their  authors,  so  far  as  I 
can  make  out,  were  all  college  profess- 
ors of  no  importance.  These  gentlemen 
treated  Nietzsche  with  that  smother- 
ing courtesy  which  is  proper  between 
one  professor  and  another.  (He  him- 
self, remember,  still  held  the  chair  of 
classical  philology  at  Basel.)  That  is 
to  say,  they  laboriously  rectified  his 
references  and  quotations,  they  sniffed 
at  his  heterodox  notions  as  to  the  ori- 
gin and  inner  content  of  Greek  civil- 
ization, and  they  passed  over,  as  too 
journalistic  and  undignified  for  formal 
con t reversion,  his  applications  of  those 
notions  to  the  patriotism,  the  reli- 
gion, and  the  ethical  theory  of  the  new 
Empire. 

One  or  two  of  them  chided  him  for 
his  terrific  assault  on  David  Strauss, 
the  fashionable  German  theologian  of 
the  day,  but  even  here  there  seems 
to  have  been  no  suspicion  that  he  had 
done  any  actual  damage.  The  thing 
was  simply  a  matter  of  taste  —  it 
was  not  nice  for  a  conceited  young 
professor,  with  the  ink  scarcely  dry 
upon  his  degree,  to  make  faces  at  so 
eminent  a  thinker  as  Strauss.  As  for 
the  Germans  in  general,  they  knew  no 
more  about  Nietzsche  and  his  chal- 
lenges, in  those  days  of  thirty-five  years 
ago,  than  they  knew  about  sanitary 
plumbing  or  the  theory  of  least  squares. 
His  most  vociferous  shouts  and  accu- 
sations were  as  inaudible  whispers  in 
that  din  of  mutual  back-slapping,  that 
homeric  rattling  of  seidel-\ids,  that  deaf- 
ening chorus  of  *  Deutschland,  Deutsch- 
land  uber  allesT  The  young  Empire 
was  beginning  to  feel  its  oats.  What 
was  one  fly? 

Even  in  1878,  when  the  first  part  of 
Human,  All-too-Human  flung  out  its 
bold  questioning,  not  only  of  German 
culture,  but  also  of  most  of  the  funda- 
mental assumptions  of  Christian  civil- 
ization, the  response  was  confined  to  a 


600 


THE  MAILED  FIST  AND  ITS  PROPHET 


relatively  small  circle,  with  the  author's 
personal  friends  at  its  centre.  Wagner, 
to  whom  the  book  was  sent  (crossing 
Parsifal  in  the  mails!),  looked  through 
it,  found  it  unpleasant  and  incompre- 
hensible (the  real  Wagner-Nietzsche 
war  was  to  come  later  on),  and  quietly 
washed  his  hands  of  Nietzsche.  Frau 
Cosima  and  Papa  Liszt  wrote  him  po- 
lite, patronizing  letters.  The  orthodox 
philosophers,  putting  on  their  black 
caps,  'formally  read  him  out  of  their 
society.  A  few  radical  critics,  while  de- 
nouncing the  contents  of  the  book  and 
protesting  against  its  chaotic  form, 
gave  praise  to  its  frenchified  and  gor- 
geous style.  A  few  readers  sprang  up 
with  commendations  here  and  there, 
and  some  of  them  were  destined  to  be- 
come disciples  in  the  years  to  come. 
But  the  sensation  that  the  book  made 
was,  after  all,  very  short-lived,  and  the 
great  body  of  Germans  remained  com- 
fortably unaware  of  it.  When  the  sec- 
ond volume  appeared,  in  1879,  it  fell 
flat.  The  third,  published  in  1880,  fol- 
lowed it  into  the  shadows.  The  pub- 
lisher found  himself  with  an  unsold 
stock  on  his  hands;  Nietzsche  himself, 
it  is  probable,  had  to  pay  the  printer's 
bill.  It  was  not  until  1886,  when  the 
book  was  reprinted  as  a  whole,  that  its 
ideas  began  to  fall  into  the  stream  of 
German  thinking,  and  its  phrases  to 
impress  themselves  upon  the  cham- 
pions of  the  new  national  ideal. 


ii 

Even  so,  the  genuine  turn  of  the  tide 
toward  Nietzsche  was  to  be  delayed  for 
six  years  more.  It  came  at  last  in  1892, 
with  the  publication  of  the  four  parts  of 
Thus  Spake  Zarathustra.  Here,  after 
six  trials  and  six  failures,  he  struck 
twelve  with  a  resounding  thwack.  Here 
was  success  indubitable :  a  book  almost 
perfectly  adapted  to  arrest,  arouse, 
stimulate,  antagonize,  inflame,  and  con- 


quer. Here,  at  one  stroke,  was  a  pro- 
found and  revolutionary  treatise  upon 
human  conduct,  and  a  glowing  and 
magnificent  work  of  art.  The  thing 
that  Nietzsche  accomplished  in  it  was 
something  that  had  been  scarcely  ac- 
complished by  anyone  else  since  the 
day  of  the  Hebrew  prophets:  he  had 
put  a  whole  system  of  morals  into 
dithyrambs,  and  the  dithyrambs  were 
sonorous,  beautiful,  eloquent,  thrilling. 

It  was  as  if  a  new  Luther  had  begun  to 
speak  with  the  tongue  of  a  new  Goethe; 
as  if  a  new  David  had  been  sent  into 
Germany  to  kindle  her  against  the 
false  gods  of  the  past.  And  beside  this 
intrinsic  power  of  appeal,  this  peculiar 
fitness  for  a  dual  assault  upon  emo- 
tions and  reason,  the  book  had  two 
further  advantages,  the  first  being  that 
it  offered  a  less  direct  and  contemptu- 
ous affront  to  German  susceptibilities 
than  any  of  its  predecessors,  and  the 
second  being  that  it  fell  upon  Germany 
at  the  very  moment  when  the  new  rul- 
ing caste,  still  a  bit  insecure,  still  more 
than  a  little  irresolute,  stood  in  sorest 
need  of  heartening.  Bismarck  was  an 
old,  old  man  by  now,  and  had  been 
lately  forced  from  the  helm  by  the 
headstrong  young  Kaiser.  The  echoes 
of  his  Kulturkampf  were  still  rumbling 
along  the  sky-line;  the  heresies  of  Karl 
Marx  were  spreading  like  wildfire 
among  the  mob;  the  demands  from  be- 
low were  growing  more  and  more  ex- 
travagant and  more  and  more  pressing. 

What  was  needed  was  a  sharp  coun- 
terblast to  all  this  gabble  and  babble,  a 
coherent  and  convincing  defense  of  the 
besieged  elders  of  the  state,  a  theory 
that  would  account  in  terms  of  right 
and  justice  for  the  embattled  facts,  a 
new  gospel  to  take  the  place  of  the  old 
gospel  of  brotherhood  which  the  Social- 
ists were  turning  so  plausibly  to  their 
uses,  an  evangel  of  the  counter-refor- 
mation. 

This  is  what  Nietzsche  offered  in 


THE   MAILED  FIST  AND  ITS  PROPHET 


601 


Thus  Spake  Zarathustra,  and,  as  I 
have  said,  the  medicine  was  fortunately 
without  much  bitterness,  the  sins  and 
deficiencies  of  the  Germans  were  tem- 
porarily overlooked,  there  was  nothing 
to  explain  away.  No  wonder  the  book 
went  through  the  country  like  wild- 
fire! No  wonder  its  impassioned  justi- 
fication of  the  Herrenmoral  was  hailed 
by  all  the  exponents  of  the  new  order 
as  the  voice  of  the  true  German  spirit, 
a  sufficient  and  overwhelming  answer 
to  the  petty  ideals  of  the  rising  prole- 
tariat, a  perfect  statement  of  the  the- 
ory and  practice  of  sound  progress! 

What  is  to  be  remembered  here  is  the 
enormous  change  that  had  come  over 
the  German  scene  since  the  seventies, 
and  in  particular,  the  change  that  had 
occurred  in  the  personnel  of  the  ruling 
caste.  The  old  Junkertum,  though  the 
Socialists  still  roared  over  its  crimes, 
was  now  little  more  than  an  evil  mem- 
ory; Bismarck,  its  prophet  and  idol, 
had  long  since  yielded  to  the  inexor- 
able forces  of  the  future;  the  aristo- 
cracy which  now  ruled  the  land  was 
anything  but  an  aristocracy  of  oafish 
squireens  and  strutting  sword-clankers. 
The  new  Germany,  its  bonds  now  knit- 
ting solidly,  had  begun  to  grow  rich, 
not  only  in  mere  money  and  goods,  but 
also  and  more  especially  in  those  things 
of  the  spirit  which  make  for  genuine 
national  greatness.  It  was,  in  truth,  at 
the  beginning  of  an  era  of  unprece- 
dented expansion  and  productiveness. 
German  science,  descending  from  the 
clouds  (or,  ascending  from  the  *  caves, 
hiding-places  and  dungeons'),  was  be- 
coming enormously  practical  and  fruit- 
ful; the  whole  world  was  beginning  to 
acknowledge  its  leadership :  it  was  seiz- 
ing, taking  over,  pushing  forward  the 
conquests  of  nature  begun  in  other 
lands,  -  -  for  example,  by  Darwin,  Pas- 
teur, Mendeleeff,  Lister,  by  Dutch  and 
Swedish  chemists,  English  physicists, 
and  American  inventors. 


The  day  was  not  far  past  when  Ger- 
man scholars  had  been  forced  to  go  to 
Leyden,  Paris,  Cambridge,  Padua,  even 
Vienna  —  when  the  German  universi- 
ties had  been  strongholds  of  obscuran- 
tism, dogmatic  theology,  and  sterile 
pedantry.  But  now  the  tide  was  sud- 
denly setting  in  from  the  other  direc- 
tion. Scholars  from  all  over  the  world 
were  coming  to  Berlin,  Heidelberg, 
Leipzig,  Halle,  Munich,  Bonn,  and 
Gottingen.  Even  in  far-away  America 
the  whole  system  of  higher  education 
was  being  remodeled  upon  German 
plans.  Harvard  was  borrowing  copious- 
ly from  Berlin;  in  the  Johns  Hopkins 
Medical  School  a  new  Heidelberg  was 
arising. 

In  every  other  field  of  civilized  activ- 
ity the  Germans  were  going  ahead  just 
as  rapidly.  The  inventions  and  discov- 
eries of  their  scientists  were  being  ap- 
plied with  an  ingenuity  and  a  dispatch 
that  no  other  nation  could  match;  they 
were  swiftly  getting  a  virtual  monopoly 
of  all  those  forms  of  industry  which 
depended  upon  scientific  exactness,  — 
for  example,  the  manufacture  of  drugs, 
dye-stuffs,  and  optical  goods.  And  at 
the  same  time  they  were  making  equal, 
if  not  actually  superior,  progress  in  the 
grosser  departments  of  trade.  Their 
two  great  steamship  corporations,  the 
one  founded  back  in  1847  and  the  other 
ten  years  later,  were  taking  on  new  life 
and  acquiring  huge  fleets  of  freight 
and  passenger  ships  —  fleets  soon  to  be 
much  larger,  in  fact,  than  any  that  even 
England  could  show.  Their  tramp 
steamers,  more  numerous  every  year, 
were  trading  to  all  the  ports  of  the 
world.  German  drummers  were  every- 
where, eager  to  make  terms,  speaking 
all  languages.  The  first  German  colo- 
nies had  been  acquired  in  the  middle 
eighties;  the  setting  up  of  new  ones 
now  went  on  apace;  advances  were 
made  into  Africa  and  Oceania;  a  land- 
ing on  the  mainland  of  Asia  was  to 


602 


THE  MAILED  FIST  AND   ITS  PROPHET 


follow  in  1897.  And  the  German  navy, 
so  long  a  mere  paper  power,  was  soon 
to  be  converted  into  a  thing  of  au- 
thentic steel. 

So  in  the  arts.  Wagner  was  dead,  but 
German  music  still  lived  in  Johannes 
Brahms,  now  the  acknowledged  tone- 
master  of  the  world,  perhaps  the  true 
successor  of  Beethoven  and  Bach.  Nor 
was  he  a  solitary  figure.  A  youngster 
named  Richard  Strauss,  the  son  of  a 
Munich  horn-player,  was  fast  coming 
to  fame;  Mahler,  Humperdinck,  and 
other  lesser  men  were  carrying  on  the 
glorious  German  tradition;  German 
conductors  and  teachers  were  in  high 
demand;  German  opera,  after  years  of 
struggle,  was  at  last  breaking  into  New 
York,  London,  even  Paris.  And  in  lit- 
erature Germany  was  entering  upon 
the  most  productive  period  since  the 
golden  age  of  Goethe  and  Schiller.  The 
German  drama,  before  any  other,  be- 
gan to  show  the  influence  of  the  revo- 
lutionary Ibsen,  himself  a  resident  of 
Germany,  and  more  German  in  blood 
than  Norwegian.  Sudermann  and 
Hauptmann,  the  twin  giants,  were  at 
the  threshold  of  their  parallel  careers; 
Lilienkron,  Hartleben,  and  Bierbaum 
were  about  to  put  new  life  into  the 
German  lyric;  a  new  school  of  German 
storytellers  was  arising.  And  Munich, 
to  make  an  end,  was  beginning  to  offer 
rivalry  to  Paris  in  painting,  and  bring- 
ing in  students  from  afar.  On  all  sides 
there  was  this  vast  enrichment  of  the 
national  consciousness,  this  brilliant 
shining  forth  of  the  national  spirit,  this 
feeling  of  new  and  superabundant  effi- 
ciency, this  increase  of  pride,  achieve- 
ment, and  assurance. 


in 

The  thing  to  be  noted  here  is  that  the 
progress  I  have  been  describing  was 
initiated  and  carried  on,  not  by  the  old 
aristocracy  of  the  barrack  and  the 


court,  but  by  a  new  aristocracy  of  the 
laboratory,  the  study,  and  the  shop. 
The  Junkertum,  though  it  was  still  to 
do  good  service  as  a  hobgoblin,  had 
long  since  ceased  to  dominate  the  state, 
and  its  ideals  had  gone  the  way  of  its 
power.  Bismarck  was  the  last  of  its 
great  gladiators  —  and  its  first  desert- 
er. Far  back  in  the  seventies,  perhaps 
even  in  the  sixties,  he  had  seen  the 
signs  of  its  impending  collapse,  and 
thereafter  he  had  been  gradually  meta- 
morphosed into  an  exponent  of  the  new 
order.  Did  he  wage  a  war  upon  the 
Catholic  Church?  Then  it  was  because 
he  saw  all  organized  and  autonomous 
religion,  with  its  tenacity  to  established 
ideas  and  its  hostility  to  reforms  from 
without,  as  a  conspiracy  against  that 
free  experimentation  which  alone  makes 
for  human  progress.  Did  he  do  valiant 
battle  with  the  Socialists,  the  Liberals, 
the  whole  tribe  of  political  phrase- 
mongers and  tub-thumpers?  Then  it 
was  because  he  knew  how  puerile  and 
how  futile  were  the  cure-alls  preached 
by  these  quacks  —  how  much  all  polit- 
ical advancement  was  a  matter  of  care- 
ful trial  and  stage-management,  and 
how  little  it  was  a  matter  of  principles 
and  shibboleths.  And  did  he,  in  the 
end,  definitely  turn  his  back  upon  the 
axioms  of  his  youth,  and  take  his  stand 
for  the  utmost  dissemination  of  oppor- 
tunity, the  true  democratization  of  tal- 
ent? Then  it  was  because  he  had  seen 
feudalism  gasp  out  its  last  breath  when 
federalism  was  born  at  Versailles,  and 
was  convinced  that  it  was  dead  to  rise 
no  more. 

But  this  new  democracy  that  thus 
arose  in  Germany  was  not,  of  course,  a 
democracy  in  the  American  sense,  or 
anything  colorably  resembling  it.  It 
was  founded  upon  no  romantic  theory 
that  all  men  were  natural  equals;  it  was 
free  from  the  taint  of  mobocracy ;  it  was 
empty  of  soothing  and  windy  phrases. 
On  the  contrary,  it  was  a  delimited, 


THE   MAILED  FIST  AND  ITS  PROPHET 


603 


aristocratic  democracy  in  the  Athen- 
ian sense  -  -  a  democracy  of  intelligence, 
of  strength,  of  superior  fitness  —  a  de- 
mocracy at  the  top.  Its  prizes  went, 
not  to  those  men  who  had  most  skill  at 
inflaming  and  deluding  the  rabble,  but 
to  those  who  could  contribute  most 
to  the  prosperity  and  security  of  the 
commonwealth . 

Politicians,  it  is  true,  sprang  up  in 
its  shadow,  as  they  must  inevitably 
spring  up  when  any  approach  is  made 
toward  universal  manhood  suffrage; 
but  the  part  that  they  played  in  the 
conduct  of  affairs  was  curiously  feeble 
and  inconsequential.  Even  the  great 
Socialist  leaders,  Liebknecht  and  Be- 
bel,  never  attained  to  any  real  power 
in  the  government.  If  they  got  some  of 
the  things  that  they  asked  for,  it  was 
because  they  asked  for  things  it  was 
advisable  to  grant,  and  not  because 
they  were  able  to  enforce  their  demands. 

In  the  practical  business  of  operat- 
ing the  state,  in  its  units  and  as  a 
whole,  the  final  determination  of  all 
matters  was  plainly  vested,  not  in  poli- 
ticians or  in  majorities,  but  in  experts, 
in  men  above  all  politics,  in  the  superb- 
ly efficient  ruling  caste.  The  profes- 
sional mayor,  aloof  from  party  passions, 
unreachable  by  intrigues,  remains  to- 
day a  characteristic  German  figure: 
the  supreme  triumph  of  intelligence 
over  mere  voting  power.  And  one  re- 
calls, too,  such  typical  representatives 
of  the  new  order  as  Rudolf  Virchow, 
for  years  a  hard-working  Berlin  city 
councillor,  and  Wilhelm  Koch,  the 
greatest  bacteriologist  in  the  world 
and  Germany's  general  superintendent 
of  public  health,  her  pre-Gorgasean 
Gorgas.  Koch  rid  Germany  of  typhoid 
fever  by  penning  up  the  population  of 
whole  villages  and  condemning  whole 
watersheds.  It  was  ruthless,  it  was  un- 
popular, it  broke  down  and  made  a 
mock  of  a  host  of  *  inalienable'  rights 
—  but  it  worked. 


Here,  then,  we  see  clearly  the  two 
ideas  at  the  bottom  of  the  scheme  of 
things  that  the  new  Germany  adopted. 
On  the  one  hand,  there  was  the  utmost 
hospitality  to  intelligence,  no  matter 
how  humble  its  origin,  so  long  as  it 
took  an  efficient,  a  practicable,  a  work- 
able direction.  And  on  the  other  hand 
there  was  the  utmost  disdain  for  all 
those  grandiloquent  words  which  con- 
ceal, excuse,  or  attempt  to  make  glo- 
rious the  lack  of  it.  From  the  old 
Junkertum  there  was  taken  over  the 
principle  of  order,  of  discipline,  of  sub- 
mission to  constituted  authority.  And 
from  the  democracy  that  kicked  up  its 
futile  turmoils  in  states  beyond  the  bor- 
der there  was  borrowed  the  new  con- 
cept of  free  opportunity,  of  hospitality 
to  ideas,  of  eager  seeking. 

To  the  mixture  there  was  added 
something  of  the  blood-and-iron  ele- 
ment of  Bismarck,  and  something  of 
that  proud  harshness  which  has  been 
the  hallmark  of  the  German  through- 
out the  ages. 

The  new  Germany  was  even  more 
contemptuous  of  weakness,  within  or 
without,  than  the  old.  What  had  been 
the  haughtiness  of  a  single  class  became 
the  haughtiness  of  a  whole  people.  The 
days  of  German  sentimentality,  of  the 
kaffeeklatsch  view  of  life,  of  mysticism 
and  simple  piety,  of  Marlitt  and  Heim- 
burg,  of  Hegel  and  Fichte,  of  Mor- 
gen  Rot  and  The  Sorrows  of  Werther 
were  definitely  put  behind.  A  line  was 
drawn  beneath  the  romantic  move- 
ment. The  key  changed  to  C  major. 
Germany  began  to  grow  cocky,  skep- 
tical, self-sufficient,  brusque,  impatient 
of  opposition.  It  held  up  its  head 
among  the  nations.  It  lost  its  religion, 
dropping  one  member  bodily  from  the 
Trinity  and  providing  a  substitute  — 
in  a  helmet !  —  for  the  vacancy.  It  of- 
fered opinions  unsolicited.  It  stuck  its 
thumb  into  pies;  laid  the  same  member 
beside  its  nose;  wriggled  its  fingers.  It 


604 


THE  MAILED  FIST  AND   ITS  PROPHET 


began,  in  the  full  view  of  passers-by,  to 
sharpen  its  sword. 

But  uncertainty  still  clung  about 
this  new  spirit.  It  was  yet  vague,  un- 
formulated  in  words,  not  quite  com- 
prehended, even  by  the  Germans  them- 
selves. What  it  needed,  of  course,  was 
a  philosophy  to  back  it  up,  as  the  vast 
unrest  of  the  American  colonies  needed 
the  Declaration  of  Independence,  with 
its  sharp,  staccato  asseverations,  its 
brave  statement  of  axioms.  That  phil- 
osophy, though  few  Germans  knew  it, 
was  already  in  being.  It  had  been  grad- 
ually taking  form  and  substance  as 
the  new  national  spirit  had  developed, 
and  side  by  side  with  it.  It  had  been 
first  heard  of  in  The  Birth  of  Tragedy, 
twenty  years  before.  It  had  first  shown 
clear  outlines  in  the  onslaught  upon 
David  Strauss.  It  had  grown  clearer 
still  in  Human,  All-too-Human ;  yet 
more  so  in  The  Dawn  of  Day  and  The 
Joyful  Science;  yet  more  so  in  Be- 
yond Good  and  Evil  and  The  Genealogy 
of  Morals.  And  now  at  last,  its  time 
being  come,  it  suddenly  flashed  forth 
with  blinding  brilliance  in  Thus  Spake 
Zarathustra,  Nietzsche's  unquestioned 
masterpiece  and  perhaps  the  greatest 
work  in  German  since  Faust. 

Here,  indeed,  was  the  thing  that 
the  Germans  had  been  looking  for. 
Here  was  a  magnificent  statement, 
lucid,  plausible,  overwhelming,  of  the 
ideas  that  had  been  groping  for  utter- 
ance within  them.  Here  was  the  suffi- 
cient excuse  and  justification  for  their 
racial  aspiration,  the  Magna  Charta 
of  their  new  intellectual  freedom,  the 
gospel  of  their  new  creed,  of  progress. 
It  had  all  the  essential  qualities  of 
a  great  race-document.  It  was  dra- 
matic, eloquent,  persuasive,  vigorous, 
romantic  —  a  mixture  of  challenge  and 
testament,  of  code  and  saga.  It  put 
into  straightforward  propositions,  — 
so  impassioned  that  they  seemed  al- 
most self-evident,  —  the  principles  that 


the  Germans  had  been  applying,  dubi- 
ously, experimentally,  to  their  new 
problems.  It  accounted  for  and  gave 
assent  to  their  doubts  of  the  old  plati- 
tudes. It  dowered  them,  at  the  stroke, 
with  a  new  feeling  of  intellectual  dig- 
nity and  of  intellectual  security. 

As  I  have  said,  there  was  but  little 
writing  against  the  Germans  in  the 
book.  For  once  Nietzsche  forgot  his 
old  rage  against  his  own  people,  his 
profound  antagonism  to  German  cul- 
ture. For  once  the  good  European 
yielded  to  the  good  German  —  that 
good  German  who,  for  all  his  carping, 
had  served  his  country  faithfully  in 
war,  and  brought  away  his  life-long 
wounds.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he 
had  begun  to  feel,  dimly  but  none  the 
less  surely,  that  the  culture  he  had 
reviled  and  roared  against  in  his  earlier 
books  (and  was  to  take  a  farewell  stab 
at  in  Ecce  Homo)  had  actually  begun 
to  yield  to  progress,  that  the  new  Ger- 
many had  already  traveled  very  far 
from  the  Germany  of  Tiecks  and 
Hoffman,  of  Mendelssohn  and  Weber, 
even  of  The  Ring  and  Parsifal.  It  was 
still  a  bit  heavy- witted,  perhaps,  and 
more  than  a  bit  boorish,  but  it  had 
long  since  lost  its  liking  for  'the  ob- 
scure, evolving,  crepuscular,  damp,  and 
shrouded ' ;  it  no  longer  dwelt  in  'caves, 
hiding-places,  and  dungeons';  it  had 
put  behind  it  all  mysticism,  *  spirit- 
ual dyspepsia,'  empty  pedantry,  and 
*  green-grazing'  contentment.  So  far 
had  it  gone,  indeed,  that  it  was  fully 
prepared  to  make  some  show  of  assent 
to  most  of  Nietzsche's  thunderous 
charges. 

IV 

The  way  once  prepared  by  Thus 
Spake  Zarathustra,  the  rest  of  the  books 
slipped  down  easily,  charges  and  all. 
Nietzsche  himself  was  beyond  honor 
and  flattery  by  now;  his  mind  a  mud- 
dle, he  drowsed  away  the  endless  days 


THE  MAILED  FIST  AND   ITS  PROPHET 


605 


at  quiet  Weimar,  nursed  by  his  devoted 
sister.  But  around  that  pathetic  shell 
of  a  man  a  definite  and  vigorous  cult 
arose.  Young  Germany  adopted  him, 
ratified  him,  hurrahed  for  him.  His 
phrases  passed  into  current  cant;  he 
was  quoted,  discussed,  hailed  as  a  de- 
liverer; musicians  were  inspired  to  deaf- 
ening tone-poems  by  his  dithyrambs; 
all  the  scribblers  discovered  that  he 
had  invented  a  new  German  language, 
chromatic,  supple,  electrical;  he  be- 
came a  great  national  figure,  a  prophet, 
something  of  a  hero — in  his  own  words, 
*a  European  event.' 

Do  not  mistake  me  here.  I  am  not 
saying  that  the  Germans  adopted 
Nietzsche  in  any  general  and  unani- 
mous sense,  as  the  Arabs,  for  example, 
adopted  Mohammed,  or  as  the  Amer- 
icans adopted  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence. To  the  common  people  he 
was  inevitably  a  dose  of  very  bitter 
caviare:  in  so  far  as  they  were  aware 
of  him  at  all,  they  could  scarcely  under- 
stand him,  and  in  so  far  as  they  could 
understand  him,  they  were  mocked  and 
outraged  by  him.  Nor  was  he  more 
palatable  to  the  elements  which  repre- 
sented, in  the  new  empire,  the  ideas 
carried  over  from  the  last  and  previous 
ages  -  -  for  example,  the  adherents  of 
the  church  and  the  survivors  and 
mourners  of  the  old  aristocracy.  For 
that  church  and  that  aristocracy  he 
had  only  the  fiercest  of  scorn.  Against 
the  one  he  was  yet  to  launch  The 
Antichrist,  without  question  the  most 
devastating  attack  ever  made  upon 
Christian  morals  in  ancient  or  modern 
times.  And  at  the  aristocracy  he  had 
already  flung  the  insult  of  ranking  it 
second  in  his  new  order  of  castes,  put- 
ting it  with  *  those  whose  eminence  is 
chiefly  muscular,'  and  dismissing  it  as 
fit  only  to  'execute  the  mandates  of  the 
first  caste,  relieving  the  latter  of  all 
that  is  coarse  and  menial  in  the  work  of 
ruling.'  Nor  were  these  the  only  groups 


which  found  little  but  effrontery  and 
atheism  in  his  new  scheme  of  things. 
He  was  iconoclast  even  before  he  was 
prophet.  His  whole  philosophy  was  a 
herculean  treading  upon  toes. 

But  that  he  got  a  response  from  what 
he  himself  regarded  as  the  true  aristo- 
cracy of  his  country,  and  what  many  of 
his  countrymen,  willingly  or  unwill- 
ingly, had  begun  to  regard  as  such  — 
this,  I  take  it,  scarcely  needs  argument. 
Upon  the  young  intellectuals,  the  rul- 
ers of  the  morrow,  his  influence  was 
immediate  and  profound.  Not  only  did 
they  hail  him  as  a  sound  and  convinc- 
ing critic  of  that  orthodoxy  which  they 
instinctively  shrank  from  and  longed 
to  dispose  of,  but  they  also  found  a 
surpassing  fairness  in  the  theory  of  the 
universe  that  he  proposed  to  set  up  in 
place  of  it. 

That  theory  of  his  was  full  of  the 
confidence  and  the  lordliness  of  youth; 
it  was  the  youngest  philosophy  that 
the  world  had  seen  since  the  days 
of  the  Greeks;  it  made  no  concession 
whatever  to  the  intellectual  toryism  of 
old  age,  the  timidity  and  inertia  of  so- 
called  experience.  And  if  it  was  thus 
young,  and  perhaps  even  a  bit  juvenile, 
then  let  us  not  forget  that  Germany 
was  young  too.  Here,  indeed,  was  the 
youngest  of  all  the  great  nations,  the 
baby  among  the  powers.  The  winds  of 
great  adventure  were  still  sharp  and 
spicy  to  its  nostrils;  it  felt  the  swelling 
of  its  muscles,  the  itch  of  its  palm  on 
the  sword-hilt;  it  gazed  out  upon  the 
world  proudly,  steadily,  disdainfully. 
And  here,  of  its  own  blood,  was  a  phil- 
osopher who  gave  validity,  nay,  the 
highest  validity,  to  its  impulses,  its  ap- 
petites, its  ambitions.  Here  was  a  sage 
who  taught  that  the  supreme  type  of 
man  was  the  Ja-sager,  the  yes-sayer. 
Here  was  one  who  drove  a  lance  through 
the  Beatitudes,  and  hung  a  new  motto 
upon  the  point :  '  Be  hard ! ' 

One  thing  to  be  remembered  clearly 


606 


THE  MAILED  FIST  AND  ITS  PROPHET 


about  Nietzsche  —  and  I  insist  upon  it 
because  it  is  almost  always  forgotten 
—  is  that  he  by  no  means  proposed  a 
unanimous,  or  even  a  general  desertion 
of  Christian  morality.  On  the  contrary, 
he  specifically  reserved  that  deliverance 
for  his  highest  caste,  whose  happiness 
was  'in  those  things  which,  to  lesser 
men,  would  spell  ruin  — in  the  laby- 
rinth, in  severity  toward  themselves 
and  others,  in  effort/  The  true  enlight- 
enment was  not  for  the  castes  lower 
down;  it  was  even  to  be  guarded  jeal- 
ously, lest  they  steal  it  and  pollute  it. 
For  those  castes  the  old  platitudes  were 
good  enough.  Did  they  cling  senti- 
mentally to  Christianity,  unable  to  rid 
themselves  of  their  yearning  for  a  rock 
and  a  refuge?  Then  let  them  have  it! 
It  was  'a  good  anodyne.'  Their  yearn- 
ing for  it  was  a  proof  of  their  need  for 
it.  To  attempt  to  take  it  away  from 
them  was  an  offense  against  their  sense 
of  well-being,  and  against  human  pro- 
gress as  well.  / 

*  Whom  do  I  hate  most,'  asked  Nietz- 
sche in  The  Antichrist,  *  among  all 
the  rabble  of  to-day?'  And  his  answer 
was :  'The  Socialist  who  undermines  the 
workingman's  instincts,  who  destroys 
his  satisfaction  with  his  insignificant 
existence,  who  makes  him  envious  and 
teaches  him  revenge.'  Christianity  and 
brotherhood  were  for  workingmen,  sol- 
diers, servants,  and  yokels,  for  'shop- 
keepers, cows,  women,  and  English- 
men,' for  the  submerged  chandala,  for 
the  whole  race  of  subordinates,  de- 
pendents, followers.  But  not  for  the 
higher  man,  not  for  the  superman  of 
to-morrow! 

Thus  the  philosophy  of  Nietzsche 
gave  coherence  and  significance  to  the 
new  German  spirit,  and  the  new  Ger- 
many gave  a  royal  setting  and  splendor 
to  Nietzsche.  He  got  a  good  deal  more, 
I  often  think,  than  he  ever  gave  back. 
His  ultimate  roots,  true  enough,  were 
in  Greek  soil, —  it  was  the  Athenian 


drama  that  started  him  upon  his  life- 
long inquiry  into  moral  ideas, —  but  he 
grew  more  and  more  German  as  he  grew 
older,  more  and  more  the  spokesman 
of  his  race,  more  and  more  the  creature 
of  his  environment.  His  one  great 
service  was  that  he  gathered  together 
the  dim,  groping  concepts  behind  the 
national  aspiration  and  put  them  into 
superlative  German,  —  the  greatest 
German,  indeed,  of  all  time,  —  so  that 
they  suddenly  rose  up,  in  brilliant  clar- 
ity, before  the  thousands  who  had  been 
blundering  toward  them  blindly.  In 
brief,  he  was  like  every  other  philoso- 
pher in  the  catalogue,  ancient  or  mod- 
ern :  not  so  much  a  leader  of  his  age  as 
its  interpreter,  not  so  much  a  prophet 
as  a  procurator. 

Go  through  Thus  Spake  Zarathus- 
tra  from  end  to  end,  and  you  will 
find  that  nine  tenths  of  its  ideas  are 
essentially  German  ideas,  that  they 
coincide  almost  exactly  with  what  we 
have  come  to  know  of  the  new  Ger- 
man spirit,  just  as  the  ideas  of  Aristotle 
were  all  essentially  Greek,  and  those 
of  Locke  essentially  English.  Even  its 
lingering  sneers  at  the  Germans  strike 
at  weaknesses  which  the  more  thought- 
ful Germans  were  themselves  begin- 
ning to  admit,  combat,  and  remedy.  It 
is  a  riotous  affirmation  of  race-efficien- 
cy, a  magnificent  defiance  of  destiny,  a 
sublime  celebration  of  ambition. 

Not  even  Wilhelm  himself  ever  voiced 
a  philosophy  of  vaster  assurance.  Not 
even  the  hot-heads  of  the  mess-table, 
drinking  uproariously  to  der  Tag,  ever 
flung  a  bolder  challenge  to  the  gods. 
'Thus,'  shouts  Zarathustra,  'would  I 
have  man  and  woman:  the  one  fit  for 
warfare,  the  other  fit  for  giving  birth; 
and  both  fit  for  dancing  with  head  and 
legs '  —  that  is,  both  lavish  of  energy, 
careless  of  waste,  pagan,  gargantuan, 
inordinate.  And  then, '  War  and  cour- 
age have  done  more  great  things  than 
charity.  Not  your  pity,but  your  brav- 


THE  MAILED  FIST  AND  ITS  PROPHET 


607 


ery  lifts  up  those  about  you.  Let  the 
little  girlies  tell  you  that  "good"  means 
"sweet "  and  "touching."  I  tell  you  that 
"good"  means  "brave."  .  .  .  The  slave 
rebels  against  hardships  and  calls  his 
rebellion  superiority.  Let  your  superi- 
ority be  an  acceptance  of  hardships.  .  .  . 
Let  your  commanding  be  an  obeying.  .  .  . 
Propagate  yourself  upward.  ...  I  do 
not  spare  you.  .  .  .  Die  at  the  right 
time  .  .  .  Be  hard ! ' 

I  come  to  the  war :  the  supreme  man- 
ifestation of  the  new  Germany,  at  last 
the  great  test  of  the  gospel  of  strength, 
of  great  daring,  of  efficiency.  But  here, 
alas,  the  business  of  the  expositor  must 
suddenly  cease.  The  streams  of  paral- 
lel ideas  coalesce.  Germany  becomes 
Nietzsche;  Nietzsche  becomes  Ger- 
many. Turn  away  from  all  the  fruitless 
debates  over  the  responsibility  of  this 
man  or  that,  the  witless  straw-splitting 
over  non-essentials.  Go  back  to  Zara- 
thustra:  *I  do  not  advise  you  to  com- 
promise and  make  peace,  but  to  conquer. 
Let  your  labor  be  fighting,  and  your 
peace  victory.  .  .  .  What  is  good?  All 
that  increases  the  feeling  of  power,  the 
will  to  power,  power  itself  in  man. 
What  is  bad?  All  that  proceeds  from 
weakness.  What  is  happiness?  The  feel- 
ing that  power  increases,  that  resist- 
ance is  being  overcome.  .  .  .  Not  con- 
tentment, but  more  power!  Not  peace 
at  any  price,  but  war!  Not  virtue, 
but  efficiency!  .  .  .  The  weak  and  the 
botched  must  perish:  that  is  the  first 
principle  of  our  humanity.  And  they 


should  be  helped  to  perish!  ...  I  am 
writing  for  the  lords  of  the  earth.  .  .  . 
You  say  that  a  good  cause  hallows  even 
war?  .  .  .  /  tell  you  that  a  good  war  hal- 
lows every  cause!' 

Barbarous?  Ruthless?  Unchristian? 
No  doubt.  But  so  is  life  itself.  So  is  all 
progress  worthy  the  name.  Here  at 
least  is  honesty  to  match  the  barbar- 
ity, and,  what  is  more,  courage,  the 
willingness  to  face  great  hazards,  the 
acceptance  of  defeat  as  well  as  victory. 
'Ye  shall  have  foes  to  be  hated,  but  not 
foes  to  be  despised.  Ye  must  be  proud 
of  your  foes  .  .  .  The  new  Empire  has 
more  need  of  foes  than  of  friends.  .  .  . 
Nothing  has  grown  more  alien  to  us 
than  that  "peace  of  the  soul"  which  is 
the  aim  of  Christianity.  .  .  .  And 
should  a  great  injustice  befall  you,  then 
do  quickly  five  small  ones.  A  small 
revenge  is  better  than  none  at  all.' 

Do  we  see  again  those  grave,  blond 
warriors  of  whom  Tacitus  tells  us  — 
who  were  good  to  their  women,  and 
would  not  lie,  and  were  terrible  in  bat- 
tle?. Is  the  Teuton  afoot  for  new  con- 
quests, a  new  tearing  down,  a  new 
building  up,  a  new  trans  valuation  of  all 
values?  And  if  he  is,  will  he  prevail? 
Or  will  he  be  squeezed  to  death  be- 
tween the  two  mill-stones  of  Christian- 
ity and  Mongol  savagery?  Let  us  not 
assume  his  downfall  too  lightly:  it  will 
take  staggering  blows  to  break  him. 
And  let  us  not  be  alarmed  by  his  possi- 
ble triumph.  What  did  Rome  ever  pro- 
duce to  match  the  Fifth  Symphony? 


A  PROFESSOR  IN  A  SMALL  COLLEGE 


BY   RAYMOND    BELLAMY 


DURING  the  last  few  years,  the  atten- 
tion of  readers  has  frequently  been 
called  to  the  life  of  the  college  professor, 
his  work,  his  hardships,  and  his  com- 
pensation —  or  rather  his  lack  of  com- 
pensation. But,  seemingly,  all  the  in- 
formation which  has  been  offered  on 
the  subject  has  been  concerned  with 
the  professor  in  the  larger  university, 
and  only  passing  attention  has  been 
given  to  the  teacher  in  the  small  col- 
lege. And  yet  there  are  in  the  United 
States  about  ten  thousand  men  and 
women  who  are  teaching  in  colleges 
that  enroll  less  than  five  hundred  stu- 
dents each.  These  men  are  popularly, 
and  perhaps  correctly,  classed  as  *  pro- 
fessors '  along  with  their  brothers  in 
the  more  exalted  positions.  There  is 
not  so  much  distinction  here  between 
'professors/  *  assistant  professors/  and 
*  instructors/  for  there  is  frequently 
only  one  man  teaching  each  subject, 
and,  in  a  surprisingly  large  number  of 
cases,  two  or  three  subjects  will  be 
taught  by  the  same  man.  To  a  far 
greater  extent  than  might  be  supposed, 
these  men  are  exerting  an  influence  in 
our  civilization,  and  their  own  peculiar 
struggles  and  aspirations  form  a  unique 
chapter  in  contemporary  history. 

Following  a  strong  natural  bent,  I 
have  joined  this  army  of  educators  and 
I  consider  myself,  at  present,  a  fairly 
typical  specimen.  There  are  a  wife  and 
baby  to  share  my  life,  and  give  me  an 
added  incentive  to  do  good  work.  I 
hold  a  master's  degree  from  one  of 

608 


America's  leading  universities  and  am 
planning  to  take  the  degree  of  Doctor 
of  Philosophy  as  soon  as  possible.  This 
is  the  usual  state  of  affairs  with  the 
professor  in  the  small  college,  as  those 
who  already  hold  doctor's  degrees  are 
comparatively  rare.  I  do  not  hesitate 
to  say  that  I  am  successful  in  my  teach- 
ing. My  students  are  enthusiastic,  the 
work  they  do  compares  very  favorably 
with  that  done  at  much  larger  schools, 
and  there  are  many  other  things  which 
indicate  that  I  have  at  least  average 
ability  and  success.  The  great  scholar 
under  whom  I  took  the  greater  part  of 
my  post-graduate  work  said  to  me,  *I 
have  never  known  anyone  who  seemed 
to  be  going  ahead  by  leaps  and  bounds 
as  you  are.'  Being  a  natural  teacher, 
I  enjoy  my  work  as  I  suppose  few  men 
ever  enjoy  their  work,  and  altogether 
my  life  is  happier  and  gayer  than  that 
of  most  of  my  fellow  teachers. 

I  am  teaching  in  a  state  that  borders 
on  the  Atlantic,  in  a  fine  old  school  that 
for  over  seventy-five  years  has  been 
sending  out  graduates  who  afterwards 
have  become  senators,  governors, 
judges,  ministers,  and  leading  men  in 
industries  and  professions.  This  school 
ranks  high  among  the  educational  in- 
stitutions of  the  state  and,  even  finan- 
cially, is  fairly  successful  as  schools  go. 
The  salary  which  I  yearly  receive  is 
twelve  hundred  dollars,  or  rather  I  re- 
ceive eleven  hundred  dollars  and  my 
house  is  furnished  free;  this  is  a  very 
good  house  and  it  would  probably  cost 
me  much  more  than  a  hundred  dollars 
a  year  if  I  had  to  pay  rent.  It  will  be 


A  PROFESSOR  IN  A  SMALL  COLLEGE 


609 


readily  understood  that  this  salary  is 
equivalent  to  almost  twice  as  much  at 
a  larger  institution  or  in  a  city.  This 
is  a  country  school,  in  the  midst  of  a 
rich  agricultural  section,  and  we  know 
nothing  of  the  great  expense  of  life  in  a 
city  or  the  great  cost  of  social  duties 
which  are  necessarily  attached  to  the 
life  of  a  university  man.  While  there 
are  a  few  small  colleges  that  pay  better 
salaries  than  this,  there  are  others  — 
and  many  others  —  that  pay  much 
less. 

Altogether,  my  lot  is  as  good  as  or 
better  than  that  of  the  average  col- 
lege professor,  and  I  feel  justified  in 
saying  that  the  lines  have  fallen  unto 
me  in  pleasant  places. 

I  was  never  a  very  good  accountant, 
and  it  is  next  to  impossible  to  make  my 
accounts  balance.  Usually  at  the  end 
of  a  month,  there  is  a  slight  deficit, 
which  may  amount  to  as  much  as  a 
dollar  or  two.  I  know  that  there  are 
economic  specialists  who  can  keep 
accounts  for  years  and  show  where 
every  penny  has  gone;  some  of  these 
are  also  very  efficient  in  the  art  of  liv- 
ing cheaply,  and  are  inclined  to  censure 
the  rest  of  us  for  not  having  this  abil- 
ity. But  I  have  noticed  that  those  who 
are  so  expert  in  this  way  are,  as  a 
rule,  not  extraordinarily  good  teachers. 
I  cannot  conceive  how  a  teacher,  so 
sufficiently  wrapped  up  in  his  work  as 
to  arouse  the  proper  amount  of  enthu- 
siasm in  his  students,  can  always  re- 
member to  set  down  the  two  cents 
which  he  spent  for  a  postage  stamp  or 
the  quarter  which  he  paid  for  some 
collars  when  he  forgot  to  send  off  his 
laundry  —  only,  of  course,  the  man  of 
this  type  would  not  have  forgotten  to 
send  off  his  laundry.  The  average  col- 
lege professor  cannot  keep  accounts 
as  accurately  as  this,  but  is  sometimes 
absent-minded;  not  extremely  so,  but 
just  about  as  much  so  as  any  other  ordi- 
nary individual. 

VOL.  114- NO.  5 


ii 


Without  attempting  to  give  an 
exact  account  of  the  way  we  use  our 
income,  I  can  give  one  that  so  nearly 
approximates  it  that  it  will  serve  our 
purpose  very  satisfactorily.  Aside  from 
my  regular  work,  I  teach  in  a  sum- 
mer school,  and  have  found  that  by  so 
doing  I  can  make  just  about  enough 
to  meet  the  expenses  of  the  summer. 
Therefore  we  can  count  out  the  summer 
months  and  discuss  only  the  expenses 
of  the  school  year,  which  is  about  ten 
months  long.  The  following  table  will 
show  the  disposition  which  we  make 
of  the  greater  part  of  the  salary :  — 

Clothing  for  all  three,  including  hats  and  * 

shoes $200 

Board  (or  table  expenses) 200 

Milk  and  special  food  for  the  baby 40 

Household  expenses 75 

Fuel  and  light 50 

Books  and  magazines 60 

Life  insurance 50 

Laundry,  stationery,  doctor,  dentist 50 

Recreations,  dinners, travels,  Christmas,  etc.     75 

Religious  and  educational  movements ....  100 

Total $900 

It  will  appear  from  the  above  table, 
that,  counting  the  fifty  dollars  for  life 
insurance,  I  make  about  two  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  above  expenses  each 
year.  But  it  will  quickly  be  seen  that 
there  are  many  calls  for  money  which 
are  not  taken  into  account  in  the  table: 
these  are  the  occasional  expenses  which 
fall  under  no  special  heading.  I  do 
most  of  my  typing,  but  occasionally  I 
am  so  rushed  that  I  must  hire  somebody 
to  do  a  little  of  it,  and  a  few  dollars 
leak  out  in  this  way;  a  new  typewriter 
ribbon  or  some  repairs  on  my  machine 
take  their  mite;  unless  I  neglect  my 
teaching  it  is  impossible  to  split  all  my 
kindling  and  take  care  of  the  yard,  so  I 
must  occasionally  hire  a  boy  to  do  some 
of  this  work  for  me;  my  wife  cannot 
always  do  all  her  work  and  sometimes 
a  colored  woman  comes  in  and  helps 


610 


A  PROFESSOR  IN  A  SMALL  COLLEGE 


her  wash  or  scrubs  the  floor  for  her;  the 
baby  needs  a  carriage  or  at  least  a  new 
toy,  and,  in  fact,  almost  every  day 
sees  a  draft  made  on  the  long-suffering 
and  rapidly  diminishing  two  hundred 
dollars.  When  I  count  up,  I  wonder 
that  we  succeed  in  getting  through 
even,  which  is  about  all  we  can  do. 

I  frankly  admit  that  I  could  econo- 
mize on  some  of  the  above  items.  I 
could  spend  less  for  books  and  maga- 
zines, for  example,  and  I  know  some 
teachers  do  this.  This  may  be  justifi- 
able in  some  lines,  but  to  teach  the  sub- 
jects which  I  am  teaching,  and  teach 
them  right,  it  is  necessary  to  do  a  great 
amount  of  reading  and  keep  up  with 
the  times.  And  laying  aside  the  ques- 
tion of  what  he  ought  to  do,  the  teacher 
wants  to  keep  up  so  badly  that  he  will, 
if  necessary,  go  without  food  and  cloth- 
ing in  order  to  secure  these  books  and 
magazines.  Sixty  dollars  is  little  enough 
when  there  is  no  city  library  accessible 
and  there  is  a  dearth  of  such  material 
in  the  library  of  the  college.  The  text- 
books alone  which  I  use  in  my  classes 
this  year  cost  over  thirty  dollars,  and 
the  texts  are  comparatively  insignifi- 
cant. I  grow  sick  with  longing  when  I 
read  the  advertisements  of  books  and 
journals  which  I  should  have.  I  keep 
lists  and  catalogues  of  these  publica- 
tions and  occasionally  read  them  over, 
just  for  the  torturing  pleasure  of  think- 
ing how  delightful  it  would  be  if  I 
could  afford  them. 

I  never  take  any  journals  that  are 
taken  by  the  library,  I  never  buy  any 
that  I  can  borrow,  and  I  work  every 
scheme  of  which  I  can  think  to  gain 
access  to  as  many  as  possible,  spend- 
ing every  cent  that  I  can  afford  for 
some  of  the  best  that  are  most  closely 
related  to  my  work.  But  how  many 
there  are  that  I  ought  to  have  and  can- 
not get!  There  is  the  Eugenic  Review, 
published  in  England:  if  my  students 
are  to  leave  their  Alma  Mater  as  well- 


informed,  efficient,  enthusiastic  citi- 
zens, I  ought  by  all  means  to  have  ac- 
cess to  this  magazine.  Then  there  is 
the  Harvard  Theological  Review  ;  some- 
times I  finger  the  announcements  con- 
cerning this  journal  with  much  the 
same  fondness  that  a  small  boy  has 
when  he  fondles  his  painted  bow  and 
arrow,  and  longs  to  get  out  into  the 
deep  cool  woods.  Some  of  my  students 
will  be  preachers  and  I  could  do  much 
better  work  by  them  if  I  only  had  this 
publication;  and  of  perhaps  equal  im- 
portance is  the  theological  journal 
issued  by  the  University  of  Chicago 
Press.  Then  there  are  the  Psychological 
Bulletin,  Mind,  the  British  Journal  of 
Psychology,  the  Journal  of  Race  Devel- 
opment, the  Journal  of  Animal  Behavior, 
the  —  but  why  name  them?  There  are 
at  least  fifteen  or  twenty  such,  costing 
from  two  to  five  dollars  each,  which 
I  could  use  to  great  advantage,  both 
to  myself  and  my  students;  but  they 
are  hopelessly  beyond  my  reach. 

And  books!  Here  I  become  sick  in 
earnest.  There's  Stefansson's account 
of  his  life  with  the  Eskimo,  Ellen  Key's 
writings,  some  of  Bergson's  works;  Pfis- 
ter,  of  Germany,  has  written  a  new  book 
on  Freudian  psychology,  Die  psycho- 
analytische  Methode,  which,  from  its 
descriptions  and  commendations,  must 
be  the  best  thing  in  this  line  that  has 
ever  been  written;  there  is  a  book,  just 
off  the  press,  that  gives  the  life  of 
G.  Stanley  Hall,  and  my  relations  to 
him  have  been  such  that  I  can  hardly 
be  resigned  to  do  without  this  book.  I 
should  have  no  trouble  whatever  in 
spending  an  additional  hundred  dollars 
for  seemingly  necessary  books. 

A  number  of  my  students  will  enter 
universities  to  take  up  graduate  work 
next  year,  and  I  would  like  to  give  them 
at  least  a  speaking  acquaintance  with 
some  of  these  recent  books  before  they 
go.  What  would  it  not  mean  to  them  if  I 
could  give  them  the  gist  of  these  books 


A  PROFESSOR  IN  A  SMALL  COLLEGE 


611 


while  we  walked  round  the  campus  or 
sat  in  an  informal  visit  —  which,  after 
all,  is  by  far  the  best  kind  of  teaching. 
And  besides  what  it  would  mean  to 
my  students,  I  need  these  books  for  my 
own  personal  good.  I  need  them  in 
order  that  I  may  remain  fresh  and  keep 
on  growing,  and  escape  the  danger  of 
mental  ossification. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  I  make  no 
mention  of  any  books  that  are  not 
closely  connected  with  my  work.  This 
is  not  because  I  do  not  like  other  books, 
for  I  am  passionately  fond  of  poetry 
and  good  fiction,  but  I  cannot  afford 
to  invest  in  any  books  for  pleasure  or 
because  of  the  binding  of  the  book. 
This  year,  I  have  been  especially  fortu- 
nate with  my  books.  I  made  a  sort  of 
bargain  by  which  fifty  dollars  of  the 
hundred  that  I  yearly  give  to  church 
and  educational  matters  might  be 
given  to  the  college  library  in  the  form 
of  books.  Of  course,  I  secured  the  use 
of  the  ones  that  I  put  in  the  library, 
and  that  was  just  as  good  as  if  I  had 
bought  them  for  myself.  That  is,  I 
secured  as  much  objective  good  from 
them,  but  subjectively,  I  frankly  admit 
that  I  get  much  pleasure  from  the  act 
of  owning  a  book  myself  that  is  lacking 
when  I  read  one  that  does  not  belong 
to  me.  Altogether,  I  hardly  see  how  I 
can  spend  less  than  sixty  dollars  yearly 
for  books  and  magazines. 


in 

Probably  there  are  few  who  will  be 
inclined  to  think  that  two  hundred 
dollars  is  an  extravagant  sum  to  spend 
for  the  clothing  of  three.  This  prac- 
tically means  clothing  for  the  entire 
year,  as  we  buy  very  little  clothing  out 
of  the  summer's  salary.  It  must  be 
remembered,  too,  that  I  am  supposed  to 
dress  like  a  *  professor, ' — although  the 
standards  are  very  different  for  dif- 
ferent places,  —  and  my  wife  must  be 


attired  as  a  *  professor's  wife.'  There 
are  probably  some  who  could  dress 
more  cheaply,  but,  as  I  said  above,  I 
specialize  in  teaching  and  not  in  being 
an  economic  expert. 

It  is  really  funny,  sometimes,  when  I 
think  of  the  way  I  manage  my  clothes. 
Only  a  few  days  ago,  one  of  the  other 
professors  apologized  to  me  for  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  suit  he  was  wearing  (he 
was  having  troubles,  too,  poor  man), 
and  intimated  that  my  clothing  looked 
very  neat  and  new.  Well,  at  that  par- 
ticular time,  I  did  have  on  the  best 
suit  I  own,  but  I  have  worn  it  three 
winters,  and  there  was  a  hole  at  the 
bottom  of  one  trouser-leg,  which,  how- 
ever, did  not  show  very  badly.  My 
wife  has  darned  that  hole  now,  and  let 
me  say,  just  here,  that  she  is  very  effi- 
cient in  darning  and  cleaning  my 
clothes.  I  wonder  how  many  of  the 
readers  know  that  men's  clothing  can 
be  washed?  Last  winter  my  wife  fished 
an  old  suit  of  mine  out  of  the  rags  and 
decided  to  see  what  she  could  do  with 
it.  I  had  worn  this  suit  in  a  chemical 
laboratory  for  a  year  and  the  acid  had 
eaten  it  full  of  holes.  I  had  caught  the 
coat  on  a  barbed-wire  fence  and  torn  it 
badly,  and  I  had  spilled  some  paint  on 
it.  She  washed  this  suit  in  a  tub  with 
warm  water  and  Ivory  soap,  dried  it, 
darned  the  many,  many  holes  with  rav- 
elings  from  the  raw  edges,  pressed  it 
nicely  and  I  put  it  on  and  wore  it  — 
and  everybody  admired  my  new  suit. 

This  was  a  thin  summer  suit  she  had 
washed,  but  it  turned  out  so  success- 
fully that  she  tried  her  hand  at  a  heavy 
old  black  suit  which  I  had  thrown  away 
because  it  was  so  old  and  dirty  —  you 
know  those  black  suits  never  wear  out. 
This  she  washed  with  as  much  success 
as  the  other,  and  when  she  had  put 
new  lining  in  the  sleeves  it  was  a  very 
respectable  suit.  She  has  washed  them 
again  this  year,  and  they  seem  to  look 
about  as  well  as  ever,  and  I  laughingly 


612 


A  PROFESSOR  IN  A  SMALL  COLLEGE 


tell  her  that  I  shall  be  wearing  one  of 
those  coats  when  I  receive  my  doctor's 
degree  —  that  far-distant  mystic  event 
toward  which  we  both  look  with  much 
the  same  feeling  that  we  have  when  we 
speak  of  the  time  when  'our  ship  will 
come  in.' 

There  are  many  little  tricks  that  a 
'professor*  employs  —  at  least  I  do.  I 
wear  *  low-cuts/  or  slippers,  the  year 
round  and  explain  that  I  like  them  bet- 
ter than  high  shoes,  which  is  strictly 
true;  but  the  real  reason  is  that  a  pair 
of  shoes  will  last  me  longer  than  six 
months,  and  I  wear  them  until  they  are 
entirely  worn  out  before  buying  a  new 
pair.  Therefore  I  am  apt  to  be  wearing 
half- worn  slippers  when  the  fall  winds 
begin  to  blow  and,  instead  of  buying  a 
new  pair  of  high  shoes,  I  buy  gaiters. 
They  cost  only  fifty  cents  a  pair,  and 
one  pair  will  last  me  two  years.  And 
I  never  have  a  strictlv  dress  shoe,  but 

*•  9 

always  buy  shoes  that  will  serve  for 
school  and  street  wear  after  they  are 
too  worn  for  *  best '  functions. 

I  own  no  dress-suit  and  never  wear 
one.  As  long  as  I  am  associating  with 
*  professors '  I  am  safe,  for  few  of  them 
own  dress-suits  and,  even  if  they  do, 
they  understand.  I  should  greatly  en- 
joy attending  functions  where  suits  of 
this  kind  are  in  demand,  and  my  nat- 
ural social  instincts  would  make  me 
at  home  there,  but  I  am  one  of  the 
many  efficient,  well-educated,  up-to- 
date  teachers  who  never  appear  at  such 
places  —  and  for  a  reason. 

Even  in  the  matter  of  hair-cuts  and 
shaves,  I  have  learned  to  economize, 
and  I  usually  let  my  hair  grow  very 
long  before  having  it  cut  and  thus  the 
barber's  bills  are  kept  small.  I  usu- 
ally remark  when  I  get  into  the  chair 
(a  guilty  conscience  will  always  force 
one  to  make  some  explanation)  that  I 
used  to  play  football  —  which  I  did  — 
and  that  I  still  wear  my  hair  long  — 
which  I  do  —  but  again  there  is  a  rea- 


son. Fortunately,  I  look  fairly  well 
with  long  hair  and  I  have  become  some- 
what proficient  in  trimming  my  neck 
and  temples  with  the  razor.  I  am  some- 
thing of  an  expert  with  a  razor,  and 
during  the  last  three  years  I  have  been 
shaved  by  a  barber  only  once. 

I  speak  of  this  as  a  kind  of  record 
whenever  the  subject  comes  up,  and 
show  that  I  am  proud  of  it,  but  still 
there  would  have  been  no  such  re- 
cord if  it  did  not  cost  money  to 
be  shaved  by  barbers.  The  ordinary 
man,  who  detests  shaving  himself  as 
much  as  I  do,  and  who  also  enjoys  the 
luxury  of  a  good  shave  by  a  barber  as 
well  as  I  do,  will  know  something  of 
what  this  means.  I  received  fifty  dol- 
lars more  than  I  had  expected  for  my 
last  summer's  work  and  I  celebrated  by 
getting  a  shave.  Do  not  think  that  I 
am  the  only  man  in  intellectual  work 
who  goes  to  such  an  extreme.  I  know  a 
man  who  took  a  doctor's  degree  in  phil- 
osophy last  spring  from  one  of  Amer- 
ica's leading  universities,  who  acknowl- 
edged in  a  private  conversation  —  a 
very  private  conversation  —  that  he 
had  never  been  shaved  by  a  barber  and 
had  never  eaten  a  meal  in  a  restaurant. 

I  do  not  stand  alone  in  my  wearing 
of  fixed  over  and  antedated  clothes. 
My  wife  has  worn  the  same  hat  and  the 
same  coat  for  four  winters  and  yet, 
some  way,  she  manages  to  look  neat 
and  well  dressed.  This  year  she  did 
shrink  from  going  to  formal  affairs  and 
managed  to  wear  a  becoming  little 
wool  cap  most  of  the  time.  Sometimes 
1  imagine  how  splendid  it  would  be  if  I 
could  afford  to  get  her  some  furs  and 
elaborate  gowns,  but  all  such  unneces- 
sary and  luxurious  things  as  furs  and 
Paris  gowns  are  hopelessly  tabooed. 
Of  course  she  could  afford  some  of 
these  if  she  bought  an  inferior  quality, 
but  she  rightly  prefers  a  few  simple 
dresses  and  suits  of  really  good  quality. 
Oh,  well,  sometime  maybe  I  can  afford 


A  PROFESSOR  IN  A  SMALL  COLLEGE 


613 


to  get  her  some  furs  and  things  —  after 
I  get  my  doctor's  degree  or  our  ship 
comes  in. 


It  has  already  been  noticed  that  we 
keep  no  servants,  and  yet  it  is  a  physi- 
cal impossibility  for  my  wife  to  do  all 
her  housework  and  take  care  of  the 
baby.  We  have  wrestled  with  this 
problem  in  different  ways  at  different 
times  during  the  last  few  years.  I  have 
had  considerable  training  in  dishwash- 
ing, sweeping,  caring  for  the  baby,  and 
even  cooking,  especially  when  my  wife 
was  not  well.  Just  now  we  are  solv- 
ing it  in  a  fairly  satisfactory  way  by 
taking  our  meals  out.  We  board  at  one 
of  the  regular  college  boarding-houses 
and  —  how  she  does  it  I  do  not  know 
—  the  landlady  gives  us  very  good 
board  for  two  dollars  and  a  half  a  week. 

Wrhen  she  is  relieved  of  the  cook- 
ing, my  wife  manages  to  do  practically 
all  the  rest  of  the  housework,  includ- 
ing sewing  and  washing.  We  could 
certainly  not  board  at  home  as  cheaply 
as  this,  especially  when  one  considers 
the  extra  servant  hire  and  the  extra 
fuel  that  it  would  necessitate.  And 
again,  let  no  one  think  that  I  am  alone 
in  helping  my  wife  with  her  work.  I 
could  name  a  rather  long  list  of  college 
professors  of  my  own  acquaintance 
who  give  much  of  their  valuable  time 
to  helping  with  the  housework. 

Household  expenses  are  deceitful, 
as  one  is  always  thinking  that  they  are 
over  for  a  while,  and  yet  they  are  al- 
ways cropping  up.  This  year  we  had  to 
buy  some  book-shelves  and  stoves  and 
a  few  window-blinds  and  curtains.  We 
then  had  a  feeling  of  relief  as  if  we  were 
settled,  but  on  stopping  to  think,  we 
saw  where  we  shall  have  to  expend 
about  as  much  for  such  items  next 
year.  We  need  a  bed  and  furniture  for 
a  guest-room,  and  some  new  screens, 
and  another  stove  to  take  the  place  of 


one  that  wore  out  this  year,  and  a  rug 
for  the  hall  and  numerous  other  things. 
And  then  there  are  always  brooms  and 
coal-buckets  and  shovels  and  all  sorts 
of  things  which  one  never  takes  into 
consideration  until  one  finds  thev  are 

tt 

necessary.  I  do  not  see  how  we  can  do 
with  less  than  seventy-five  dollars  a 
year  for  household  expenses  —  at  least 
we  shall  probably  average  that  for  some 
years  to  come. 

My  laundry  bill  is  not  large,  as  my 
wife  washes  all  my  clothes  except  my 
collars,  cuffs,  and  stiff  shirts.  On  the 
other  hand,  my  outlay  for  stationery 
amounts  to  nearly  twenty  dollars  a 
year.  I  have  many  very  good  friends, 
and  besides  I  keep  up  a  heavy  cor- 
respondence with  publishing  houses, 
libraries,  teachers  in  other  schools,  edu- 
cational boards,  and  through  this  semi- 
business  correspondence  I  strive  to 
keep  abreast  of  the  times  in  my  line. 
With  the  correspondence  is  also  count- 
ed the  cost  of  the  paper  which  I  use  in 
the  numerous  outlines  and  question- 
lists  that  I  get  out  in  connection  with 
my  teaching.  The  doctor  and  dentist 
bills  are  usually  very  light,  but  they 
demand  their  portion,  and  these  four 
items  wrest  half  a  hundred  dollars  from 
our  hands  before  the  year  has  passed. 
And  if  the  doctor  is  needed  more  than 
three  or  four  times,  there  is  another 
onslaught  on  that  hard-pressed  two 
hundred  dollars  which  must  serve  as  a 
reserve  fund  for  all  such  emergencies. 

It  may  seem  too  much  to  allow 
seventy-five  dollars  for  recreations  and 
kindred  items,  but  careful  considera- 
tion shows  that  it  is  certainly  small 
enough.  Christmas  alone  costs  us  over 
twenty-five  dollars,  and  this  is  an  ab- 
surdty  small  sum  when  we  have  so 
many  good  friends  whom  we  so  like  to 
remember.  We  always  combine  busi- 
ness and  pleasure  in  giving  to  each 
other,  and  give  something  which  we 
must  have  anyway.  In  fact,  we  'save 


614 


A  PROFESSOR  IN  A  SMALL  COLLEGE 


up'  for  some  time  before  Christmas, 
putting  off  the  buying  of  many  necessi- 
ties just  for  the  pleasure  of  receiving 
them  on  that  day.  I  go  out  into  the 
hills  and  bring  in  our  own  Christmas 
tree  and  we  trim  it  ourselves,  but  even 
then  the  Christmas  season  costs  us  a 
little  bit,  aside  from  the  small  presents 
we  give. 

Because  the  word  'travel'  is  in- 
cluded in  this  list,  it  must  not  be  infer- 
red that  we  indulge  in  many  pleasure 
trips.  Whenever  we  do  any  shopping, 
we  must  go  to  the  city,  and  that  costs 
a  dollar  or  two  each  trip;  we  make  only 
two  or  three  trips  during  the  year,  but 
they  count  up  along  with  everything 
else.  And  then  there  are  always  insti- 
tutes and  teachers'  meetings  and  meet- 
ings of  science  associations,  and  it  is 
necessary  for  me  to  attend  some  of 
them,  though  the  number  is  very  small. 
This  seventy-five  dollars  must  also  pay 
for  the  few  little  dinners  and  luncheons 
which  we  give  to  students  and  friends, 
and  must  pro vide^  tickets  to  the  Y.M. 
C.A.  banquets,  athletic  banquets,  other 
college  and  community  functions,  and 
the  lyceum  numbers  and  lectures  that 
we  attend.  And  the  *  professors'  are 
expected  to  buy  tickets  for  them  even 
if  they  are  too  busy  to  use  them. 
They  are  also  expected  to  pay  mem- 
bership dues  to  the  athletic  associa- 
tion and  often  to  contribute  to  other 
organizations.  About  all  of  this  seven- 
ty-five dollars  that  is  expended  for 
what  can  really  be  called  'recreation' 
in  the  strictest  sense,  is  the  small  sum 
which  I  spend  for  tennis  balls  and  an 
occasional  pair  of  tennis  shoes  or  some 
repairs  on  the  racquet. 

It  may  be  that  I  have  fallen  from 
grace,  and  on  the  other  hand  it  may  be 
that  I  have  grown  into  a  broader  con- 
ception of  Christianity,  but  in  either 
case,  I  do  not  feel  the  binding  neces- 
sity of  living  by  rule-of-thumb  that 
I  did  when  in  my  adolescent  years. 


There  was  a  time  when  I  was  very  or- 
thodox, and  I  considered  it  very  essen- 
tial to  live  by  the  old  Puritan  stand- 
ards and  faithfully  to  tithe  whatever 
income  I  might  receive.  I  no  longer 
feel  that  we  should  be  bound  by  the  old 
Jewish  customs,  but  I  still  hold  it  as 
true  that  a  man  should  be  sufficiently 
interested  in  the  welfare  of  the  world 
and  the  advancement  of  science  and 
civilization  to  give  approximately  a 
tenth  of  his  income  for  religious  and 
educational  matters.  I  do  not  say  this 
in  the  spirit  of  preaching  to  any  one 
else,  but  merely  to  explain  why  I  give 
a  hundred  dollars  to  such  causes  each 
year.  I  sincerely  believe  that  the  aver- 
age college  professor  gives  this  much, 
though  he  may  not  think  he  does.  To 
be  sure,  many  do  not  give  lavishly 
through  the  churches,  but  they  gener- 
ously support  athletics,  Young  Men's 
Christian  associations,  educational  or- 
ganizations, and  respond  to  a  hundred 
and  one  other  calls  that  arise  in  con- 
nection with  church  or  school.  Every 
college  has  some  kind  of  financial  cam- 
paign on  all  the  time,  regardless  of 
how  rich  it  may  already  be.  This  state- 
ment may  be  overdrawn,  but  the  ex- 
ceptions are  a  decided  minority.  And, 
of  course,  the  'professors'  are  often 
called  upon  to  start  some  special  fund 
with  a  liberal  donation.  These  men, 
in  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  observe 
them,  whether  church  members  or  not, 
are  a  very  liberal  class  and  respond 
readily  and  generously  to  such  calls. 

Altogether,  it  is  nearly  or  quite  im- 
possible for  us  to  get  through  the  year 
with  very  much  money  left  to  lay  by- 
except  the  fifty  dollars  which  goes  for 
life  insurance.  If  we  save  more  than 
a  hundred  dollars,  I  consider  that  we 
do  well.  However,  let  me  say  again 
that  I  am  not  an  economic  specialist, 
nor  do  I  want  to  be.  I  would  rather  be 
an  'A  No.  1 '  teacher  even  if  I  do  have 
a  difficult  time  with  my  finances. 


A  PROFESSOR  IN  A  SMALL  COLLEGE 


615 


So  far  the  discussion  has  all  centred 
around  the  compensation,  and  it  is  as 
well  that  we  turn  our  attention  to  an- 
other phase  of  the  professor's  life  and 
see  what  he  does.  Regularly,  I  teach 
twelve  hours  a  week  —  just  two  hours 
a  day.  That  is,  I  have  four  classes, 
each  of  which  recites  three  times  a 
week.  This  looks  easy  enough  and  the 
man  who  works  twelve  hours  a  day  is 
apt  to  smile  at  the  difficult  toil  of  the 
teacher.  In  this  connection,  I  am  re- 
minded of  what  I  once  heard  a  high- 
school  teacher  say.  Although  it  is  the 
general  impression  that  a  school-teach- 
er works  from  nine  in  the  morning  until 
four  in  the  afternoon,  he  stated  that  he 
must  just  reverse  those  figures  and 
work  from  four  A.M.  until  nine  P.M.  and 
even  work  some  on  Sunday.  And  this 
is  true  not  of  him  alone,  but  in  gen- 
eral of  all  teachers,  from  the  primary 
teacher  to  the  university  president. 

My  father  was  a  farmer  and  he  used 
to  get  up  at  three  o'clock  and  be  out 
in  the  field  ploughing  while  the  stars 
were  yet  shining.  How  easy  would  he 
consider  my  life  if  he  were  still  alive 
and  knew  that  I  do  not  get  up  some- 
times until  eight  o'clock!  But  it  must 
also  be  remembered  that  some  nights 
I  do  not  go  to  bed  until  about  the 
time  that  he  got  up.  Many  a  night  have 
I  studied  until  after  two  o'clock  and 
then  reluctantly  gone  to  bed,  thinking 
how  much  there  was  to  do  and  how 
little  I  had  succeeded  in  doing. 

In  common  with  most  teachers  in 
the  small  schools,  I  have  several  sub- 
jects to  teach  and  this  makes  my  work 
much  harder.  My  four  classes  are  in 
three  subjects,  psychology,  education 
and  sociology;  and  even  logic  and  eth- 
ics are  incorporated  in  the  year's  work 
in  psychology.  Could  I  teach  only  one 
of  these,  or  even  two  of  them,  I  could 
do  the  work  well  and  still  feel  no  special 


hardship,  but  as  it  is,  I  must  be  reading 
in  three  different  fields  all  the  time. 
There  are  a  great  many  people  who 
think  that  a  teacher  should  know  what 
is  in  his  textbooks  and  teach  it,  and 
that,  after  having  taught  a  year  or 
two  and  learned  his  books  well,  he  has 
nothing  to  do.  This  is,  of  course,  a 
very  erroneous  idea,  as  the  textbook 
bears  about  the  same  relation  to  the 
field  which  the  teacher  must  cover  as 
the  preacher's  text  does  to  the  sermon. 
In  fact,  I  have  found  that  I  can  always 
teach  a  new  book  better  and  with  more 
ease  than  one  with  which  I  am  already 
over-familiar,  and  for  that  reason  I 
change  texts  as  often  as  possible.  Dur- 
ing the  course  of  the  year,  I  read  — 
and  I  believe  digest  —  between  twenty 
and  thirty  thousand  pages  of  material 
on  the  subjects  which  I  teach.  Most  of 
this  is  from  journals,  and  nearly  all  is 
from  the  most  recent  publications.  Of 
course,  I  could  neglect  this  reading  if  I 
wanted  to,  but  it  would  be  simply  lying 
down  on  my  job,  as  we  say,  for  I  must 
do  it  if  I  would  keep  up  and  do  the  best 
kind  of  teaching.  If  I  were  teaching 
only  one  or  two  subjects,  this  reading 
would  be  cut  in  half  and  I  should  have 
time  for  a  little  drama,  poetry,  and 
general  literature. 

Because  the  professor  enjoys  this 
reading,  there  is  a  general  impression 
that  it  is  not  work;  and  it  is  difficult, 
anyway,  for  the  layman  to  think  of 
reading  as  really  being  work.  But  I 
doubt  if  the  professor  enjoys  his  read' 
ing  any  more  than  others  who  have 
found  their  proper  sphere  enjoy  their 
particular  kind  of  work.  I  used  to  en- 
joy ploughing  and  cutting  corn  and 
pitching  wheat  in  much  the  same  way 
that  I  now  enjoy  the  feast  of  new  sci- 
entific information  which  I  get  from 
some  well-written  clear-cut  book.  I 
was  raised  on  a  farm,  and  when  I  was 
a  husky  youngster,  —  only  a  few  years 
ago,  —  I  counted  it  a  delight  to  get  out 


616 


A  PROFESSOR  IN  A  SMALL  COLLEGE 


into  the  wheat-field,  and  it  was  glorious 
to  pitch  the  heavy  bundles  and  feel  my- 
self completely  master  of  the  situation. 
Even  since  I  have  been  in  school  work, 
I  have  spent  one  summer  working  at 
hard  manual  labor  for  its  recuperating 
effect.  It  had  been  a  very  strenuous 
year  and  I  was  greatly  run  down  phys- 
ically. I  worked  that  summer  in  a  saw- 
mill, carrying  heavy  lumber  for  ten 
hours  each  day  —  and  I  gained  fifteen 
pounds.  I  remember  one  man  who  was 
cruelly  hard  worked  who  for  a  few  min- 
utes every  afternoon  would  snatch  an 
opportunity  to  lie  in  a  hammock  and 
rest;  but  even  as  he  rested,  every  fibre 
of  his  nervous  system  calling  for  re- 
lease from  the  constant  strain,  he 
would  have  his  books  with  him  and  put 
in  the  time  studying.  It  was  not  a  very 
satisfactory  rest,  but  it  was  the  best  he 
could  get.  Just  at  that  time  of  day 
many  people  would  be  going  by  from 
their  work  and  they  would  look  up  to 
where  he  was  lying  and  call  out,  'Tak- 
ing it  easy,  are  you?'  I  have  often 
thought  that  this  is  a  good  picture  of 
the  professor  and  the  attitude  of  the 
public  toward  him. 

But  the  work  of  the  teacher  does  not 
consist  alone  in  reading  and  recitations. 
I  have  found  that  I  can  advantageous- 
ly use  a  list  of  review  questions  on  each 
book  covered  in  my  courses.  So,  when 
we  finish  a  book,  I  write  out  from  one 
hundred  to  three  hundred  questions 
covering  the  main  points  and  make 
carbon  copies  for  the  different  members 
of  the  class.  And  as  we  use  twelve  or 
fifteen  different  textbooks  during  the 
year,  this  in  itself  is  not  a  small  job. 
Besides  these  books  there  are  many 
others  which  we  use  as  parallels,  and  I 
like  to  write  out  a  few  questions  about 
each  of  these.  Of  course  there  is  no- 
thing that  compels  me  to  do  this  work, 
but  I  could  not  neglect  it  and  keep  a 
good  conscience  —  just  at  present  I 
could  not,  though  I  may  use  some  other 


system  later.  It  is  here  that  I  must 
occasionally  employ  some  help  in  typ- 
ing, as  I  said  in  the  discussion  of  extra 
expenditures. 

I  stated  above  that  I  teach  twelve 
hours  a  week;  but  that  is  the  ideal 
rather  than  the  actual.  Just  at  present 
I  am  teaching  an  extra  class,  which  had 
to  be  handled  by  some  one  and  there 
was  no  one  else  to  take  it,  and  that  adds 
another  three  hours  a  week  and  an- 
other subject  in  which  to  read.  And 
the  teacher  must  always  hold  extra 
classes  for  those  who  have  been  out  on 
account  of  sickness  or  for  some  other 
reason.  It  is  hardly  worth  mentioning 
that  I  teach  a  Sunday-school  class  and 
a  Y.M.C.A.  Bible  class,  and  do  a  few 
things  like  that.  Occasionally,  too,  I 
go  to  neighboring  schools  and  teachers' 
institutes  and  make  talks  or,  as  they 
call  it,  lecture.  This  is  tacitly  under- 
stood to  be  a  part  of  my  regular  work 
as  it  advertises  the  college.  Really,  I 
can  hardly  consider  this  as  work,  for 
the  trips  are  such  a  change  and  such  a 
break  in  the  monotony  of  the  regular 
programme  that  they  furnish  an  agree- 
able pleasure. 

One  of  the  biggest  parts  of  my  work 
—  and  I  wish  it  were  bigger  —  is  the 
personal  work.  I  can  usually  find  that 
each  of  my  students  is  more  or  less  in- 
terested along  some  line  that  is  includ- 
ed in  my  work,  and  I  try  to  guide  him 
to  some  literature  on  the  subject  and 
keep  up  his  interest,  and  this  takes  no 
little  portion  of  my  time  when  there 
are  forty  or  fifty  students,  each  reading 
on  a  different  subject.  And  what  a 
pleasure  it  is  to  have  some  of  the  fel- 
lows drop  in  occasionally  and  ask  me 
about  an  oration  or  a  debate,  or  even  a 
sermon.  I  have  often  thought  that  I 
could  give  a  student  as  much  education 
in  an  hour  or  two  of  personal  conversa- 
tion of  this  kind  as  I  could  in  a  whole 
term  of  classroom  work.  But  this, 
along  with  everything  else,  means  work 


A  PROFESSOR  IN  A  SMALL  COLLEGE 


617 


and  time,  and  the  outcome  of  it  all  is 
that  the  life  of  the  professor  is  a  con- 
stant strain,  with  no  let  up.  Every  day 
in  the  week,  not  excepting  Sunday,  he 
must  be  at  his  best,  questioning,  ex- 
plaining, watching,  drawing  out;  and 
when  he  is  out  of  the  class,  he  must  be 
planning  and  studying  lest  he  fall  be- 
hind or  fail  in  his  mission. 


VI 

Does  the  teacher  have  any  right  to 
ask  for  better  pay  or  easier  conditions? 
To  answer  this  question,  we  should 
look  a  little  further  into  his  personal 
life.  A  few  months  ago,  I  awoke  one 
morning  with  an  acute  case  of  rheuma- 
tism which  was  so  painful  that  I  could 
not  get  out  of  bed.  I  treated  this  as 
something  of  a  joke  and  was  at  my 
work  again  in  a  day  or  two,  but  this 
rheumatism  has  never  completely  left 
me.  I  do  not  anticipate  any  great 
amount  of  trouble  with  it  and  it  ought 
to  leave  during  the  summer,  but  why 
has  it  clung  so  long,  and  why  does  it  not 
go  away  now?  I  am  persuaded  that  my 
naturally  vigorous  system  would  have 
handled  that  little  touch  of  rheuma- 
tism in  a  few  days  if  it  were  not  for  the 
fact  that  I  have  practically  no  reserve 
store  of  energy  upon  which  to  draw. 
I  have  realized  ever  since  this  little 
attack  that  I  have  been  overworking 
and  am  perilously  near  the  breaking 
point. 

Now,  just  suppose  that  this  rheu- 
matism did  not  leave,  but  persisted  in 
growing  worse  ?  Suppose  the  doctor  for- 
bade me  to  teach  for  a  year  and  or- 
dered me  to  go  to  some  hot  springs  for 
a  few  months?  Suppose,  suppose  — 
sometimes  I  think  of  my  life  insurance 
and  wish  it  were  ten  times  as  much. 
What  would  become  of  my  wife  and 
baby  if  anything  should  happen  to  me? 
What  should  we  do  if  I  did  have  to  quit 
teaching  for  a  year?  In  the  midst  of 


such  thinking,  the  sweat  has  a  tend- 
ency to  start  out,  and  such  situations 
are  not  good  when  one  is  not  yet  thirty. 

And  this  is  not  an  isolated  case,  for 
the  teacher  must  constantly  stand  un- 
der the  menacing  danger  of  a  break — a 
sword  of  Damocles.  But  it  is  compara- 
tively rare  for  a  teacher  to  succumb  to 
a  complete  break-down,  —  compara- 
tively rare,  I  say,  for  the  actual  number 
of  those  who  have  suffered  in  this  way 
is  considerable.  Much  more  often  he 
settles  down  instead  of  breaking  down, 
and,  at  times,  I  am  inclined  to  think 
this  the  more  tragic  of  the  two.  He 
loses  the  freshness  of  delight  when  he 
turns  to  read  an  especially  worthy  ar- 
ticle along  his  line,  and  he  finally  grows 
to  neglect  his  reading  almost  entirely; 
he  learns  a  few  books  well  and  does  not 
have  to  study;  he  drops  behind;  he 
gets  into  a  rut;  and,  though  he  is  still 
successful  in  a  way,  his  life  becomes 
humdrum  to  him  and  his  work  dis- 
tasteful to  his  students.  Society  would 
be  benefited  if  the  teacher  could  be 
shielded  from  this  kind  of  settling  down 
as  well  as  from  breaking  down. 

It  must  also  be  borne  in  mind  that 
the  successful  teacher  could  make  more 
money  at  something  else  and  make  it 
with  less  effort.  Twice  have  I  stood  at 
the  threshold  of  remunerative  careers 
which  were  seeking  me  rather  than  I 
seeking  them;  once,  indeed,  I  was  urged 
to  reply  by  long-distance  telephone  ac- 
cepting a  position  at  least  twice  as  lu- 
crative as  the  teaching  position  which 
I  held.  And  these  opportunities  come 
to  most  of  the  teachers.  Some  occa- 
sionally accept  them,  and  they  usually 
advise  the  rest  of  us  to  quit  teaching  as 
soon  as  possible.  Just  a  few  months 
ago,  a  professor  of  my  acquaintance, 
who  had  been  trying  to  pay  off  a  little 
debt  for  about  twenty-five  years,  at 
last  gave  it  up  and  quit  teaching  for  a 
position  which  gave  him  better  pay. 

The  teacher  needs  recreation  as  well 


618 


A  PROFESSOR  IN  A  SMALL  COLLEGE 


as  rest.  I  am  a  natural  hunter,  camper, 
and  fisherman,  and  before  I  was  a  'pro- 
fessor '  I  spent  a  few  summers  among 
the  beauties  of  the  Rockies.  What 
would  it  not  mean  to  me  —  and  to  my 
classes  —  if  I  could  spend  the  summer 
in  these  mountains?  I  would  come 
home  as  brown  as  a  bear  and  about  as 
hairy,  and  my  whole  being  would  be 
strung  and  thrilling  with  life  and  ready 
to  pounce  upon  the  tasks  of  the  coming 
year  with  all  the  vigor  of  a  wild  thing 
out  of  the  woods.  I  know  what  a  differ- 
ence it  would  make,  for  the  last  time  I 
was  there  I  was  ten  pounds  heavier 
than  I  have  been  since.  But  such  a 
thing  is  out  of  the  question.  Com- 
mencement day  is  on  Tuesday  and  the 
next  day,  Wednesday,  I  begin  work  in 
the  summer  school.  There  are  about 
three  weeks  during  the  late  summer 
which  I  have  left  for  rest  and  recrea- 
tion. This  is  largely  spent  in  catching 
up  with  the  correspondence  that  has 
been  gradually  falling  behind  through- 
out the  year,  and  in  reading  and  plan- 
ning for  the  coming  year's  work.  I  usu- 
ally spend  a  few  days  visiting  my  own 
and  my  wife's  people,  but  our  trip  is  so 
hurried  that  it  is  apt  to  tire  us  more 
than  it  rests  us. 

I  play  a  little  tennis  occasionally 
and  really  enjoy  it,  but  my  private 
honest  testimony  must  be  that  it  is 
a  poor  substitute  for  riding  a  good 
horse  over  forty  miles  of  plateau  or 
casting  a  trout-fly  in  foaming  moun- 
tain waters.  I  saw  a  statement  once  to 
the  effect  that  it  was  hard  to  inflict 
lawn-tennis  habits  on  a  football  soul, 
and  I  have  a  football  soul  in  all  I  try  to 
do;  and  I  believe  that  if  I  cannot  get 
a  physical  expression  of  this  occasion- 
ally I  cannot  long  sustain  a  football 
attitude  toward  my  work.  My  wife 
and  I  have  been  planning  a  delightful 
trip  to  the  Panama  Exposition  at  San 
Francisco;  I  say  we  have  been,  for 
even  now,  eighteen  months  before  the 


event,  we  realize  that  it  is  utterly  be- 
yond the  possible. 

Of  course  the  conditions  will  prob- 
ablv  become  somewhat  better  as  time 

t, 

goes  on.  If  we  stay  in  one  place  long 
enough,  the  household  expenses  will 
become  smaller,  some  of  the  other 
items  of  expense  may  be  lowered,  we 
may  learn  how  to  manage  better,  and 
we  may  even  get  a  little  better  salary. 
Perhaps  a  more  honest  way  to  put  it 
would  be  to  say  that  I  would  settle 
down  a  bit  and  have  some  time  and 
money  for  other  things  besides  my 
work.  I  may  even  get  to  the  place 
where  I  can  spare  time  to  keep  chick- 
ens or  a  cow,  and  that  would  help  im- 
mensely; but  I  am  so  constituted  that 
chickens  or  a  cow  would  certainly  crip- 
ple my  work. 

VII 

In  all  this,  I  have  taken  for  granted 
that  I  shall  get  no  more  schooling;  but 
this  is  an  unbearable  thought  to  me, 
for  I  am  hungry,  yes,  craving,  for  the 
research  laboratory.  The  university 
has  even  a  greater  drawing  power  than 
the  smell  of  damp  sage-brush  and  rab- 
bit-weed on  the  mountain  plains.  I 
stated  in  the  beginning  that  I  am  not 
a  failure,  and  I  know  I  would  'make 
good '  in  advanced  work  if  I  only  had 
the  chance.  I  know  from  the  letters 
of  the  president  (and  I  have  been  sur- 
prised at  their  friendliness  and  person- 
al tone)  that  there  is  a  place  for  me 
there  and  a  fellowship  for  me  if  I  want 
to  ask  for  it.  But  a  fellowship  pays 
only  a  fraction  of  the  expenses,  and  even 
if  no  sickness  comes  to  us,  no  disaster 
happens,  and  we  indulge  in  no  trips 
or  recreations,  it  will  take  us  about 
five  years  to  save  enough  to  justify  my 
reentering  the  university.  But  by  then 
I  would  have  fallen  far  behind  the 
times,  and  very  probably  would  have 
settled  down  to  a  more  or  less  listless 
life.  And  besides,  what  may  not  hap- 


A  PROFESSOR  IN  A  SMALL  COLLEGE 


619 


pen  in  that  time  to  sweep  away  all  the 
money  that  I  might  save,  a  few  dollars 
at  a  time?  And  what  future  would  there 
be  for  me  if  I  did  return?  I  might  se- 
cure a  bigger  position  after  I  had  taken 
a  doctor's  degree,  but  the  men  higher 
up  tell  us  that  with  the  bigger  salaries 
there  go  greater  expenses,  and  that 
there  is  no  better  chance  to  save  money 
there  than  here.  This  being  the  case, 
can  I  dare  to  go  in  debt  for  some  more 
schooling? 

It  was  with  all  these  thoughts  in 
mind  that  I  appealed  frankly  to  the 
university  president  and  asked  him 
what  to  do.  And  the  big-souled  man 
realized  my  longings  and  desires  and 
yet  could  not  advise  me  to  borrow  the 
money  to  return.  'You  know  how  we 
all  want  you  here,'  he  said,  'and  it  is 
hard  to  give  an  impartial  reply.'  But 
he  went  on  to  tell  me  that  many  who 
had  gone  on  and  finished  their  work  did 
not  have  as  good  a  place  as  I,  and  said 
that  he  did  not  believe  I  would  ever 
again  find  a  place  where,  all  things 
considered,  I  could  do  as  much  good 
and  do  it  with  as  much  pleasure  to  my- 
self. 

Many  of  these  details  will  seem  very 
crude,  even  to  other  teachers  in  small 
colleges,  and  I  suppose  there  are  no 
others  who  meet  their  problems  in  ex- 
actly the  same  way  that  I  do;  but  they 
all  have  struggles,  and  each  has  his  own 
individual  way  of  waging  the  warfare. 
Many  keep  cows  and  sell  milk,  hun- 
dreds keep  chickens,  and  some  even 
raise  their  own  hogs,  and  in  this  way 
secure  their  meat.  There  are  some 
fortunate  professors  who  have  other 
sources  of  income  aside  from  their  sal- 
ary, money  perhaps  which  they  have 
inherited  or  married,  and  some  of  these 
get  along  very  well  and  are  able  to  do 
splendid  work.  I  know  one  man  who 
takes  orders  for  clothing  and  advertises 
in  the  college  paper;  some  lecture  in 


institutes  and  chautauquas,  some  sell 
books  through  the  summer  and  make 
more  at  it  than  they  do  by  their  teach- 
ing, and  many  a  professor's  wife  keeps 
lodgers  and  some  even  keep  boarders. 
As  a  rule  they  say  very  little  about  all 
this,  but  go  quietly  ahead  with  their 
work  and  fight  their  battles, out  in 
silence. 

As  I  recall  the  ones  I  have  intimate- 
ly known,  I  realize  how  very  true  it 
is  that  each  has  had  his  struggles.  I 
know  one  especially  capable  professor 
who  for  twenty  years  has  been  plan- 
ning and  looking  forward  to  a  whole 
year  at  Harvard.  Occasionally  he 
spends  a  summer  in  research  work,  but 
his  year  at  Harvard  seems  as  far  off  as 
ever.  His  hair  is  gray  and  is  rapidly 
turning  white,  but  he  laughs  heartily 
and  says  he  is  still  planning  his  full  year 
of  university  work  and  expects  to  have 
it  before  he  dies. 

Professors  are  accused  of  being  vis- 
ionary and  impractical.  It  would  take 
another  paper  the  length  of  this  to  han- 
dle this  question,  but  it  will  not  be  out 
of  place  here  to  say  that  in  a  certain 
sense,  they  are  visionary;  but  the  vis- 
ions they  cherish  are  being  certainly 
and  surely  realized  and  made  manifest 
to  the  world.  If  they  did  not  possess 
vision  they  would  never  stay  in  their 
chosen  profession,  but  would  seek  more 
lucrative  fields  elsewhere.  Also,  if  they 
did  not  possess  vision  the  world  would 
stagnate,  and  science  and  civilization 
would  remain  at  a  standstill  or  revert 
to  primitive  conditions.  Knowing 
better  than  any  others  that  *  Though 
the  mills  of  the  gods  grind  slowly,  yet 
they  grind  exceedingly  small,'  they  al- 
most unconsciously  take  for  their  mot- 
to 'Let  there  be  light,'  and  quietly  and 
determinedly  go  on  with  their  work. 
For  make  light  of  the  statement  as  we 
will,  it  is  still  true  that  there  are  some 
things  better  and  greater  than  money. 


THE  READING  OF  BOOKS  NOWADAYS 


BY    GEORGE   P.  BRETT 


LOOKING  backward  to  the  days  of 
my  youth  in  the  late  sixties  and  early 
seventies,  however  my  memory  may  be 
dimmed  by  the  mists  of  the  interven- 
ing years,  I  seem  to  recall  those  days  as 
a  very  earnest  time  in  comparison  with 
the  present.  The  automobile,  making 
it  possible  to  go  quickly  to  distant  pla- 
ces, on  pleasure  bent,  and  thus  to  while 
away  many  precious  hours,  had  not  yet 
come,  even  though  Mother  Shipton's 
prophecy,  alleged  to  have  been  made 
in  1448,  —  *  Carriages  without  horses 
shall  go,' —  had  foretold  its  advent. 
*  Canned  music,'  as  it  has  been  called  in 
the  apt  and  hurried  modern  slang,  was 
unthought  of,  and  the  motion  picture, 
with  its  new,  amusing,  and  interesting 
ways  of  wasting  time,  had  not  yet  oc- 
curred, even  as  a  possibility,  to  inven- 
tive minds. 

Of  course  we  had  some  amusements. 
Baseball  was  a  real  game  instead  of  a 
business.  We  played  croquet,  which 
I  remember  as  a  most  uninteresting 
game.  We  shot,  usually  very  badly,  at 
archery,  and  the  young  people  occa- 
sionally went  to  dances,  but  the  delir- 
ium of  the  tango  and  the  maxixe  was, 
of  course,  unknown  at  our  staid  parties, 
where  due  decorum  usually  reigned. 
Also,  on  great  occasions  we  visited  the 
theatre,  now  in  danger  of  being  super- 
seded, I  am  told,  by  the  *  movies '  of  the 
better  class;  but  generally,  —  after  the 
children's  pantomime  period,  which 
was  a  sort  of  forerunner  of  the  modern 
circus  and  includec}  jnany  of  its  trick 

620 


performances,  —  in  order  to  see  Shake- 
spearean reproductions,  or  some  play 
believed  to  be  'improving'  or  educa- 
tional in  its  tendencies. 

So  we  young  people  lived  in  those 
days,  as  I  recollect  it,  in  a  vast  serious- 
ness. Our  first  years  at  school  were  not 
made  easy  and  joyous  to  us  by  the 
modern  methods  of  the  kindergarten 
and  other  similar  systems  of  acquir- 
ing knowledge  without  effort,  and  we 
thereby  escaped  the  effects  of  the  fal- 
lacy that  learning  and  education  can 
be  attained  without  pains  and  concen- 
tration of  the  mind.  We  were  constant- 
ly drilled  at  school  in  mental  arithme- 
tic and  other  studies  of  a  kind  not  much 
relished,  I  am  told,  by  the  youth  of 
to-day  and  unfashionable  with  modern 
educators  of  young  children;  and  at 
home  we  were  urged,  in  season  and  out, 
as  we  then  thought,  to  improve  our 
minds,  to  contemplate  serious  things, 
and  especially  and  most  frequently,  to 
read  good  books,  particularly  those 
books  which  required  effort  for  their 
understanding  and  mastery. 

In  the  period  after  I  left  school  to 
enter  business,  the  young  people  with 
whom  I  most  associated  were  reading 
such  books  as  Darwin's  Origin  of  Spe- 
cies, Proctor's  Other  Worlds  than  Ours, 
Green's  Short  History  of  England,  and 
many  others  of  a  similar  character,  and 
we  discussed  these  among  ourselves, 
and  bought  them,  or  had  them  given  to 
us  for  our  libraries  —  which  it  was  the 
fashion  of  the  time  to  encourage  young 
people  to  accumulate.  I  remember 
having  been  particularly  proud  when  I 


THE  READING  OF  BOOKS   NOWADAYS 


621 


had  acquired  a  score  of  such  books,  all 
of  which  I  knew  intimately  by  constant 
re-reading;  and  I  can  well  say  with  an 
old  author  whose  identity  is  lost  in 
anonymity,  *I  have  ever  gained  the 
most  profit,  and  the  most  pleasure  also, 
from  the  books  which  have  made  me 
think  the  most;  and,  when  the  difficul- 
ties have  once  been  overcome,  these  are 
the  books  which  have  struck  the  deep- 
est root,  not  only  in  my  memory  and 
understanding,  but  likewise  in  my  af- 
fections, ' 

II 

That  this  was  not  an  experience  con- 
fined to  any  particular  group  of  young 
people  is  plain,  I  think,  when  the  very 
large  sales  and  wide  distribution  of 
books  of  a  serious,  or  apparently  seri- 
ous, appeal  at  about  that  time  is  con- 
sidered. 

Beginning  about  the  middle  of  the 
last  century  we  find  works  on  popular 
science,  such  as  Hugh  Miller's  Foot- 
prints of  the  Creator  and  The  Testimony 
of  the  Rocks,  in  great  demand;  these 
were  to  be  found  in  every  household, 
as  was  also  Martin  Tupper's  Proverb- 
ial Philosophy,  which  had  an  extraor- 
dinarily wide  sale,  over  five  hundred 
thousand  copies  having  been  sold  in 
the  United  States  alone.  Works  on 
philosophy  and  religion  were  also  in 
vogue,  among  them  Christianity  the 
Logic  of  Creation,  by  Henry  James  the 
father,  which  was  widely  read. 

There  was  a  very  large  demand,  a 
little  later  on,  for  works  of  real  scientific 
interest  and  value,  and  often  the  sup- 
ply of  books  by  Darwin,  Spencer,  Hux- 
ley, Tyndall,  and  kindred  writers,  was 
insufficient  to  meet  the  call  for  them, 
both  at  the  libraries  and  in  the  book- 
stores. In  this  same  period,  too,  there 
was  a  considerable  interest  in  the 
philosophy  of  Carlyle,  Emerson,  and 
Holmes,  and  the  rationalism  of  Lecky. 
In  poetry,  the  religio-philosophical 


verse  of  Tennyson,  Longfellow,  Whit- 
tier,  and  Browning,  the  pagan  pessim- 
ism of  Swinburne  and  the  naturalism  of 
Whitman  were  in  demand.  Somewhat 
after  this  period  I  remember  an  extra- 
ordinary interest  on  the  part  of  the 
reading  public  in  Kidd's  Social  Evolu- 
tion and  Henry  Drummond's  Natural 
Law  in  the  Spiritual  World,  of  both  of 
which  more  than  one  hundred  thousand 
copies  were  sold  within  a  few  months 
of  publication.  Other  well-known  and 
widely  circulated  works  of  this  time 
were  John  Fiske's  Idea  of  God  and 
Cosmic  Evolution,  Marx's  Capital,  and 
Henry  George's  Progress  and  Poverty. 
In  our  great  and  complex  modern 
communities  the  observations  of  a  sin- 
gle individual  can  be  of  very  little 
value,  owing  to  the  limited  possibilities 
of  observing  any  large  percentage  of 
our  multitudinous  population  with  its 
many  varying  characteristics;  but  it 
seems  to  be  true,  in  general,  that  the 
observer,  at  any  rate  in  our  great  cities, 
sees  among  the  young  people  of  to-day, 
in  whatever  class  his  observations  ex- 
tend, almost  unlimited  opportunities 
for  amusement  and  pastime.  Among 
the  young  people  with  whom  I  am  most 
familiar,  tennis  and  golf,  swimming  and 
sailing,  automobiling  and  attending 
the  professional,  or  semi-professional, 
games  and  matches,  in  what  many  of 
them  call  'the  good  old  summertime,' 
the  tango  and  maxixe,  teas  and  bridge, 
the  opera  and  theatre  (in  winter),  seem 
so  to  fill  their  time  that  there  is  little 
left  for  serious  pursuits.  Even  nec- 
essary duties  and  the  care  of  health 
apparently  get  slight  attention  in  the 
rush  for  exciting  amusements.  Educa- 
tion, by  some  still  considered  desirable, 
is  acquired  with  much  aid,  ky  special 
tutoring,  which  has  become  a  regular 
game  of  preparation  for  passing  exam- 
inations and  which  usually  imparts  no 
knowledge  whatever  of  the  subject  of 
study  beyond  that  which  is  necessary 


622 


THE  READING  OF  BOOKS  NOWADAYS 


to  pass,  by  rote,  the  usual  examination 
paper. 

In  other  classes  of  the  community 
I  am  told  that  the  league  baseball 
games,  and  the  cheap  dance-halls,  and 
the '  Ten,  twent,  thirt '  movies,  form  the 
amusement  and  almost  the  sole  topics 
of  conversation. 

If  this  indictment  is  true  of  any  large 
proportion  of  our  young  people  of  to- 
day,—  and  for  the  reasons  already 
stated  it  may  do  injustice  to  our  serious- 
minded  young  people  who,  undoubted- 
ly, are  to  be  found  in  large  numbers  in 
all  classes  of  our  communities, — they 
need  not  necessarily  be  too  severely 
censured.  Golf  and  tennis  are  certain- 
ly health-  and  joy-giving  employments 
which  may  be  infinitely  preferable  to  a 
too  serious  study  of  books,  even  though, 
as  Clarendon  truly  says,  *  He  who  loves 
not  books  before  he  comes  to  thirty 
years  of  age,  will  hardly  love  them 
enough  afterward  to  understand  them.' 
And  the  modern  dance  craze,  to  which 
I  have  referred,  has  affected  not  only 
the  younger  people  but  many  of  their 
elders  also.  One  circle  of  about  fifty 
couples,  whose  average  age  was  fifty- 
five,  met  twice  each  week  during  the 
past  winter  in  one  of  our  large  cities,  to 
learn  the  modern  dances.  One  of  the 
members  of  this  class,  aged  sixty-five, 
recently  explained  to  me  his  want  of 
knowledge  of  a  serious  work  which  had 
been  under  discussion,  and  his  failure 
to  keep  abreast  of  the  current  thought 
of  the  time,  by  saying  that  he  danced 
twice  a  week  until  three  A.M.  and  was 
too  tired  to  read  in  the  remaining  time 
that  he  could  spare  from  the  labors  of 
his  profession. 

Yet  this  tendency  of  the  times  for 
mere  amusement,  which  my  observa- 
tion seems  to  show  as  prevailing  among 
the  younger  element  to-day,  must  in- 
evitably be  the  result  of  the  greatly 
increased  opportunities  for  excitement 
and  pastime  in  modern  life,  which  fos- 


ter what  has  been  aptly  termed  the 
butterfly  habit  of  mind.  This  is  born 
in  early  years  of  the  'play  method' 
of  teaching  in  school,  and  strength- 
ened by  the  habits  of  a  society  which 
votes  continued  serious  conversation 
a  bore.  That  this  tendency  is  shown 
through  all  classes  and  ages  in  the  com- 
munity may  be  gathered  by  consulting 
the  reports  of  books  taken  from  our 
principal  public  libraries;  the  Newark 
Public  Library,  probably  the  most  re- 
presentative in  the  New  York  metro- 
politan district,  in  a  recent  year  show- 
ing that  fiction,  which  led  by  far  all 
other  classes  of  literature,  was  circu- 
lated to  the  number  of  117,394  vol- 
umes, a  larger  figure  than  that  record- 
ing the  circulation  of  all  other  classes 
of  books. 

If  we  could  obtain  the  figures  from 
the  circulating  libraries  in  our  cities, 
the  preponderance  of  the  reading  of 
fiction  would  be  much  more  manifest; 
the  greater  part  of  these  circulating  li- 
braries, which  are  now  to  be  found  in 
great  numbers  in  all  our  large  cities,  ex- 
isting only  for  the  purpose  of  circulating 
current  novels,  often  of  the  *  six-best- 
seller '  type.  The  librarians  now  tell  us 
that  there  is  a  very  considerable  falling 
off  in  circulation  of  all  classes  of  books 
at  present,  and  they  attribute  this  to 
the  counter-attraction  of  the  *  mo  vies.' 


in 

Farmers  are  not  the  only  class  in  the 
community  prone  to  grumble  at  exist- 
ing conditions.  A  few  days  ago,  at  one 
of  the  clubs  in  New  York,  much  affect- 
ed by  authors  and  consequently  also 
greatly  frequented  by  publishers,  a 
well-known  member  of  the  latter  pro- 
fession was  heard  to  complain  that  the 
selling  of  books  to  the  public  had  been 
curtailed  in  turn  by  the  multiplication 
of  cheap  magazines,  by  the  increasing 
use  of  the  automobile,  by  the  invention 


THE  READING  OF  BOOKS  NOWADAYS 


623 


of  the  Victrola  and  other  mechanical 
producers  of  music,  by  the  invention  of 
the  motion-picture  film,  and,  last  but 
not  least,  by  the  new  fashion  of  dances 
which  absorbed,  he  said,  the  attention 
and  time  of  young  and  old  alike.  I  was 
reminded  of  the  saying  of  an  old-time 
New  Englander  that  'Life  was  just  one 
durn  thing  after  another.5  It  was  the 
favorite  remark  of  one  of  the  principal 
printers  at  Cambridge,  who  used  to  set 
up  and  print  most  of  the  important 
books  at  the  time  when  that  part  of 
New  England  held,  by  undisputed 
right,  the  literary  leadership  of  the 
country,  and  who,  undoubtedly,  had 
troubles  of  his  own  in  dealing  with  the 
authors  of  his  time. 

Whether  the  reasons  given  by  my 
brother  publisher  for  the  falling  off  of 
interest  on  the  part  of  the  public  in  the 
publication  of  books  were  well  and 
properly  ascribed,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  say.  Many  other  causes  are  doubt- 
less contributory  to  a  fact  which  is  only 
too  patent  to  all  who  are  engaged  in  the 
publishing  and  selling  of  books.  Even 
at  the  public  libraries  throughout  the 
country,  where  books,  of  course,  cost 
the  readers  nothing,  the  circulation  of 
books  is,  as  I  have  said,  steadily  falling 
off. 

Hardly  as  this  state  of  things  has 
borne  on  the  publishers  themselves,  — 
more  than  one  of  the  large,  honored, 
and  long-established  houses  of  twenty 
years  or  so  having  been  brought  to  the 
verge  of  bankruptcy  by  the  changed 
conditions  of  the  trade  to  which  they 
have  been  unable  to  adjust  themselves, 

-  it  has  borne  with  even  greater  hard- 
ship on  the  authors.  Especially  has  it 
been  disastrous  to  authors  of  the  more 
serious  books  of  recent  literature,  whose 
earnings  are  often  insufficient  to  pay 
for  the  typewriting  of  their  manu- 
scripts. This  fact  has  become  so  wide- 
ly known  as  to  discourage  the  produc- 
tion of  works  of  interest  and  value  to 


the  community,  so  that  no  surprise  is 
expressed  when  our  Ambassador  to 
Great  Britain,  himself  formerly  an  au- 
thor, and  more  recently  a  member  of 
a  well-known  publishing  firm,  is  re- 
ported recently  to  have  advised  writ- 
ers *  against  such  a  precarious  career.' 
*  Gambling,'  he  is  said  to  have  added, '  is 
more  likely  to  yield  a  steady  income.' 

Works  of  scientific  interest  similar  to 
those  to  which  I  referred  in  the  earlier 
part  of  this  article  have  very  few  ex- 
amples in  the  literature  of  the  day,  and 
even  the  best  of  the  volumes  of  this 
sort  which  now  appear,  find  apparently 
few  readers.  A  recent  example  which 
at  once  occurs  to  me  is  Sollas's  Ancient 
Hunters,  a  book  of  great  value  and 
almost  fascinating  interest,  of  which  a 
large  edition  was  sold,  almost  at  once, 
in  London.  It  has  been  distributed 
here  in  the  number  of  less  than  two 
hundred  copies,  and  Professor  Scott's 
monumental  work  on  American  Mam- 
mals has  had  almost  as  few  readers. 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  which  has  had 
such  an  honored  career  in  the  encour- 
agement and  production  of  good  liter- 
ature, and  the  ^editors  of  which  seem 
to  find  genuine  satisfaction  in  making 
good  books  known  to  its  readers,  pub- 
lished not  long  ago  an  article  on  the 
works  of  H.  Fielding-Hall,  which  re- 
ferred especially  to  his  The  Soul  of  a 
People.  I  read  the  paper  with  much 
interest,  this  work  having  long  been 
favorite  reading  of  my  own.  To  my 
surprise  I  found,  on  making  inquiry  a 
few  days  ago,  that  the  sale  of  the  book 
had  been  limited  to  a  few,  a  very  few, 
hundred  copies. 

Why  is  it  that  the  American  people, 
rich  beyond  the  peoples  of  other  na- 
tions, with  boundless  facilities  for  edu- 
cation offered  at  a  far  less  cost  than  in 
most  other  countries,  fail  to  encourage 
by  purchase  and  use  the  best  works  of 
our  modern  writers?  Why  is  it  that 
works  such  as  those  mentioned  above 


624 


THE  READING  OF  BOOKS   NOWADAYS 


can  find  only  a  few  hundred  purchasers 
in  a  wealthy  and  well-educated  com- 
munity of  one  hundred  million  souls? 
Why  is  it  that  works  of  serious  and 
universal  interest  such  as  Thayer's 
Life  and  Times  of  Cavour  and  Theo- 
dore Roosevelt's  Autobiography,  to 
name  no  others,  should  fail  to  find  a 
sale  large  enough  in  numbers  to  sup- 
ply each  public  library  in  the  country 
with  even  a  single  copy? 

We  cannot,  in  these  cases,  fix  the  re- 
sponsibility on  an  excessive  price  for 
the  books,  because  in  several  of  the  in- 
stances named  the  total  number  of  cop- 
ies sold  is  not  sufficient  to  supply  even 
a  single  copy  to  one  in  ten  of  the  pub- 
lic libraries,  where  at  least  it  is  to  be 
hoped  that  the  price  is  not  the  prime 
factor  in  selection  and  purchase.  Must 
we  then  blame  the  public  for  its  appar- 
ent complete  indifference  to  the  best 
thought  of  the  time  in  literature  and  in 
science?  Is  my  publishing  friend  right 
in  attributing  this  indifference  to  a  too 
great  enjoyment  of  the  material  op- 
portunities for  pastime  of  this  age  of 
mechanical  wonder  and  advancement? 
Or  have  the  scare  headlines  of  modern 
journalism  and  the  short,  scrappy,  but 
interesting  methods  of  the  cheap  maga- 
zines so  enhanced  the  '  butterfly '  habit 
of  mind  that  we  are  no  longer  capable 
of  continued  concentration,  and  have 
lost  the  power  of  reading  books  requir- 
ing serious  attention? 

The  author  too  often  believes  that 
the  publisher  is  to  blame  for  the  failure 
of  his  book  to  sell,  and  the  friends  of 
the  author,  members  of  the  reading 
public,  usually  tell  him  that  they  have 
never  seen  the  book  advertised  and 
that,  anyhow,  the  high  price  at  which 
(because  of  the  small  demand)  it  must 
be  sold,  prevents  its  sale.  All  publish- 
ers do  not  resent  criticism;  most  of 
the  fraternity,  I  believe,  recognize  the 
inadequacy  of  methods  of  book-dis- 
tribution, and  are,  in  their  efforts  to 


improve  them,  constantly  trying  ex- 
periments which  they,  usually  vainly, 
believe  will  open  to  their  wares  the 
door  which  will  induce  the  vast  multi- 
tude of  the  general  public  to  buy  them. 

Having  so  frequently  heard  publish- 
ers criticized  in  the  strain  referred  to 
in  the  preceding  paragraph,  I  recently 
tried  the  experiment  of  selecting  about 
forty  volumes  of  recent  issue  on  serious 
subjects,  and  taking  care  to  choose 
only  those  which  had  proved  popular  in 
the  expensive  first  editions,  I  published 
them  at  fifty  cents  each.  To  meet  the 
complaints  in  their  entirety  I  devoted 
the  sum  of  ten  thousand  dollars  to 
advertising  these  cheap  editions  in  pe- 
riodicals of  the  widest  general  circula- 
tion; one  of  the  journals  used,  I  remem- 
ber, claimed  a  circulation  of  nearly  two 
million  copies,  and  charged  according- 
ly. The  results  of  this  experiment  were 
not  fortunate.  The  books  in  the  cheap 
editions  sold  in  less  numbers  in  most 
cases  than  in  the  original  more  expen- 
sive editions,  and  the  direct  returns, 
in  sales  of  books,  amounted  to  three 
hundred  dollars,  or  three  per  cent  of 
the  amount  of  the  advertising  bills. 

This  experiment  and  some  of  the 
other  facts  in  regard  to  the  sale  of 
books  cited  in  this  article  do  not,  of 
course,  prove  that  there  is  not  a  large 
and  eager  public  for  the  best  works  of 
modern  literature,  but  they  do  lead,  in 
the  mind  of  one  observer  at  least,  to 
the  query  as  to  whether  books  in  these 
days  have  not  lost  the  preeminence 
they  formerly  enjoyed  as  the  principal, 
and  for  many  people  the  only,  means 
of  whiling  away  pleasantly,  or  instruc- 
tively, the  unoccupied  hours  of  life. 


IV 

In  my  younger  days,  as  I  have  point- 
ed out,  and  up  to  a  time  which  may  be 
roughly  estimated  at  twenty  or  thirty 
years  ago,  we  had  three  main  resources 


THE  READING  OF  BOOKS  NOWADAYS 


625 


for  the  spending  of  idle  hours,  and  these, 
in  their  order  of  importance,  were  read- 
ing, the  art  of  conversation,  and  letter- 
writing.  Most  people  who  remember 
the  letters  of  this  earlier  period  will  re- 
member them  as  giving,  with  charm 
and  style,  descriptions  of  the  life  and 
the  news  of  the  day.  The  necessity  for 
such  letter-writing,  removed  by  an 
overzealous  and  much  too  evident  daily 
and  hourly  press,  has  passed  away,  and 
with  it  has  passed  one  of  the  chief  re- 
sources of  our  earlier  years.  The  art  of 
conversation,  a  constant  resource  and 
delight  of  older  generations,  and  of 
which  Emerson  says,  *  Wise,  cultivated, 
genial  conversation  is  the  last  flower  of 
civilization,  and  the  best  result  which 
life  has  to  offer  us/  has  also  passed 
away,  or  at  any  rate,  is  no  longer  un- 
derstood as  it  formerly  was,  and  there 
are  certainly  no  adepts  in  its  practice 
now  to  be  found.  Can  it  be  true  that 
reading  also  is  to  go  out  of  fashion,  that 
books  will  no  longer  be  bought  or  read, 
and  that  their  place  is  to  be  taken  by 
other  means  of  passing  the  time  similar 
to  those  to  which  I  have  elsewhere 
referred? 

The  value,  to  the  mind  and  charac- 
ter, of  the  reading  of  good  books  can- 
not be  overestimated.  The  reading  of 
such  books  as  I  have  mentioned,  and 
others  of  a  similar  sort,  as  the  occupa- 
tion of  my  earlier  years,  was  a  liberal 
education  in  my  case,  and  has  stood  me 
in  better  stead  than  my  other  educa- 
tional opportunities  of  the  school  and 
college;  and  if  it  is  true  that  we  are  in 
danger  of  losing  our  taste  for  serious 
reading,  as  many  of  the  facts  of  our 
times  seem  to  prove,  we  should  bestir 
ourselves  to  avert,  in  time,  what  must 
otherwise  prove  a  terrible  misfortune, 
not  only  to  ourselves,  but  to  the  char- 
acter and  intelligence  of  those  who 
come  after  us. 

It  is  evident  that  the  dangers  of  the 
growth  of  a  distaste  for  reading  are  at- 

VOL.114-N0.5 


tracting  the  attention  of  the  foremost  of 
our  educational  authorities.  In  many 
parts  of  the  country  already  something 
is  being  done  to  endeavor  to  train  our 
young  people  in  the  reading  of  books 
which  require  thought  and  concentra- 
tion for  their  proper  understanding; 
but  because  so  much  of  the  reading 
material  now  placed  before  the  young- 
er generation  is  doubtful,  not  to  say 
trashy,  in  character,  the  movement 
needs  enlargement  and  discriminating 
supervision,  in  order  that  it  may  gain 
the  proper  momentum  to  make  it  a 
part  of  the  daily  life  of  the  children, 
and  also  in  order  that  the  taste  for 
good  reading  may  be  developed  early. 

In  this  connection  I  am  reminded 
too  of  the  widely  followed  plan  of  in- 
cluding the  reading  of  English  classics 
as  a  part  of  the  regular  work  in  the  sec- 
ondary schools,  a  movement  admirable 
in  itself  but  not  without  its  dangers  to 
the  cause  of  good  reading,  in  that  it 
does  not  seem  to  encourage  that  love  of 
reading  which  is  the  one  greatly  de- 
sired end  to  be  attained.  One,  at  least, 
of  my  acquaintances  has  confided  to 
me  that  he  attributed  his  antipathy  to 
the  reading  of  good  books  to  having 
been  obliged  to  read  such  works  as  a 
task  in  the  schoolroom. 

In  response  to  a  former  article  in  the 
Atlantic  Monthly  on  the  circulation  of 
books,  I  received  a  large  number  of  let- 
ters, many  of  them  containing  sugges- 
tions which  were  both  timely  and  help- 
ful, and  some  of  which  I  have,  indeed, 
made  use  of  in  one  way  or  another.  It 
may  be,  if  I  have  rightly  stated  the 
problem  of  serious  reading  in  this  pa- 
per, that  I  may  again  receive  similar 
assistance  in  helping  to  solve  it. 

Of  one  thing  I  feel  quite  certain, 
that  the  reading  of  good  literature  is 
necessary  to  the  growth  of  the  mind 
and  the  strengthening  of  character, 
especially  in  young  people,  and  that 
there  is  no  resource  for  all  periods 


626 


THE  IMPULSE  TO  FUTURISM 


of  life  so  helpful,  so  satisfying,  and 
so  enduring  as  a  love  of  good  books. 
Channing  well  says :  '  God  be  thanked 
for  books.  They  are  the  voices  of  the 
distant  and  the  dead,  and  make  us  heirs 


of  the  spiritual  life  of  past  ages.  Books 
are  the  true  levelers.  They  give  to  all 
who  will  faithfully  use  them  the  so- 
ciety, the  spiritual  presence,  of  the  best 
and  greatest  of  our  race.' 


THE  IMPULSE  TO  FUTURISM 


BY  HENRY  W.    NEVINSON 


THINK  what  it  means  to  be  born,  like 
Marinetti,  in  Egypt,  to  have  a  lawyer 
as  one's  father,  to  be  taught  at  as  Jesuit 
College,  and  to  be  an  Italian! 

To  be  born  in  the  tomb  of  the  world, 
the  habitat  of  mummies,  the  ash-pit  of 
seven  thousand  years,  the  home  of  un- 
changing arts  which  took  twenty  dy- 
nasties to  die,  the  temple  where  the 
worshiped  cat  had,  not  nine  lives,  but 
nine  times  nine  hundred! 

To  be  surrounded  from  childhood  by 
the  law — that  codification  of  custom, 
that  consecration  of  precedent,  the  dead 
hand  of  the  obsolete,  the  fetter  upon 
change,  the  executioner  of  hope! 

To  spend  youth  in  a  Jesuit  College 
—  to  live  always  in  church  —  in  a 
Church  eternal  and  immutable!  To  be 
told  that  the  highest  wisdom  lies  be- 
hind us;  to  derive  knowledge  from  'the 
Fathers';  to  regard  criticism,  interpre- 
tation, and  innovation  as  mortal  sins; 
to  contemplate  an  unchanging  eter- 
nity behind  and  before;  to  repeat  with 
profound  reverence  several  times  in  a 
day,  'As  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is  now, 
and  ever  shall  be,  world  without  end ! ' 

And  then  to  be  an  Italian  and  live  in 
Italy;  to  listen  morning,  noon,  and 


night  to  the  lamentations  of  that  weep- 
ing Niobe;  to  inhabit  a  museum  haunt- 
ed by  tourists,  antiquaries,  and  guides; 
to  be  disregarded  by  thousands  and 
thousands  of  German  and  English  vis- 
itors as  something  out  of  place  and 
insignificant  —  something  that  hardly 
exists  —  just  because  you  are  alive,  be- 
cause you  are  not  a  genuine  antique, 
but  an  imitation,  a  forgery,  a  modern 
copy  of  old  times!  To  be  faced  at 
every  corner  by  some  ancient  master  of 
poetry,  of  eloquence,  of  painting,  sculp- 
ture, or  architecture,  who  once  reached 
perfection,  and  whom  everyone  is  still 
taught  to  imitate,  but  whom  no  one 
can  ever  surpass!  To  be  the  son  of  a 
country  '  with  a  past  *  —  a  country 
which,  instead  of  decently  covering  up 
her  past,  lives  upon  its  scrappy  keep- 
sakes and  memorials,  exposes  them  to 
public  view,  and  rejoices,  as  over  a  lu- 
crative investment,  when  any  old  relic 
is  raked  from  oblivion ! 

To  be  suckled  by  mummies,  swad- 
dled by  the  Law  and  the  Church,  reach 
manhood  in  a  museum,  a  picture-gal- 
lery, a  resort  of  tourists  on  the  lookout 
for  antiquities  —  that  was  Marinetti's 
fate.  Here  was  a  man  of  passionate 
southern  nature,  alert,  self-assertive,  as 
choke-full  of  vitality  as  a  shell  of  Lyd- 


THE  IMPULSE  TO  FUTURISM 


627 


dite,  and  such  was  his  fate.  No  won- 
der he  rebelled.  No  wonder  his  first 
thought  was  to  defy  precedent,  to  shat- 
ter tradition,  to  explode  antiquity;  and 
his  second  thought  to  demand  life,  and 
explore  new  paths  for  its  expression. 
No  wonder  he  is  a  Futurist. 

We,  too,  in  England  are  nursed  on 
mummies  and  trammeled  by  the  past. 
Our  schooldays  are  governed  by  a  rigid 
tradition  of  'good  form.'  Our  law 
courts  are  governed  by  the  belief  that 
legal  decisions  upon  questions  of  good 
and  evil  are  binding  for  ever;  that  what 
has  been  done  once  should  always  be 
done  again ;  that  a  statute  ordained  by 
Edward  III  to  control  the  vagabonds, 
'pillors  and  barrators'  of  his  French 
Wars  should  naturally  be  used  to  con- 
trol a  Suffragette  speaking  in  Trafalgar 
Square.  We  also,  like  the  City  Fathers 
at  their  banquets,  broaden  slowly  down 
from  precedent  to  precedent,  and  the 
broadening  of  City  Fathers  is  rapid 
compared  with  our  freedom's. 

Till  quite  lately,  nearly  all  of  us 
were  educated  on  an  ancient  collection 
of  writings  or  traditions,  solemnly  be- 
lieved to  contain  the  truth,  the  whole 
truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  To 
criticize  or  question  was  impious;  even 
to  suggest  that  the  strength  of  the  Bi- 
ble lay  in  its  beauty  and  religious  mo- 
rality rather  than  in  its  historical  accu- 
racy, was  a  blasphemous  presumption. 
And  though  that  time  has  now  gone 
by,  the  habit  of  all  our  churches  keeps 
our  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  the  past.  We 
are  taught  that  the  highest  revelation 
of  divine  wisdom  —  indeed,  its  only 
revelation  —  lies  two  thousand  years 
behind  us.  That  the  age  of  sanctity  is 
passed.  That  the  best  we  can  do  is  to 
imitate  the  examples  of  apostles,  disci- 
ples, and  long-departed  saints.  That 
the  present  world  is  rolling  further  and 
further  away  from  the  highest  ideal  of 
holiness. 

For  arts  and  literature,  we  also  are 


brought  up,  like  Marinetti,  in  a  muse- 
um, although  the  English  museum  is 
neither  so  beautiful  nor  so  stupefying 
as  the  Italian.  For  architecture,  the 
greatest  of  all  arts,  we  are  instructed  to 
study  and  imitate  the  remaining  speci- 
mens of  Greek,  Byzantine,  Mediaeval, 
and  Renaissance  building;  to  select  one 
of  these  styles  and  copy  it  as  closely  as 
we  can;  or,  if  we  must  be  original,  to 
take  two  or  three  of  these  styles  and 
mix  them  up  adroitly.  The  result  of 
our  imitation  and  combination  is  the 
British  Museum,  the  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment, the  War  Office,  and  the  National 
Liberal  Club — fit  homes  for  the  moul- 
dering antiquities  there  enshrined,  but 
in  themselves  destitute  of  vitality, 
creative  invention,  or  the  spark  of  liv- 
ing genius. 

So  in  the  subordinate  arts,  such  as 
painting,  sculpture,  and  handicrafts, 
we  have  been  commanded  either  to  go 
on  imitating  the  Greeks,  with  the  re- 
sults we  see  in  the  still-born  little  pic- 
tures of  Leighton  and  Alma  Tadema, 
or  in  the  Victoria  Memorial,  where 
that  worthy  woman  sits,  clothed  and 
in  her  right  mind,  amid  corybantic 
groups  of  naked  men  and  women,  pa- 
gan deities  of  dubious  morality,  and 
nymphs  who  would  never  have  been 
admitted  to  her  Court  in  their  present 
costume;* or  else  we  have  been  com- 
manded to  imitate  the  blessed  ages 
of  romantic  mystery  and  touching 
faith,  when  happy  craftsmen  chipped 
and  chaffered  in  the  cheaping-steads, 
knights  quested  for  distressed  damsels 
in  haunted  forests,  and  John  Ball 
founded  the  Fabian  Society.  Under 
these  behests  we  have  worshiped 
Burne- Jones  and  his  yearning  dreams ; 
we  have  stocked  our  minds  and  homes 
with  mediaeval  trumpery;  we  have  con- 
structed battlements  to  our  seats  of 
learning,  towered  walls  for  our  peace- 
ful streets,  angled  houses  for  our  rotund 
persons,  ingle-nooks,  beams  industri- 


628 


THE  IMPULSE  TO  FUTURISM 


ously  marked  with  the  adze,  maypoles, 
Morris-dances,  and  all  the  other  art- 
ful-and-crafty  contraptions  of  modern 
Oxford  and  the  Garden  Suburbs. 

Or  take  literature.  If  the  greatness 
of  her  old  masters  in  the  arts  has  con- 
verted Italy  into  a  museum  for  tour- 
ists, the  greatness  of  our  old  writers 
oppresses  England  in  like  manner.  In 
literature  we  stand  very  high.  We  con- 
tend with  France  for  the  second  place 
to  Greece.  But  what  a  price  we  pay 
for  our  fame!  How  it  overwhelms  and 
depresses  us,  turning  our  eyes  always 
backward,  binding  us  to  old  models, 
blinding  us  to  the  changeful  splendors 
of  to-day,  hampering  us  with  suffocat- 
ing loads  of  commentaries,  biographies, 
variorum  editions,  learned  societies, 
revivals,  pilgrimages,  and  the  Ameri- 
can tourists  to  Stratford !  Shakespeare 
has  done  us  incalculable  harm.  But 
for  him  we  should  have  had  no  disserta- 
tions on  the  character  of  Hamlet,  no 
interminable  dissensions  on  the  mean- 
ing of  the  sonnets,  no  bloodthirsty  con- 
troversies over  the  color  of  Mary  Fit- 
ton's  hair  (which  probably  changed 
like  the  chameleon),  no  opportunity 
for  leisured  lunatics  to  waste  time 
in  discovering  Baconian  cryptograms, 
instead  of  employing  it  on  ravings 
in  Bedlam.  But  for  Shakespeare  we 
should  not  now  be  struggling  to  raise 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  pounds  for  a 
Memorial  Theatre,  that  will  lie  heavy 
on  our  hands,  no  matter  how  empty. 
But  for  him  we  might  now  be  enjoy- 
ing a  fresh  and  vital  drama,  and  we 
should  not  have  had  to  wait  three  cent- 
uries for  a  Norwegian  to  show  us  an 
escape  from  boredom.  But  for  him  and 
Milton,  we  might  never  have  heard 
blank  verse,  either  in  verse  or  prose. 

What  is  true  of  Shakespeare  is  true 
of  others  in  less  degree.  Think  of  the 
imitators  of  Pope,  of  Wordsworth,  of 
Dickens  and  George  Meredith.  In 
England  our  youth  has  long  ceased  to 


imitate  Byron.  We  are  too  comfortable 
even  to  copy  that  noble  spirit.  But 
in  Austria  I  noticed  the  other  day  that 
youth  was  wearing  the  Byronic  col- 
lar, without  the  Byronic  gloom.  And 
among  ourselves,  look  at  the  delightful 
young  men  growing  more  and  more 
like  Shelley  every  shining  hour!  Be- 
cause of  the  very  greatness  of  our  lit- 
erature, almost  equal  in  greatness  to 
the  sculpture  of  Greece  and  the  paint- 
ing of  Italy,  we  have  fallen  under  the 
curse  of  immortality. 

Egypt  also  was  once  a  great  coun- 
try, but  for  thousands  of  years  it  lay 
dying  of  immortality.  Once  it  had  a 
gleam  of  hope,  a  possibility  of  change. 
It  was  visited  by  ten  plagues.  But  no 
frogs  or  lice  or  flies  or  locusts  or  mur- 
rain or  living  darkness — not  even  the 
death  of  all  the  first-born  (those  natural 
propagators  of  tradition),  could  eradi- 
cate the  pestilent  germ  of  the  greatest 
plague  of  all  —  the  plague  of  immor- 
tality. We  remember  those  Struld- 
brugs  whom  Gulliver  discovered  in 
the  kingdom  of  Laputa.  Doomed  to 
immortality,  they  were  peevish,  cov- 
etous, morose,  vain,  talkative,  incap- 
able of  friendship,  dead  to  all  natural 
affections.  Such  is  the  curse  which  im- 
mortality brings.  'Immortality  is  a 
crime/  the  Futurists  proclaim.  It  is 
worse  than  a  crime.  It  is  a  nuisance. 

As  an  illustration,  let  me  quote  from 
a  Futurist  painter  whose  words  I  am 
bound  to  listen  to  with  respect.  I  mean 
my  son.  Speaking  as  a  painter  in  the 
Dore  Gallery's  Futurist  Exhibition  in 
June,  1914,  Mr.  Richard  Nevinson  said, 

'No  one  could  live  with  a  singer  in- 
cessantly and  constantly  singing  in  a 
room.  So  it  is  impossible  to  live  with  a 
picture.  This  applies  to  all  pictures, 
past,  present,  and  future.  Why  is  it 
that  no  one  would  take  the  Mona  Lisa 
as  a  gift?  It  is  n't  a  very  bad  picture. 
It  is  simply  because  we  cannot  walk  or 
go  anywhere  in  Europe  without  getting 


THE  IMPULSE  TO  FUTURISM 


629 


a  reproduction  of  her  smile,  which  by 
its  very  monotony  becomes  that  of  a 
grinning  imbecile.* 

Alas  for  immortality  that  has  become 
a  nuisance  and  a  bore!  Alas,  and  yet 
again,  alas! 

ii 

I  am  not  immortal.  My  smile  will 
never  be  reduced  to  the  grinning  of 
an  imbecile  by  monotonous  repetition. 
But  I  am  old.  I  am  strongly  conserva- 
tive by  nature.  I  was  brought  up  in  the 
most  rigid  form  of  unchanging  religion, 
was  trained  upon  the  oldest  masters  in 
literature  and  the  arts,  and  taught  to 
fear  and  detest  every  innovation,  every 
sign  of '  progress/  every  departure  from 
established  rules  and  from  accepted 
or  natural  beauty  as  hideous,  danger- 
ous, sacrilegious,  and  vulgar.  Yet  very 
early  in  life  I  made  one  great  discovery 
for  myself.  I  found  afterwards  that 
Aristotle  had  made  the  discovery  also, 
and  had  expressed  it  in  the  succinct 
beauty  of  Greek:  Ais  Se  OVK  ei/Se^crai. 
'Twice  is  impossible,'  we  must  trans- 
late it,  or  'You  can  do  nothing  twice,' 
or  'Two  into  one  won't  go.' 

Nothing  can  be  done  twice.  That  is 
why  my  son  is  right  in  saying  that  only 
bad  work  goes  on  forever.  He  is  told, 
he  says,  that  the  Royal  Academy  of 
this  year  is  exactly  the  same  as  the 
Royal  Academy  of  the  last  fifty  or  sixty 
years.  More  than  a  generation  has 
passed  to  the  grave  since  I  went  to  the 
Academy.  But  I  looked  at  an  illus- 
trated guide  lately,  and  I  found  he  was 
quite  right.  Subjects,  sentiments,  por- 
traits, representations  of  nature  and 
domestic  scenes,  were  exactly  the  same 
as  I  remembered  from  my  early  boy- 
hood. Yet  nothing  can  be  done  twice, 
as  Aristotle  and  I  discovered.  Only 
bad  work  goes  on  forever.  No  matter 
how  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
bad  work  goes  on  forever. 

How  then  are  we  to  shake  off  this  in- 


cubus of  imitation  ?  How  emerge  from 
the  putrefying  charnel  of  museums? 
How  shatter,  disintegrate,  or  explode? 
In  painting  many  have  struggled  for 
liberty,  sometimes  with  brush,  some- 
times with  fist,  as  in  the  animated  and 
bloody  contests  recently  waged  against 
the  Passeists  in  Milanese  and  Roman 
theatres.  I  cannot  here  pause  to  dis- 
tinguish minutely  between  Division- 
ists,  Pointillists,  Intimists  (who  be- 
longed to  the  same  group),  Fauvists 
(savages),  Orfeists,  Cubists,  Expres- 
sionists, Vorticists,  and  Dynamists.  In 
so  far  as  all  are  in  alliance  against  the 
Passeists,  despite  violent  and  blood- 
thirsty disagreements  among  them- 
selves, all  may  be  called  Futurists. 

But  the  Futurist  proper  has  a  place 
by  himself,  though  when  you  reach  his 
place,  you  generally  find  he  has  gone 
somewhere  else — somewhere  onwards, 
as  his  name  implies.  For  the  moment 
—  perhaps  for  this  passing  week  — 
we  may  say  that  the  Futurist  painter 
refuses  to  paint  representations.  He 
leaves  representation  to  the  Passeist 
and  photographer.  He  paints  what  he 
calls  a  plastic  abstraction  of  an  emo- 
tion, an  expression  or  concentration  of 
life  as  it  appears  to  a  spectator.  He 
paints  a  state  of  mind.  But  the  mind  is 
usually,  perhaps  always,  in  a  state  of 
excitement  under  the  stress  and  stimu- 
lation of  modern  life,  under  the  excite- 
ment of  noise,  of  danger,  of  mechanical 
power,  but  especially  of  speed:  the 
speed  of  galloping  horses,  —  horses 
with  twenty  legs, — of  motors  so  rapid 
that  the  houses  lean  sideways,  of  aero- 
planes roaring  like  dragons  over  a  terri- 
fied world,  of  rebel  crowds  rushing  for- 
ward in  acute  angles  of  scarlet  passion 
that  impinge  upon  the  habitations  of 
established  custom  and  knock  them 
into  cocked  hats. 

Painting  to  the  Futurist  is  no  pretty, 
soothing  art  to  be  hung  in  a  room  and 
discussed  at  discreet  dinner-parties* 


630 


THE  IMPULSE  TO  FUTURISM 


Like  all  Futurist  work,  it  is  inspired 
by  adventure  and  discovery.  It  is  a 
violent  stimulant,  to  be  taken  only  now 
and  then,  —  deadly  as  whiskey,  if  too 
often  repeated;  but  never  an  opiate, 
never  narcotic  with  sleep.  The  Futur- 
ist destroys  everything  soft,  gracious, 
effeminate,  subdued,  and  moribund. 
He  works  with  brilliant  colors  and  sharp 
angles.  He  strives  to  find  plastic  equiv- 
alents for  all  appearances  of  our  actual 
life  —  its  noises,  smells,  music-halls, 
factories,  trains,  and  harbors.  He  tells 
us  that  noises  and  smells  may  be  in 
form  concave  or  convex,  triangular,  el- 
liptical, oblong,  conical,  spherical,  spi- 
ral; and  as  for  their  color,  he  says  the 
smell  of  machinery  and  sport,  for  in- 
stance, is  nearly  always  red;  the  smell 
of  restaurants  and  cafes  is  silvery,  yel- 
low, or  violet;  the  smell  of  animals  yel- 
low or  blue.  Let  us  not  laugh  too  soon. 
Noises  and  smells  are  only  states  of 
mind,  and  we  talk  of  jealousy  (which  is 
a  state  of  mind)  as  green  or  green-eyed; 
in  anger  we  say  we  'see  red; '  in  melan- 
choly we  'have  the  blues/ 

In  sculpture,  even  more  than  in 
painting,  we  are  overwhelmed  by  the 
past.  'All  sculpture  galleries,'  says 
Boccioni,  the  Futurist  sculptor,  'are 
reservoirs  of  boredom,  and  the  inaugu- 
rations of  public  monuments  are  occa- 
sions for  irrepressible  laughter.'  The 
Italians  feel  this  even  more  than  we  do, 
for  they  are  oppressed  by  memories  of 
Michael  Angelo  as  well  as  by  Greeks 
and  Romans ;  the  working  of  marble  is 
a  specially  Italian  craft;  and  they  can- 
not take  their  monuments  like  us  with  a 
kindly  shrug  as  the  inevitable  penalty 
of  fame,  or  an  inscrutable  decree  of 
Providence.  In  sculpture,  therefore, 
the  Futurist  must  readily  obey  his 
master's  precept, '  to  spit  every  day  on 
the  altar  of  Art.' 

Away  with  this  imitation,  this  mori- 
bund immortality,  this  monotonous 
nudity  of  nymphs  and  Psyches,  Ledas 


with  swans,  Dianas  in  boots,  Venuses 
in  nothing  —  all  these  weary  vistas  of 
plumpy  breasts  and  rounded  thighs 
that  the  words  '  sculpture  gallery '  call 
up!  No  more  nudes!  Futurist  sculp- 
tors and  painters  agree  on  that:  not 
that  nudity  is  immoral,  but  that  it 
has  become  a  bore.  It  is  lifeless,  and 
art  must  display  action  and  vitality. 
Let  the  sculptor  work  in  what  material 
he  likes,  even  in  marble,  if  he  likes  it. 
But  his  figures  must  hint  at  their  sur- 
roundings—  their  'ambiance.'  They 
must  reveal  the  emotion  of  the  specta- 
tor, and  not  represent  the  final  lines  of 
eternal  form.  The  sculptor  must  throw 
his  subjects  open  like  a  window.  Even 
portraits  should  not  necessarily  resem- 
ble the  model.  Above  all,  the  emotion 
conveyed  must  be  modern,  unconnect- 
ed with  classical  mythology,  '  ideals  of 
beauty,'  or  other  tombstones. 

In  Futurist  music  we  find  the  same 
violent  reaction  against  the  monoton- 
ous repetition  and  elegant  ecstasies  of 
the  past.  Bach,  Handel,  Beethoven, 
Wagner,  says  the  Futurist,  were  all 
very  well  in  their  time.  They  held  the 
advance-posts  of  their  day;  so  did  Phei- 
dias  and  Michael  Angelo;  so  did  the 
builders  of  Venice  and  Oxford.  Let  us 
leave  them  where  they  stand.  Let  us 
honor  them  with  an  annual  concert, 
just  as  we  may  visit  a  picture-gallery 
or  museum  once  a  year  without  perish- 
ing of  putrefaction.  But  the  modern 
world  has  emotions,  and  lives  under 
conditions,  which  the  composers  of  the 
eighteenth  and  even  of  the  nineteenth 
century  could  not  conceive. 

Noise,  for  instance,  is  a  modern 
creation.  There  is  very  little  noise  in 
nature  —  only  earthquakes,  thunder, 
waves,  winds,  waterfalls,  lions  roaring, 
parrots  screaming,  nightingales  sing- 
ing. In  the  last  fifty  years,  what  an 
immense  advance  man  has  made  upon 
those  primitive  sounds!  Think  of  the 
express  train  as  it  yells  and  roars! 


THE  IMPULSE  TO  FUTURISM 


631 


Parrots  and  lions  are  child's  play  in 
comparison.  Think  of  a  cotton-mill,  a 
printing  press,  an  iron-foundry!  Think 
of  the  pistons  of  an  ocean  liner,  the 
cannonade  of  a  dreadnought,  the  clang 
of  shipyards!  Think  of  the  shriek  of 
circular  saws,  the  hooting  of  motors, 
the  clatter  of  milk-cans,  the  aeroplanes 
whiffling  and  burbling  through  the 
sky!  By  an  ideal  or  imaginative  com- 
bination of  such  noises,  is  it  not  pos- 
sible to  create  a  new  acoustic  pleasure, 
a  new  development  of  music,  adapted 
to  modern  emotions  and  modern  ears? 
At  the  Coliseum  in  London  we  have 
lately  (June,  1914)  seen  and  heard 
what  the  Futurist  can  do  with  sound. 
There  stood  the  enormous  instru- 
ments, a  dream  of  elephantine  mega- 
phones, for  the  most  part  worked  by 
the  turn  of  a  handle,  like  barrel-organs. 
Oh,  what  a  saving  of  the  singer's 
shrieks,  the  pianist's  practicing,  the 
violinist's  inflictions!  The  Roarer,  the 
Whistler,  the  Murmurer,  the  Screamer 
-  so  were  the  instruments  named. 
Other  instruments  supplied  the  out- 
cries of  mankind  and  animals;  others 
the  clang  of  blows  upon  metals.  The 
first  and  most  beautiful  composition  or 
combination  aroused  the  emotion  we 
feel  at  the  *  Awakening  of  a  great  City.' 
We  can  imagine  it.  The  very  houses 
have  been  asleep.  With  a  faint  mur- 
mur the  giant  heart  begins  to  stir.  The 
mail-carts  rumble  in  the  distance.  The 
market  carts  plod  to  Covent  Garden. 
A  belated  taxi  rushes  by.  The  work- 
men's trams  begin  to  roar  and  ring. 
There  comes  a  sound  of  hurrying  feet 
upon  the  pavement.  The  war-whoop 
of  the  milkman  echoes  down  the  street. 
Doors  slam.  Cooks  scour  the  steps. 
Machinery  hisses  and  screams.  Ham- 
mers crash  upon  iron  plates.  Trams, 
motor  'buses,  and  taxis  reduplicate 
their  rumbling,  their  clangor,  and 
hoots.  City  trains  rage  shrieking  past 
the  very  windows.  All  these  noises  and 


sounds  combine  into  a  rich  diapason, 
varied  and  illuminated  by  outstanding 
notes,  like  flashes  of  lightning  against 
the  background  of  a  storm.  The  sun 
rises.  The  city  wakes.  Man  goeth 
forth  to  his  labor  until  the  evening. 

Again  I  would  say,  let  us  not  laugh 
too  soon.  I  remember  with  what  laugh- 
ter, with  what  mockery,  Wagner  was 
received  —  Wagner  with  his  '  Music  of 
the  Future '  —  his  Futurist  music ! 


in 

And  then  there  is  literature  —  poe- 
try, imaginative  utterance,  the  expres- 
sion of  emotion  in  words.  Of  this  art 
Marinetti  himself  is  the  Futurist  mas- 
ter. I  will  not  here  examine  his  theorv 

V 

of  *  free  verse '  —  verse  released  like 
Walt  Whitman's  from  metre,  rhyme, 
and  form;  nor  his  later  practice  of  abol- 
ishing all  stops,  adjectives,  adverbs, 
tenses,  and  moods  (except  the  infini- 
tive), of  introducing  mere  sounds  to 
express  the  sense,  and  marking  expres- 
sion or  coupling  sentences  with  the 
usual  algebraical  signs  for  addition, 
multiplication,  and  so  on.  His  poems 
are  now  a  series  of  violent  and  uncon- 
nected nouns,  infinitive  verbs,  and 
strange  sounds,  interspersed  with  math- 
ematical signs  that  make  the  printed 
page  look  incomprehensible.  But  to  the 
layman  a  page  of  musical  score  looks 
incomprehensible  too.  Wait  till  the 
musician  begins  to  play!  I  have  heard 
many  recitations,  and  have  tried  to 
describe  many  scenes  of  war.  But  I 
listened  to  Marinetti's  recitation  of 
one  of  his  poems  on  battles  and  then 
I  knew  what  he  meant  by  /wireless 
imagination.' 

I  may  very  well  have  witnessed  the 
event  he  described,  for  he  was  with  us 
in  the  Bulgarian  second  army  outside 
Adrianople  in  the  autumn  of  1912. 
But  I  have  never  conceived  such  a  de- 
scription, or  heard  such  a  recitation. 


632 


THE  IMPULSE  TO  FUTURISM 


The  poem  described  a  train  of  Turkish 
wounded,  stopped  and  captured  on  its 
way  by  Bulgarian  troops  and  guns. 
The  noise,  the  confusion,  the  surprise 
of  death,  the  terror  and  courage,  the 
grandeur  and  appalling  littleness,  the 
doom  and  chance,  the  shouting,  curses, 
blood,  stink,  and  agony  —  all  were 
combined  into  one  great  emotion  by 
that  amazing  succession  of  words,  per- 
formed or  enacted  by  the  poet  with 
such  passion  of  abandonment  that  no 
one  could  escape  the  spell  of  listening. 
Mingled  anguish  and  hope  as  the  train 
started;  rude  jolts  and  shocks,  and  yet 
hope;  the  passing  landscape,  thought  of 
reaching  Stamboul.  Suddenly,  the  air 
full  of  the  shriek  and  boom  of  bullets 
and  shells;  hammering  of  machine- 
guns,  shouting  of  captains,  crash  of  ap- 
proaching cannon.  And  all  the  time 
one  felt  the  deadly  microbes  crawling 
in  the  suppurating  wounds,  devouring 
the  flesh,  undermining  the  thin  walls  of 
the  entrails.  One  felt  the  infinitely  lit- 
tle, the  pestilence  that  walks  in  dark- 
ness, at  work  in  the  midst  of  gigantic 
turmoil  making  history.  That  is  the 
very  essence  of  war.  That  is  war's  cen- 
tral emotion. 

I  know  all  that  can  be  said  against 
such  methods  in  literature  as  in  other 
arts.  Free  verse  and  words  without 
syntax  may  become  too  easy  for 
beauty,  since  the  beautiful  is  always 
hard.  (Though,  on  my  conscience,  I 
believe  it  is  easier  to  write  verse  than 
prose!)  I  know  all  the  objections.  I 
only  insist  upon  the  meaning,  the  in- 
tention of  Futurism,  and  the  impulse 
that  drives  to  it.  With  Goethe,  I  say, 
*  If  you  insist  on  telling  me  your  opin- 
ions, for  God's  sake,  tell  me  what  you 
believe  in!  I  have  plenty  of  doubts  of 
my  own.'  A  well-known  poet  and  critic, 
Mr.  Newbolt,  has,  I  believe,  sought  to 
discredit  Marinetti's  method  by  trans- 
posing Keats's  'Ode  to  the  Nightin- 
gale' into  Futurist  language 


a  suc- 


cession of  nouns,  infinitive  verbs,  and 
mathematical  signs.  The  mockery  is 
beside  the  point.  Keats  expressed  the 
emotion  called  up  by  the  nightingale 
exactly  right.  But  the  nightingale  has 
had  a  long  innings.  He  has  been  in 
from  Sophocles  to  Keats,  and  perhaps 
it  is  time  now  to  declare  his  innings 
over.  Let  the  new  emotions  of  a  new 
age  have  their  turn.  'We  sing  the  love 
of  danger,'  cried  the  Futurists,  in  their 
first  manifesto  (February,  1909).  There 
is  nothing  about  nightingales  in  that 
manifesto.  It  says:  — 

'The  essential  elements  of  our  poetry 
shall  be  courage,  daring,  and  rebellion. 

'There  is  no  beauty  except  in  strife. 

'We  shall  glorify  war,  patriotism, 
the  destructive  arm  of  the  Anarchist, 
the  contempt  for  effeminacy. 

'We  shall  sing  of  the  great  crowds  in 
the  excitement  of  labor,  pleasure,  or  re- 
bellion; of  the  multi-colored  and  poly- 
phonic surf  of  revolutions  in  modern 
capital  cities;  of  the  nocturnal  vibra- 
tion of  arsenals  and  workshops  beneath 
their  violent  electric  moons;  of  the 
greedy  stations  swallowing  smoking 
snakes;  of  factories  suspended  from 
the  clouds  by  their  strings  of  smoke; 
of  bridges  leaping  like  gymnasts  over 
the  diabolical  cutlery  of  sun-bathed  riv- 
ers; of  adventurous  liners  scenting  the 
horizon;  of  broad-chested  locomotives 
prancing  on  the  rails,  like  huge  steel 
horses  bridled  with  long  tubes;  and  of 
the  gliding  flight  of  aeroplanes,  the 
sound  of  whose  screw  is  like  the  flap- 
ping of  flags,  and  the  applause  of  an 
enthusiastic  crowd. 

'  Your  obj  ections  ?  Enough !  Enough ! 
I  know  them!  It  is  agreed!  We  know 
well  what  our  fine  and  false  intelligence 
tells  us.  We  are,  it  says,  only  the  sum- 
mary and  the  extension  of  our  ances- 
tors. Perhaps!  Very  well!  .  .  .  What 
matter?  .  .  .  But  we  do  not  wish  to 
hear!  Beware  of  repeating  those  infa- 
mous words!  Better  lift  your  head! 


THE  IMPULSE  TO  FUTURISM 


633 


'Erect  on  the  topmast  pinnacle  of 
the  world,  once  again  we  fling  our  defi- 
ance to  the  stars.' 

It  is  violent,  it  is  insolent.  But  as 
I  listen  to  it,  I  seem  to  myself  like 
Moses,  when  he  came  from  Egypt's 
land  of  tombs  and  solemn  pyramids 
—  from  among  monuments  of  never- 
ending  death  in  life  —  from  among 
monstrous  cats  and  bulls  and  croc- 
odiles sanctified  by  the  inexhaustible 
stupidity  of  custom — and  stood  upon 
Pisgah,  gazing  out  over  the  land  of  pro- 
mise. As  Robert  Browning,  one  of  our 
antiquated  poets,  said  last  century:  — 

Over  the  ball  of  it, 

Peering  and  prying, 
How  I  see  all  of  it, 

Life  there,  outlying! 

•  •  •  *  • 

Honey,  get  gall  of  it! 

There's  the  life  lying, 
And  I  see  all  of  it, 

Only,  I'm  dying. 

Standing  on  such  a  Pisgah  height, 
with  dying  eyes  I  look  out  upon  a  Fu- 
turist world  of  strife  and  tempest  and 
struggling  crowds,  —  a  world  of  revolt 
and  rebellion,  smitten  by  the  acute 
angles  and  crimson  bars  of  rage,  —  a 
world  risen  in  violent  reaction  against 


weakness  and  sentimentality,  invalid- 
ism,  comfort,  softness,  luxury,  and 
effeminate  excess,  —  against  the  toy 
woman  (la  femme  bibelot),  the  wor- 
ship of  precedent,  of  research,  of  rules, 
of  uninspired  morality.  Such  a  world 
shudders  at  the  monotony  of  regulated 
habit  and  established  reputation.  That 
a  thing  has  been  done  once  is  for  it  a 
sufficient  reason  why  it  should  never 
be  done  again.  And  moving  about  in 
that  world  of  hard  and  dangerous  life 
that  is  full  of  rapid  contrasts  and  calls 
out  the  highest  human  capacities  from 
hour  to  hour,  I  appear  to  see  magnifi- 
cent and  adventurous  men,  tempestu- 
ous and  proud,  fighting  their  way  side 
by  side  with  magnificent  and  adven- 
turous women,  virile,  gigantic,  devoid 
of  shame,  loathing  effeminacy,  giving 
the  breast  to  superb  and  violent  in- 
fants, turbulent  as  Titans  of  the  earth- 
quake and  volcano. 

As  I  gaze,  I  sometimes  think  that  the 
Futurist  parents  are  in  for  a  stormy 
time.  But  no  matter!  Let  us  hand  on 
to  them  our  motto:  'De  1'audace,  de 
Taudace,  toujours  de  1'audace!'  Which 
one  may  translate:  'Be  bold,  be  bold, 
there  is  not  the  smallest  fear  that  any 
one  will  be  too  bold.' 


MIND  IN  PLANTS 


BY  ADA   WATTERSON   YERKES 


MAETERLINCK  has  entitled  one  of  his 
charming  essays  'The  Intelligence  of 
the  Flowers.'  It  may  seem  like  taking 
a  long  step  beyond  this  to  attribute 
mind  to  the  whole  plant  kingdom.  We 
human  beings  are  inclined  to  regard 
the  possession  of  mind  as  our  own 
special  prerogative  and  to  grant  grudg- 
ingly that  a  few  of  the  higher  animals 
exhibit  forms  of  behavior  which  ap- 
proach the  intelligent.  There  are, 
indeed,  many  philosophers  who  deny 
that  one  can  know  the  existence  of  any 
mind  except  one's  own.  But  once  admit 
that  other  men  may  share  this  great 
possession,  the  door  is  wide  open,  and 
the  path  leads  thence  down  through 
vertebrates  and  invertebrates,  one- 
celled  animals,  and  many-celled  plants, 
till  who  can  tell  where  one  may  stop 
and  say,  'Beyond  this  there  is  no 
consciousness.' 

The  essayist  has  applied  the  term 
intelligence  to  those  curious  and  won- 
derful adaptations  which,  in  plants, 
promote  the  reproduction  and  distri- 
bution of  species.  Conspicuous  among 
these  are  the  marvelous  contrivances 
and  processes  by  which  cross-fertiliza- 
tion is  effected,  and  the  dispersal  of 
fruits  and  seeds  by  wind,  waves,  ani- 
mals, and  other  agents  promoted.  But 
this  use  of  the  term  is  open  to  criticism, 
for  such  adaptations  of  form  and  func- 
tion as  those  cited  are  examples  of  the 
intelligence  of  Nature  rather  than  of 
flowers.  By  the  student  of  behavior 
or  of  comparative  psychology,  in  tell  i- 

634 


gence  is  to-day  defined  as  'the  power 
of  learning  by  individual  experience.' 
Maeterlinck  himself  warns  us  that  his 
essay  should  not  be  considered  a  scien- 
tific treatise.  His  choice  of  terms,  how- 
ever, strongly  emphasizes  the  difference 
between  the  popular  and  the  scientific 
conception  of  the  meaning  of  words, 
and  the  misunderstandings  to  which 
this  difference  gives  rise. 

Perhaps  nowhere  are  these  misun- 
derstandings, because  of  difference  in 
the  usa,ge  of  words,  more  evident  than 
in  the  case  of  such  terms  as  mind,  soul, 
and  consciousness.  The  average  man 
boasts  that  he  has  a  soul  and  that  he 
himself  is  master  of  it;  insists,  often 
pugnaciously,  that  his  favorite  horse 
and  dog  have  minds  and  are  capable  of 
intelligent,  and  even  of  reasoned,  be- 
havior. But  if  you  allude  to  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  carrot,  he  feels  that 
you  have  entered  the  realm  of  the  fan- 
tastic, and  refuses  to  discuss  the  matter 
in  any  save  a  humorous  way.  It  be- 
hooves us,  therefore,  to  inquire  care- 
fully into  the  meaning  which  the  scien- 
tist gives  to  these  words,  and  the  ways 
in  which  he  uses  them. 

E.  B.  Titchener,  one  of  our  most  emi- 
nent psychologists,  defines  mind  as 
'the  sum- total  of  human  experience 
considered  as  dependent  upon  the 
experiencing  person.'  He  rejects  a  use 
of  the  term  consciousness  in  the  sense 
of  a  'mind's  awareness  of  itself  as 
being  not  only  unnecessary  but  also 
misleading,  'unnecessary  because,  as 
we  shall  see  later,  the  awareness  is  a 
matter  of  observation  of  the  same  gen- 


MIND  IN  PLANTS 


635 


eral  kind  as  observation  of  the  external 
world;  it  is  misleading  because  it  sug- 
gests that  mind  is  a  personal  being 
instead  of  a  stream  of  processes.'  He 
therefore  takes  'mind  and  conscious- 
ness to  mean  the  same  thing.' 

Later  in  the  same  discussion  he  says, 
'If,  however,  we  attribute  minds  to 
other  human  beings,  we  have  no  right 
to  deny  them  to  the  higher  animals. 
These  animals  are  provided  with  a  ner- 
vous system  of  the  same  pattern  as 
ours;  their  conduct  or  behavior,  under 
circumstances  that  would  arouse  cer- 
tain feelings  in  us,  often  seems  to  ex- 
press, quite  definitely,  similar  feelings 
in  them.  Surely  we  must  grant  that 
the  highest  vertebrates,  mammals  and 
birds,  have  minds.  Indeed,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  limit  mind  to  the  animals  that 
possess  even  a  rudimentary  nervous 
system;  for  the  creatures  that  rank 
still  lower  in  the  scale  of  life  manage 
to  do,  without  a  nervous  system,  prac- 
tically everything  that  their  superiors 
do  by  its  assistance.  The  range  of 
mind  thus  appears  to  be  as  wide  as  the 
range  of  animal  life. 

'The  plants,  on  the  other  hand,  ap- 
pear to  be  mindless.  Many  of  them 
are  endowed  with  what  we  may  term 
sense-organs,  that  is,  organs  differen- 
tiated to  receive  certain  forms  of  stim- 
ulus, —  pressure,  impact,  light,  and  so 
forth.  These  organs  are  analogous  in 
structure  to  the  sense-organs  of  the 
lower  animal  organisms;  thus  plant 
*  eyes"  have  been  found,  which  closely 
resemble  rudimentary  animal  eyes,  and 
which  —  if  they  belonged  to  animals 
—  might  mediate  the  perception  of 
light:  so  that  the  development  of  the 
plant- world  has  evidently  been  gov- 
erned by  the  same  general  laws  of 
adaptation  to  environment  that  have 
been  at  work  in  the  animal  kingdom. 
But  we  have  no  evidence  of  plant-con- 
sciousness.' 

We  see,  therefore,  that  the  scientists 


themselves  sometimes  hesitate  to  fol- 
low their  statements  and  assumptions 
to  their  logical  conclusions.  If  plants 
possess  rudimentary  eyes  so  similar  in 
structure  to  those  of  animals  that  'if 
they  belonged  to  animals  they  might 
mediate  the  perception  of  light,'  why 

should  we  not  assume  that  thev  reallv 

^          «,' 

serve  as  eyes?  Such  an  assumption 
seems  natural  enough,  unless,  per- 
chance, it  can  be  shown  that  animals 
and  plants  are  essentially  different  in 
nature,  —  a  view,  however,  which  all 
the  biological  work  of  recent  years  has 
tended  to  refute. 


ii 

Primitive  men  evidently  regarded 
plants  as  living,  acting,  and  feeling 
creatures.  A  poetical  expression  of  this 
is  found  in  the  dryads  who  were  part 
of  each  tree,  living  and  dying  with  it. 
The  Russian  and  the  Norwegian  folk- 
songs are  permeated  by  the  same  idea. 
Aristotle,  however,  announced  that 
while  both  animals  and  plants  have 
souls,  plants  lack  sensation  or  feeling. 
The  pith  he  assumed  to  be  the  seat  of 
the  soul  of  plants  and  the  controlling 
centre  of  physiological  processes.  In 
the  era  of  Linnaeus  a  somewhat  dif- 
ferent idea  prevailed.  It  finds  expres- 
sion in  his  phrase:  *  Stones  grow;  plants 
grow  and  live;  animals  grow,  live,  and 
feel.' 

It  is  safe  to  say  that  Linnaeus  did 
not  think  of  plants  as  possessing  souls, 
or  minds,  or  any  form  of  conscious- 
ness. Under  the  influence  of  this  emi- 
nent systematic  botanist,  the  study 
of  plants  was  restricted  to  collecting, 
drying,  and  pressing  specimens,  and 
to  wrangling  over  names.  It  is  only 
within  the  last  century  that  students 
of  plants  have  freed  themselves  from 
the  influence  of  Linnaeus,  and  have 
begun  to  study  the  complex  processes 
of  life  as  they  occur  in  the  plant  world. 


636 


MIND  IN  PLANTS 


Experimentation  has  largely  replaced 
collecting  and  preserving.  This  study 
of  plants  as  living  things  has  gradually 
broken  down  the  Aristotelian  bound- 
ary wall  between  animals  and  plants. 
And  from  the  ruins  of  the  wall  has 
arisen  a  common  biology  which  is  quite 
as  much  concerned  with  the  likenesses 
between  animals  and  plants  as  with 
their  differences. 

The  discovery  that  the  unit  of  struc- 
ture, the  cell,  is  strikingly  similar  in 
plants  and  animals  was  one  of  the  first 
great  advances  in  this  common  bio- 
logy. The  cell  indeed  has  been  found  to 
possess  almost  identical  properties  in 
the  two  kingdoms.  *  Living  protoplasm,' 
exclaims  the  noted  botanist  Haber- 
landt,  *  whether  its  origin  be  animal  or 
plant,  hides  in  itself  all  the  great  riddles 
of  life,  whose  solution  we  are  always 
joyfully,  but  with  varying  success, 
striving  for.' 

A  second  important  step  in  the 
establishing  of  a  strictly  scientific  bot- 
any resulted  from  the  recognition  that 
the  power  of  intelligent  movement, 
which  previously  had  been  regarded 
as  an  attribute  of  animals  alone,  exists 
equally  among  the  lower  plants.  This 
discovery  was  made  with  the  aid  of 
the  microscope,  which  revealed  to  the 
observer  myriads  of  tiny  plants,  creep- 
ing, crawling,  whirling,  with  a  rapid- 
ity and  complexity  of  motion  equal  to 
that  of  animals.  Bacteria,  Diatoms, 
Desmids,  and  the  swarmspores  of 
many  algae  and  fungi,  were  discovered 
to  be  capable  of  extreme  and  varied 
activity. 

Yet  another  step  forward  was  taken 
when  leading  botanists  came  to  admit 
the  existence  of  irritability  in  certain 
plants. 

Says  Haberlandt,  'The  existence 
of  living  substance  is  so  sharply  dis- 
tinguished by  no  fundamental  prop- 
erty as  by  irritability.  Not  only  animal 
but  plant  protoplasm  is  fitted  to  receive 


different  external  changes  as  stimuli. 
When  the  sensitive  plant  at  a  rough 
touch  lowers  its  petioles  and  clasps  its 
leaflets  together;  when  a  stem,  illu- 
minated on  one  side,  turns  toward  the 
source  of  light;  or  when  bacteria  swarm 
together  upon  a  piece  of  nutrient  sub- 
stance, we  have  to  do  with  irritable 
movements  which  are  fully  analogous 
to  those  which  play  such  an  important 
role  in  the  life  of  animals. 

'  The  irritability  of  animals  has  been 
regarded  for  ages  as  indicative  of  sen- 
sation and  perception.  Nothing  can 
deter  us,  once  the  similarity  of  sensory 
movements  in  the  animal  and  the  plant 
kingdoms  is  fully  recognized,  from 
ascribing  to  plants  both  sensation  and 
perception.' 

It  is  interesting  that  this  view  of  the 
plant  world  should  have  been  prophe- 
sied long  ago  by  Fechner  the  philoso- 
pher, in  his  book  entitled  Nanna,  oder 
das  Seelenleben  der  Pflanzen,  wherein, 
to  quote  Haberlandt  again,  *  the  most 
delicate  phantasies  of  the  "  Marchener- 
zahler  "  twine  like  blossoming  branches 
around  the  strong  scaffolding  of  scien- 
tific thought.'  Fechner  ascribed  to 
plants  a  richly  developed  sensory  life. 
He  would  have  taken  keen  satisfaction 
could  he  have  lived  to  see  the  confir- 
mation of  his  views  which  has  result- 
ed from  the  studies  of  the  structure 
and  behavior  of  plants  made  during 
the  last  twenty  years. 


in 

In  applying  the  term  'mind*  to 
plants,  we  should  of  course  note  that 
we  are  dealing  with  extremely  elemen- 
tary or  simple  mental  processes.  We 
have  no  reason  to  assume,  or  even  to 
suspect,  that  such  complex  experiences 
as  our  human  perceptions,  emotions, 
and  thoughts,  exist  in  plants.  The 
psychologist  whom  we  have  already 
quoted  presents  three  classes  of  ele- 


MIND  IN  PLANTS 


637 


mentary  mental  processes:  sensations, 
images,  and  affections.  Of  these  sev- 
eral simple  varieties  of  consciousness, 
sensations  are  the  only  ones  which  we 
can  safely  attribute  to  plants. 

By  the  work  of  many  observers,  and 
especially  by  that  of  the  ingenious 
physiologist  Jagadis  Chunder  Bose, 
it  has  been  established,  recently,  that 
changes  occurring  about  plants  may 
act  as  stimuli,  and  thus,  through  the 
releasing  of  vital  energy,  occasion  forms 
of  response  which  are  no  less  interest- 
ingly adaptive  than  are  those  exhibited 
by  animals.  By  means  of  marvelously 
sensitive  devices,  the  essential  feature 
of  which  is  the  *  optical  lever/  Bose  has 
been  enabled  to  detect  movements  in 
response  to  stimulation  in  many  plants, 
organs,  and  tissues.  It  has  also  been 
amply  demonstrated  that  in  plants,  as 
in  animals,  the  organ  which  responds 
to  a  stimulus  may  be  at  a  considerable 
distance  from  the  place  at  which  the 
stimulus  is  received. 

Darwin  it  was  who  noted  that  a  root 
placed  horizontally  receives  the  stimu- 
lus of  gravity  in  the  root-cap,  while  the 
bending  which  causes  the  root  to  turn 
downward  occurs  at  some  distance  from 
the  cap.  It  is  evident  that  this  spa- 
tial separation  of  point  of  stimulus  and 
point  of  response  indicates  the  exist- 
ence of  something  similar  to  nerve-im- 
pulses, and  indeed  most  students  of  the 
subject  freely  admit  that  plants  exhibit 
certain  physiological  processes  ana- 
logous to  the  so-called  conduction  of 
impulses  by  nerves.  In  some  plants 
this  conduction  is  pretty  obviously  a 
purely  mechanical  process.  This  is  the 
case  in  the  well-known  sensitive  plant, 
Mimosa  pudica,  wherein  responsive- 
ness to  stimuli  or  sensitivity  was  first 
observed  and  is  to-day  most  widely 
known. 

The  pressure  of  fluid  in  a  peculiar 
system  of  tubes  conveys  the  effect  of 
a  touch  or  jar  to  distant  parts  of  the 


sensitive  plant,  and  these,  in  their 
turn,  so  act  as  to  occasion  movement. 
Thus  a  light  touch  at  one  point  causes 
a  very  pronounced  movement  of  the 
leaves  of  mimosa.  And  by  striking  a 
group  of  these  plants  with  a  stick,  one 
may  cause  a  wave  of  response  which 
resembles  the  effect  of  a  strong  wind 
on  a  field  of  grain.  For  the  majority 
of  plants,  however,  it  has  been  dis- 
covered that  conduction  occurs  in  the 
living  substance  of  the  cell  in  which 
delicate  threads  of  protoplasm,  ex- 
tending through  the  boundary  walls  of 
the  cell,  form  continuous  paths  sug- 
gestive of  the  form  of  nerve-fibres  in 
animals. 

But  even  after  the  process  of  sensory 
response  and  transmission  of  impulses 
had  been  thoroughly  established,  plant 
physiologists  were  loath  to  believe  in 
the  existence  of  special  sense-organs 
for  the  reception  of  stimuli  in  plants. 
For  a  time,  it  was  thought  that  their 
sensitivity  was  merely  an  expression  of 
a  capacity  given  to  all  living  cells.  It 
was  Haberlandt  who,  on  the  assump- 
tion that  division  of  labor  is  the  rule  in 
connection  with  the  varied  processes  of 
both  plants  and  animals,  undertook 
a  thorough  search  for  definite  sense- 
organs. 

As  a  result  of  this  search,  he  was 
able  to  distinguish  and  to  describe  in 
detail  three  degrees  of  complexity  in 
sensory  development.  There  is,  first, 
a  generally  distributed  irritability  or 
sensibility  to  stimuli.  This  is  a  condi- 
tion to  which  the  term  sense-organ  does 
not  strictly  apply.  As  a  result  of  its 
diffused  or  general  irritability,  a  plant 
may  respond  to  a  stimulus  in  much  the 
same  way  wherever  it  happens  to  act. 
A  more  complex  condition  is  that  in 
which  the  stimulus-receiving  organs 
are  situated  in  a  particular  portion  or 
tissue  of  the  plant.  Thus  it  has  been 
found  that  the  outer  layer  of  cells  or 
epidermis  of  many  plants  serves  the 


638 


MIND  IN  PLANTS 


protective  function,  but  is  also  sensi- 
tive to  light  and  to  contact.  Finally, 
the  third  degree  of  specialization  is 
exhibited  in  plants  which  possess  cer- 
tain cells,  parts  of  cells,  or  cell-groups, 
which,  by  their  form,  are  highly  adapt- 
ed for  the  reception  of  changes  which 
may  act  as  stimuli.  These  latter  struct- 
ures are  truly  sense-organs,  and  they  are 
in  a  variety  of  ways  comparable  with 
the  sense-organs  of  animals. 

There  are  known,  in  animals,  special 
organs  for  the  reception  of  a  great 
variety  of  stimuli.  Thus  we  recognize 
organs  for  the  reception  of  heat  and 
cold,  light,  sound,  contact,  pressure, 
and  a  variety  of  chemical  changes.  But 
in  the  plant,  the  range  of  special  sense- 
organs  is  more  narrowly  limited.  We 
know,  to-day,  of  special  organs  in 
certain  plants,  for  the  reception  of 
mechanical  stimuli,  such  as  contact, 
friction,  pressure,  shock,  or  jars;  for  the 
influence  of  gravity  or  the  pull  of  the 
earth  on  the  plant;  and  for  certain 
kinds  of  light.  It  is  practically  certain 
that  plants  are  affected  in  varied  ways 
by  changes  in  temperature  and  in  chem- 
ical conditions,  yet  no  special  organs 
for  the  reception  of  these  stimuli  have 
been  discovered. 

The  principle  of  construction  which 
appears  in  the  sense-organs  of  plants  is 
that  of  an  outer  stationary  layer  of 
protoplasm,  which  lines  the  sensitive 
cell,  and  of  varied  and  peculiar  con- 
trivances which  limit  and  direct  the 
stimulus  to  the  sensitive  portion  of  the 
cell.  Precisely  what  takes  place  in  the 
living  substance  of  the  sensitive  plant- 
cell,  we  do  not  know,  but  a  series  of 
processes,  supposedly  chemical  in  na- 
ture, occur,  the  last  of  which  is  a  motor 
event  which  is  appropriately  described 
as  a  response  to  the  stimulus  which  in- 
itiated the  chain  of  events. 

There  are  three  kinds  of  organs  for 
the  reception  of  mechanical  stimuli. 
They  are  known  as  sensitive  spots,  sen- 


sitive papillae,  and  sensitive  hairs  or 
bristles. 

Sensitive  spots  were  first  observed 
by  Pfeffer  on  the  tendrils  of  the  family 
of  vines  called  Cucurbitacece.  This  fam- 
ily includes  such  plants  as  the  cucum- 
ber, melon,  squash,  gourds,  and  pump- 
kins. Near  the  tip  and  on  the 'concave 
or  under  side  of  the  tendrils  of  these 
vines,  Pfeffer  located  highly  sensitive 
areas.  They  proved  to  be  thin  spots 
in  the  outer  wall  of  cells,  filled  with 
protoplasm  in  which  appear  crystals  of 
calcium  oxalate. 

The  so-called  papillae  are  projections 
of  the  cells  which  form  the  outer  layer  or 
epidermis  of  the  plant,  are  thin-walled, 
and  filled  with  living  substance.  They 
are  found  on  such  organs  as  the  fila- 
ments of  various  flowers,  and  to  the 
observer  who  is  familiar  with  sense- 
organs  of  animals,  their  structure  is 
highly  suggestive  of  a  receptive  func- 
tion. When  touched,  they  cause  a 
rapid  bending  of  the  entire  stamen  of 
the  flower,  and  thus  the  pollen  is  scat- 
tered over  the  intruding  cause  of  stim- 
ulation: This  cause,  to  be  sure,  is  fre- 
quently an  active  insect  which,  in  turn, 
serves  as  a  carrier  of  the  pollen  to 
other  flowers.  In  a  most  interesting 
way,  the  flower  is  itself  thus  enabled, 
by  responding  to  mechanical  stimuli, 
to  further  the  process  of  cross-fertili- 
zation. 

The  sensitive  hairs  or  bristles  may 
be  simple  or  complex,  constituted  by 
one  or  by  many  cells.  A  typical  ex- 
ample of  this  sort  of  sense-organ  is  the 
bristle  of  the  cushion-like  enlargement 
of  that  portion  of  the  leaf  of  the  sensi- 
tive plant  Mimosa  pudica  which  is  the 
point  of  attachment  to  the  stem.  This 
is  known,  technically,  as  the  primary 
pulvinus  of  the  leaf.  On  this  cushion- 
like  structure  appear  bristles,  the  bases 
of  which  are  bedded  in  the  substance 
of  the  pulvinus,  literal  'thorns  in  the 
flesh.'  Each  bristle  consists  of  a  nun> 


MIND  IN  PLANTS 


639 


her  of  thick-walled  cells,  but  toward 
the  tip  it  tapers  to  a  single  cell.  When 
such  a  bristle  is  touched,  the  stimulus 
is  immediately  transmitted  to  the  cells 
of  the  cushion,  or  pulvinus,  and  changes 
therein  cause  the  petiole,  or  supporting 
structure  of  the  leaf,  to  drop.  The 
transmission  of  the  stimulus  to  the 
pulvini  of  the  leaflets  causes  them  to 
fold  together.  Thus,  in  an  instant  and 
as  the  result  of  contact  with  a  single 
bristle,  the  plant  folds  up  as  though  to 
protect  itself  from  further  stimulation. 
Most  interesting  in  this  whole  response 
is  the  surprising  rapidity  with  which 
the  apparently  trivial  stimulation  of 
a  single  bristle  at  the  base  of  a  leaf 
is  transmitted  through  the  plant  and 
effects  the  general  response. 

Yet  other  excellent  examples  of  the 
response  of  plants  to  mechanical  stim- 
ulation are  furnished  by  the  sundew 
and  the  Venus  fly-trap.  When  an 
insect  alights  upon  an  open  leaf  of  the 
sundew,  its  movements  are  impeded 
by  a  sticky  secretion,  and  in  its  strug- 
gles to  escape,  it  so  stimulates  the  leaf 
that  the  glandular  hairs  which  cover 
the  surface  of  the  leaf,  and  the  edges 
of  the  leaf  itself,  slowly  close  over  it 
and  imprison  it.  The  nutritive  por- 
tions of  its  body  are  thereupon  digested 
by  the  secretions  of  other  glandular 
hairs.  After  this  process  is  complete, 
the  leaf  reopens  and  the  dry  shell  of 
the  insect  is  carried  away  by  the  wind. 
The  response  of  the  Venus  fly-trap  is 
more  startling,  for  by  it  the  insect  is 
suddenly  entrapped.  Sensitive  bristles 
on  the  leaves  are  responsible  for  the 
reaction.  It  is  when  the  insect  comes  in 
contact  with  one  or  more  of  these 
bristles  that  the  leaves  suddenly  close. 
Thus,  in  the  case  of  both  Drosera,  or, 
as  it  is  popularly  known,  sundew,  and 
Dionsea,  or  the  Venus  fly-trap,  prey  is 
captured  as  a  result  of  response  to 
stimulation  of  the  plant  by  the  ill- 
fated  insect. 


There  is  another  group  of  responses, 
complex,  and  for  a  long  time  imper- 
fectly understood,  which  demands  ex- 
amination. Since  so  many  plants  are 
stationary,  spending  most  of  their  lives 
rooted  to  one  spot,  it  is  essential  that 
they  be  able  so  to  orient  themselves  as 
to  obtain  those  conditions  most  favor- 
able for  growth  and  reproduction.  One 
portion  of  the  plant  should  reach  down 
into  the  soil  to  anchor  it  firmly  and  to 
draw  therefrom  water  and  nutrient 
substances.  Other  portions  should 
spread  out  where  they  may  obtain  air 
and  light.  The  discovery  of  the  me- 
chanism whereby  these  adjustments  to 
the  environment  are  achieved  is  pecul- 
iarly interesting. 

Early  in  the  last  century,  experiment 
revealed  that  when  a  seedling  is  placed 
horizontally,  the  tip  of  its  root  gradu- 
ally turns  downward,  whereas  the  stem 
of  the  plant  turns  upward.  The  for- 
mer responds  positively  to  the  influ- 
ence of  gravity,  seeking  the  earth ;  the 
other,  negatively,  avoiding  the  earth 
and  seeking  the  sunlight.  If  the  same 
kind  of  seedling  be  rotated  slowly  on 
a  wheel  so  that  all  parts  are  in  like 
manner  and  in  turn  subjected  to  the 
action  of  gravity,  these  bendings  do 
not  occur. 

Charles  Darwin,  about  the  year 
1881,  called  attention  to  the  fact  that 
sensitiveness  to  the  influence  of  grav- 
ity was  apparently  limited  in  the  seed- 
ling to  the  central  portion  of  the  root- 
cap  which  covers  the  tip  of  the  root, 
although  the  response  to  stimulation 
by  gravity  occurs  as  the  result  of 
growth  in  a  region  of  the  root  at  some 
distance  back  of  the  tip.  This  region 
is  that  of  most  active  growth  in  the 
root. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  largely  as  the  result  of  certain 
zoological  discoveries,  an  important 
step  toward  the  explanation  of  the  bend- 
ing of  root  and  stem  in  seedlings  was 


640 


MIND  IN  PLANTS 


taken .  Zoologists  had  observed  in  vari- 
ous animals  little  organs  constructed 
like  sense-organs  which  were  at  first 
supposed  to  be  organs  of  hearing.  They 
consist,  in  essence,  of  a  fluid-filled  sack, 
the  walls  of  which  are  formed  of  living 
cells.  In  the  fluid  of  this  sack  are  sus- 
pended crystals  or  masses  of  inorganic 
material.  The  sack  is  lined  with  hairs 
or  bristles,  and  as  the  crystals  or  groups 
of  crystals  move  about  as  the  result  of 
changes  in  the  position  of  the  animal, 
they  come  in  contact  with  these  hairs 
and  apparently  stimulate  them.  These 
organs,  at  first  called  otocysts  or  ear- 
sacks,  were  subsequently  named  stato- 
cysts,  and  the  inorganic  masses,  stato- 
liths. 

It  is  now  definitely  known  that 
the  statocyst  is  an  organ,  sensitive  to 
changes  in  the  position  of  an  animal's 
body  and  capable  of  so  controlling  the 
muscles  as  to  maintain  the  normal 
position.  Thus  if  such  a  creature  as  the 
crayfish  be  turned  on  its  back  or  side, 
the  unusual  position  so  stimulates  the 
hairs  of  the  statocyst  that  righting 
movements  are  set  up. 

Two  botanists,  Haberlandt  and 
Nemec,  working  independently,  were 
struck  by  the  similarity  between  the 
structure  of  the  statocysts  of  animals 
and  that  of  cells  in  the  roots  of  plants. 
For  in  certain  of  the  cells  of  plants  they 
discovered  starch  grains  suggestive  of 
the  statoliths  found  in  animals.  It  was 
not  difficult  for  them  to  imagine  these 
starch  grains  acting  as  stimulating 
mechanisms  and  determining  the  direc- 
tion of  movement  of  root  or  stem.  In- 
deed it  is  now  generally  believed  that 
gravity,  acting  upon  these  solid  parti- 
cles in  certain  cells,  so  stimulates  the 
protoplasm  of  those  cells  as  to  cause 
more  rapid  growth  in  some  regions  of 
the  plant  than  in  others.  It  is  this 
unequal  or  asymmetric  growth,  occur- 
ring often  at  some  distance  from  the 
point  of  stimulation,  which  causes  the 


root  to  bend  downward  and  the  stem 
to  bend  upward. 

Apropos  of  this  conception,  Darwin 
himself  said,  'It  is  hardly  an  exaggera- 
tion to  say  that  the  tip  of  the  radicle 
thus  endowed,  and  having  the  power 
of  directing  the  movements  of  the 
adjoining  parts,  acts  like  the  brain  of 
one  of  the  lower  animals;  the  brain 
being  seated  within  the  anterior  end  of 
the  body,  receiving  impressions  from 
the  sense-organs,  and  directing  the  sev- 
eral movements.' 

These  starch  grains  are  found  in 
both  stems  and  leaves.  They  are  stored 
in  cells  which  form  a  layer  of  the 
parenchyma  in  leaves  and  a  hollow 
cylinder  in  stems.  In  these  positions, 
starch  is  found  even  when  it  is  entirely 
absent  in  other  portions  of  the  plant. 
It  is  significant  that  in  those  few  cases 
in  which  plant-roots  do  not  respond  to 
the  influence  of  gravity,  starch  grains 
are  lacking.  Altogether,  the  view  that 
these  particles  are  chiefly  responsible 
for  certain  of  the  important  directive 
movements  in  plants  is  well  supported 
by  facts. 

IV 

But  there  is  yet  another  environ- 
mental agency  which  obviously  has 
much  to  do  with  controlling  the  move- 
ments of  plants.  This  is  light.  It  is  a 
matter  of  common  observation  that  in 
response  to  changes  in  the  amount  of 
light,  certain  flowers  open  and  close 
and  many  leaves  change  position. 
Thus  the  appearance  of  many  plants 
changes  completely  with  the  fall  of 
night.  It  is  also  generally  known  that 
one-sided  illumination  has  its  marked 
effects.  Plants  in  a  sunny  window  need 
to  be  turned  from  time  to  time  if  they 
are  to  be  prevented  from  becoming 
asymmetric. 

In  many  cases  it  seems  as  if  the  en- 
tire plant  were  sensitive  to  light.  An 
instance  of  this  is  found  in  the  so-called 


MIND  IN  PLANTS 


641 


sleep  movements  of  plants,  where  the 
leaves  or  flowers  close  and  droop  at  the 
approach  of  night.  But  there  are  other 
cases  in  which  the  stimulation  seems  to 
act  only  upon  certain  portions  of  the 
organism.  Thus  it  has  been  pointed 
out  that  in  the  leaves  of  some  plants 
the  outer  wall  of  the  cells  of  the  upper 
epidermis  arches  outward,  thus  making 
of  each  cell  a  plano-convex  lens.  The 
light  is  concentrated  by  this  means 
upon  the  middle  field  of  the  inner  wall 
of  each  cell  where  lies  the  sensitive 
protoplasm  which  receives  the  stimu- 
lus. 

In  other  plants  a  single  cell  of  this 
epidermis  here  and  there  is  special- 
ized in  form  to  receive  the  stimulus.  It 
has  been  found  possible  to  print  on  pho- 
tographic paper  through  the  carefully 
removed  epidermis  of  a  leaf.  The  result- 
ing print  shows  plainly  dark  spots 
where  the  light  has  been  concentrated 
by  the  lens-like  action  of  the  cells. 

There  is  much  discussion  concerning 
the  response  of  plants  to  light,  and 
many  important  matters  are  still  un- 
settled. In  a  recent  book  devoted  to  a 
study  of  Light  and  the  Behavior  of  Or- 
ganisms, Mast  has  successfully  present- 
ed both  facts  and  controversies.  Thus 
he  observes  with  reference  to  the  gen- 
eral regulatory  value  of  light  to  plants, 
that  leaves  for  the  most  part  tend  to 
take  a  position  which  facilitates  the 
processes  of  food-making,  and  that 
other  portions  of  plants  likewise  assume 
what  is  evidently  the  most  favorable 
position  for  growth  and  reproduction. 
The  effect  of  light  is  so  to  regulate  the 
responses  of  a  plant  that  it  more  per- 
fectly adapts  itself  to  its  immediate 
environmental  conditions.  Thus  it  is 
noted  that  in  intense  light  certain  plant 
structures,  the  chloroplasts  which  con- 
tain the  green  coloring  matter,  assume 
a  position  in  the  cell  parallel  with  the 
rays  of  light,  so  as  to  receive  as  little  of 
the  light  as  possible.  Certain  leaves, 

VOL.114-NO.  5 


under  intense  illumination,  turn  so 
that  the  edge  of  the  blade  is  directed 
toward  the  light. 

In  addition  to  their  simple  sensory 
responses,  many  examples  of  which 
have  been  presented,  plants  exhibit 
certain  other  forms  or  aspects  of  be- 
havior which  are  of  psychological  in- 
terest. Among  other  things  it  has  been 
demonstrated  that  the  relation  of  stim- 
ulation to  response,  at  any  rate  in 
certain  cases,  conforms  to  the  Weber- 
Fechner  law.  According  to  this  law,  a 
certain  definite  relation  holds  between 
increase  of  strength  of  stimulus  and 
appreciable  change  in  response.  It  has 
been  demonstrated,  also,  with  plants 
as  with  animals,  that  a  stimulus  too 
weak  to  induce  a  response  becomes 
effective  upon  repetition.  This  is  com- 
monly known  as  the  phenomenon  of 
summation  of  stimuli.  Fatigue  as  the 
result  of  stimulation  is  exhibited  by 
plants  as  well  as  by  animals. 

The  behavior  of  plants  is  also  vari- 
able and  shows  definite  relations  both 
to  the  internal  conditions  of  the  plant 
itself  and  the  various  aspects  of  environ- 
ment. There  are  indeed  innumerable 
instances  of  variation  in  response  to 
change  in  the  amount  and  character  of 
the  stimulus.  Thus  the  seedling  which 
bends  toward  a  moderately  strong  light 
bends  in  the  opposite  direction  if  the 
light  becomes  intense.  Likewise,  it  has 
been  noted  that  many  free-moving 
plants  which  swim  toward  a  source  of 
light  of  low  intensity  swim  away  from  a 
stronger  light.  Such  reactions  as  these 
have  been  observed  in  various  marine 
and  fresh-water  algae,  in  diatoms,  in 
the  tendrils  of  Ampelopsis  and  Vitis. 
They  are  obviously  of  importance  in 
the  life  of  the  plant,  for  they  tend  to 
keep  it  in  those  conditions  which  are 
favorable. 

The  following  quotation  from  Mast 
calls  attention  to  an  aspect  of  the  modi- 
fiability  of  behavior  in  plants  which  is 


642 


MIND  IN  PLANTS 


worthy  of  careful  investigation :  *  It  has 
long  been  known  that  changes  in  light 
cause  daily  periodic  movements  in 
plants,  the  so-called  sleep  movements 
of  leaves  and  flowers,  and  that  these 
movements  continue  for  some  time  if 
the  plant  is  kept  in  continuous  illu- 
mination. They  are  at  first  pronoun- 
ced, both  in  constant  light  and  in  dark- 
ness .  .  .  and  they  continue  to  be  per- 
ceptible until  after  the  lapse  of  from 
four  to  eight  days.' 


Reactions  to  light  are  not  the  only 
ones,  however,  in  which  modifiability 
occurs  when  conditions  of  environ- 
ment change.  The  sensitive  plant, 
which  ordinarily  closes  its  leaves  at  the 
slightest  jar,  will,  if  subjected  to  the 
continual  jarring  of  a  train  or  wagon, 
after  a  time  open  its  leaves  and  let 
them  remain  open.  The  leaf-petioles  of 
Clematis  vitalba  twine  around  any  sup- 
port and  perform  the  function  of  ten- 
drils. One  experimenter  made  fast  the 
stems  of  the  vine,  so  that  the  clinging 
of  the  petioles  was  rendered  superflu- 
ous and  they  then  did  not  react  at  all. 
When  the  same  stems  were  again  freed 
and  allowed  to  wave  in  the  wind,  the 
petioles  at  once  took  hold  and  began 
to  twine.  Limnophila  heterophylla,  an 
amphibious  plant  of  the  tropics,  has 
finely  divided  leaves  under  the  surface 
of  the  water,  entire  ones  above  it.  If  a 
stem  of  entire  leaves  is  sunk  beneath 
the  surface,  it  develops  side  branches 
bearing  finely  divided  leaves. 

Another  case  of  adaptation  is  that 
of  the  Russian  teasel  (Dipsacus  lacin- 
iatus)  which  grows  on  the  dry  steppes 
of  Eastern  Europe.  Every  pair  of  the 
leaves  grows  together  around  the  stem, 
forming  a  little  cup  which  the  rain 
fills.  When  the  supply  of  water  in  the 
earth  is  not  adequate,  the  plant  devel- 
ops suction-cells  in  the  bottom  of  this 


cup  which  absorb  the  stored-up  water. 
Moreover,  it  also  sends  out  little  proto- 
plasmic hairs  which  absorb  nutriment 
from  the  bodies  of  small  insects  which 
become  drowned  in  the  water  of  the 
cups.  No  other  members  of  the  teasel 
or  thistle  family  have  such  contriv- 
ances, which  seem  to  have  been  devel- 
oped only  as  an  'occasional  expedient.' 
May  not  this  be  considered  an  example 
of  an  instinct? 

We  speak  of  the  bird's  song  in  the 
springtime,  of  the  display  of  plumage 
and  the  various  antics  in  the  courtship 
of  birds,  as  expressions  of  the  sex-in- 
stincts. What  should  we  say  of  the 
following  series  of  events  in  the  life  of 
the  little  water-plant,  Vallisneria  spi- 
ralis?  The  stamens  and  pistils  are 
borne  in  separate  flowers,  entirely  sub- 
merged in  the  water.  The  female 
flower  is  attached  to  a  long  stem  which 
.  is  coiled  tightly.  When  the  flowers  are 
ripe,  this  stem  uncoils  and  the  flower 
rises  to  the  surface  of  the  water.  The 
male  flower  has  no  such  coil,  so  it  sim- 
ply breaks  away  from  its  stem,  rises 
and  floats  on  the  surface.  Pollination 
is  effected  there,  whereupon  the  male 
flower  floats  away,  withers,  and  dies. 
The  stem  of  the  female  flower  coils  up 
again,  drawing  it  down  under  the  wa- 
ter, where  the  fruit  is  perfected  and 
the  seed  sown. 

Chemical  processes?  Yes,  but  how 
do  they  differ  from  the  instinctive  act 
of  an  animal?  To  say  that  the  instinct- 
consciousness  is  lacking  is  beside  the 
mark,  for  such  a  statement  can  rest 
only  on  the  assumption  that  plants  are 
unconscious.  The  unprejudiced  obser- 
ver must  admit  that  instinctive  activi- 
ties appear  in  both  plants  and  animals, 
and  like  similar  responses  to  stimuli  pos- 
sess essentially  the  same  characteristics 
in  both.  As  for  the  instinct-conscious- 
ness, if  the  observer  considers  fairly  the 
evidences  upon  which  his  admission  of 
consciousness  in  animals  rests,  he  will 


MIND  IN  PLANTS 


643 


find  it  easier  to  acknowledge  affective 
consciousness  in  plants  than  to  deny  it 
or  to  disprove  its  existence. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  adduce  further 
illustrations  of  the  activities  of  plants. 
Let  us  review  those  which  have  been 
offered  in  their  relations  to  the  subject 
of  consciousness.  The  whole  argument 
rests,  of  course,  on  analogy.  Those 
philosophers  who  maintain  that  we  can 
know  or  affirm  nothing  of  any  con- 
sciousness except  our  own,  individu- 
ally, will  deny  the  possibility  of  mind 
in  animals  or  plants.  Yet  most  people 
are  willing  to  admit  that  other  human 
beings  have  minds  similar  to  theirs  be- 
cause their  words  and  actions  are  sim- 
ilar to  their  own.  It  is  perfectly  true, 
however,  that  actions  speak  louder 
than  words,  and  on  .that  principle,  the 
way  in  which  animals  'even  down  to 
the  lowest  forms'  meet  the  situations 
of  their  lives,  gives  us  cause  to  believe 
that  they,  too,  are  conscious.  Yet  if 
the  lowest  animals,  why  not  the  lowest 
plants? 

The  theory  of  evolution  postulates 
a  common  or  at  least  a  similar  origin 
for  both.  Many  forms  have  in  some 
measure  the  characteristics  of  both 


animals  and  plants,  so  that  it  is  hard 
to  decide  under  which  head  they  are 
to  be  classified. 

Furthermore,  we  have  seen  that 
plants,  like  animals,  possess  at  least 
the  simplest  psychic  powers,  those  of 
sensation  and  perception.  They  are 
capable  of  perceiving  stimuli,  having 
for  that  purpose,  in  many  cases,  sense- 
organs  similar  to  those  of  animals. 
They  are  able  to  transmit  these  stimuli 
to  all  parts  of  the  plant  body.  They 
respond  appropriately  to  these  stimuli, 
by  means  of  movements,  either  *  spon- 
taneous' or  effected  by  growth.  They 
are  capable  of  varying  and  modifying 
these  responses  to  a  considerable  ex- 
tent. The  relation  of  stimulus  and 
response  follows  certain  psycho-physi- 
cal laws  wliich  have  also  been  worked 
out  for  animals,  namely,  the  Weber- 
Fechner  law,  and  the  law  of  summation. 
They  perform  a  relatively  complex 
series  of  acts  adapted  to  a  definite  fu- 
ture end,  a  primitive  form  of  instinct. 

Whether  further  observation,  ex- 
perimentation, or  analysis  will  reveal 
evidences  of  the  higher  forms  of  men- 
tal life  in  plants,  —  imagination,  emo- 
tion, ideas,  —  who  can  say? 


NOVEMBER  IN  THE   CITY 

BY    EDITH   WYATT 

TO-NIGHT  the  rain  blows  down  from  misty  places 

Above  the  roof-tops  where  the  pigeons  fly; 

And  quick  the  steps,  intent  the  city's  faces 

That  say  that  we  must  hurry  —  you  and  I. 

Oh,  why?  So  much  speeds  through  this  twilight  rain- time, 

That 's  not  worth  keeping  up  with.  By-and-by 

We  '11  wonder  why  we  always  knew  the  train-time, 

And  yet  knew  not  November  —  you  and  I. 

In  quiet  let  us  hark.  Not  till  we  listen 

Shall  any  song  arise  for  you  and  me: 

Nor  ever  this  broad-stippling  music  glisten 

Twice-told  at  twilight  down  the  city  sea. 

The  fog-horns  call.  The  lake-winds  rush.  Just  lately 

I  watched  the  city  lights  bloom  star  on  star 

Along  the  streets,  and  terrace-spaced  and  stately 

Touch  moated  height  and  coronet  afar. 

November's  winds  blow  towards  the  garnered  grain-land. 

Blue-buoyed  all  the  shepherd  whistles  bay; 

And  flocking  down  Chicago's  dusk-barred  mainland, 

The  steam  and  fog-fleeced  mists  run,  buff  and  gray. 

Silence  and  sound;  wide  echoes;  rain-dropped  spaces; 

Deep-rumbling  dray  and  dripping  trolley-car; 

Steps  multitudinous  and  countless  faces 

Along  the  cloudy  street,  lit  star  on  star. 

Oh,  had  you  thought  that  only  woods  and  oceans 
Were  meant  to  speak  the  truth  to  you  and  me  — 


NOVEMBER  IN  THE  CITY  645 

That  only  tides'  and  stars'  immortal  motions 

Said  we  are  part  of  all  eternity? 

The  rains  that  fall  and  fly  in  silver  tangent, 

The  passing  steps,  the  fogs  that  die  and  live, 

These  chords  that  pale  and  darken,  hushed  and  plangent, 

Sing  proud  the  praise  of  splendors  fugitive. 

For  fleet-pulsed  mists  and  mortal  steps  and  faces 

More  move  me  than  the  tides  that  know  no  years  — 

And  music  blown  from  rain-swept  human  places 

More  stirs  me  than  the  stars  untouched  with  tears. 

I  think  that  such  a  night  as  this  has  never 

Sung  argent  here,  before;  and  not  again 

Will  all  these  tall-roofed  intervals  that  sever 

These  streets  and  corners,  etched  with  lamp-lit  rain 

Tell  just  this  cool- thrilled  tale  of  midland  spaces, 

And  lake-born  mists,  that  black-lined  building's  prow 

That  cuts  the  steam,  this  dream  in  peopled  places 

That  sings  its  deep-breathed  beauty,  here  and  now. 

November  winds  wing  toward  the  garnered  grain-land. 
The  city  lights  have  risen.   Proud  and  free, 

Far  music  swinging  down  the  dusk-barred  mainland 

i 

Cries  we  are  part  of  all  eternity. 

Let  me  remember,  let  me  rise,  and  sing  it! 

For  others  may  the  mountains  be  the  sign, 

Sun,  stars,  the  wooded  earth,  the  seas  that  ring  it, 

Of  melody  immortal.  Here  is  mine. 

This  night,  when  rain  blows  down  through  midland  spaces 

And  lake-born  mists;  a  black-lined  building's  prow 

That  cuts  the  steam;  a  dream  in  peopled  places 

That  sings  its  deep-breathed  beauty  here  and  now. 


THE  DEVASTATION  OF  DENNISPORT 


BY   MARY   HEATON   VORSE 


MY  neighbor,  Mrs.  Captain  Whorf, 
hung  out  the  last  of  her  sheets  on  the 
clothes-line  that  shone  as  yellow  in  the 
sun  as  the  new  rigging  on  a  ship.  She 
approached  the  fence  that  bounded  our 
respective  yards,  leaned  against  it  and 
spoke :  — • 

*  I  hold  with  women  bein'  clean,  and 
I  hold  with  a  woman's  keepin*  her 
house  as  it  should  be  kep',  but  I  don't 
hold  with  no  woman  bein'  so  pizen 
clean  that  she  has  to  keep  her  husband 
in  the  wood-shed ! ' 

From  the  hammock,  Captain  Dan'el 
Whorf,  home  from  a  week's  cruise  on 
the  George,  boomed  forth,  — 

*  I  'd  like  to  see  any  woman  keep  me 
in  the  wood-shed!' 

'I  could  n't  keep  you  in  the  wood- 
shed nor  in  no  other  place  that  you  did 
n't  want  to  be,'  his  wife  retorted,  'but 
you  ain't  married  to  Zephiry  Nicker- 
son.' 

*  Zephiry  Nickerson  could  n't  keep 
me  in  no  wood-shed ! '  boasted  Captain 
Whorf. 

Mrs.  WThorf  surveyed  her  husband 
with  tender  admiration.  He  stood  six 
feet  one  in  his  socks,  and  I  judged 
his  chest  to  be  about  three  feet  thick. 
He  looked  shorter  than  he  was,  on  ac- 
count of  his  ample  shoulders  and  big 
shaggy  head,  a  proud  figure  for  any 
woman  to  call  husband.  The  coast-line 
of  New  England  breeds  men  like  this 
in  no  small  quantities.  Even  after  her 
fond  survey  of  her  lord,  Mrs.  Whorf 
was  forced  to  say :  — 

646 


*  Zephiry  would   keep   you  or  any 
other  man  in  the  wood-shed,  or  in  the 
cellar,  if  she  thought  you  was  goin'  to 
track  dirt.    Cleanness  is  a  principle 
with  Zephiry.'   She  said  it  as  one  who 
had  lived  in  a  community  where  princi- 
ples were  not  vain  beliefs,  but  where 
they  were  the  mainsprings  of  the  lives 
of  people. 

Captain  Whorf  lit  another  cigarette 
and  said  musingly,  half  to  me  and  half 
to  himself,  — 

*  It 's  a  queer  thing  to  think  of  Cap- 
tain Ephraim  Nickerson  not  darin'  to 
set  foot  over  the  door-sill  of  his  own 
kitchen  except  in  his  socks,  and  an 
engraved  invitation  from  his  wife  in 
his  mitt.   Why,  he  would  n't  no  more 
make  free  with  his  own  front  room  than 
a  ship's  boy  would  make  free  with  the 
Ole  Man's  bunk.   He  who 's  owned  his 
own  ship  when  he  was  n't  no  more  'n 
twenty-five!    Why,  Nickersons,  Mis' 
Towner,  have  owned  their  ships  since 
there  was  Nickersons.    Clipper  ships 
they've  owned,  fleets  of  'em.    My  pa 
can  remember  when  down  there,'  he 
pointed  to  the  receding  tide,  *  there  was 
a  wharf  and  alongside  an  waitin'  'd  be 
twenty  or  more  schooners  and  square- 
riggers,  all  Nickersons!    You  always 
saw  Nickersons  comin'  and  goin',  some 
to  the  South  Seas  for  whale  and  ele- 
phant, and  some  to  the  West  In  jys,  and 
others  to  the  coast  o'  Africky,  not  count- 
in'  coast-wise  packets.' 

I  looked  out,  and  where  his  hand 
pointed  were  stumps  of  green  and  rot- 
ting piles,  stretching  out  and  out,  green 
spots  in  the  low-tide  sand,  mute  testi- 


THE  DEVASTATION  OF  DENNISPORT 


647 


mony  of  the  early  days  when  our  mer- 
chant marine  was  a  glory,  and  when 
families  like  Nickersons  sent  their  ves- 
sels out  to  the  four  quarters  of  the 
earth. 

*  Nickersons,'  Captain  Whorf  con- 
tinued, 'was  always  drivers  and  killers, 
mostly  made  like  Cap'n  Ephraim  Nick- 
erson.  You  know,  Mis'  Towner,  the 
kind  that  looks  fat  and  ain't.  The  kind 
that 's  all  solid  meat  from  keel  to  pen- 
nant, an*  soft-spoken  too  with  their 
men.  You'd  ought  to  seen  the  men 
jump  when  Nickerson  spoke  soft  to 
'em!  I  remember  old  Cap'n  Nickerson 
saying  to  my  pop,  — 

'"I  hear  so  much  talk  all  the  time 
about  us  masters  o'  vessels  bein'  rough 
with  our  men !  I ' ve  been  in  the  Chiny 
trade  twenty  years  and  I  was  never 
rough  with  no  man";  and  he  stooped 
down  his  big  shaggy  head  and  looked 
just  like  a  bull  who  was  agoin'  to 
charge,  and  sez  in  his  low  husky  voice, 
' I  didn't  hev  ter  be!"  You  bet  he  did- 
n't hev  ter  be!  There  was  heft  to  the 
words  he  spoke.' 

Thus  did  Cap'n  Dan'el  Whorf  paint 
to  me  the  puissant  graces  of  the  Nick- 
ersons. 'An'  then  when  steam  come,' 
he  went  on,  'most  families  like  Nick- 
ersons was  bust  and  bankrupt.  But 
they  knew  how  to  save  themselves. 
Look  at  Cap'n  Ephraim  Nickerson  in 
a  steam-whaler  sailing  from  Seattle, 
—  look  at  him  now  he's  gettin'  along, 
ownin'  shares  of  a  quarter  of  all  the 
fresh  fishermen  sailin'  from  this  port.' 

He  waved  his  hand  out  toward  the 
harbor.  My  eyes  followed,  and  lying  at 
anchor  I  saw  mirrored  in  the  calm  sur- 
face of  the  bay  the  fleet  of  fresh  fisher- 
men -  -  hundred-foot  schooners,  paint- 
ed black,  as  beautiful  as  any  racing 
yacht,  the  last,  most  perfect  children 
of  a  romantic  and  dying  race,  whose 
very  life  is  even  now  threatened  by  the 
hideous  encroaching  steam-trawlers. 
There  they  lay  at  rest,  lifting  up  their 


proud  masts,  some  of  them  flying  half- 
mast  flags,  which  is  a  signal  for  bait. 
Even  as  I  looked,  one  and  then  another 
made  sail,  and  then,  beautiful  and  ma- 
jestic, floated  off  beyond  the  point;  one 
of  the  most  perfect  and  ideal  expres- 
sions of  the  imagination  of  man,  they 
seemed  to  me,  lovely  and  dignified  and 
poetic. 

The  voice  of  Captain  Whorf  broke  in 
on  me.  'Yes;  he  owns  shares  in  a  quar- 
ter o'  'em  and  has  to  set  in  his  wood- 
shed when  he  wants  to  smoke.' 

To  me  it  seemed  high  romance  to 
own  even  one  little  share  in  one  of  those 
beautiful  and  stately  boats,  now  pro- 
gressing swan-like  out  of  the  sheltering 
harbor. 

Captain  Whorf  followed  them  with 
his  eyes  and  murmured,  — 

'Got  everything  on  to-day,  ain't 
they?  Bet  Nickerson  wishes  he  was 
followin'  the  sea  yet,  some  days!' 

'H'ssh,'  admonished  Mrs.  Whorf, 
'speakin'  of  angels! '  Then  in  a  low  un- 
dertone to  me,  'That's  her  now!' 

There  sailed  down  the  board-walk  a 
woman  as  majestic  as  any  of  her  hus- 
band's ships.  She  was  large-framed, 
finely  set  up  for  all  her  fifty-odd  years, 
wide-browed,  large-eyed,  with  large 
but  delicately  carved  features  that  were 
not  unreminiscent  of  those  of  the  father 
of  our  country.  She  had  the  same  firm 
jaw,  the  same  implacably  calm  mouth 
was  hers;  her  face  was  framed  by  gray- 
ish curls.  She  herself  was  garbed  —  I 
use  the  word  advisedly  —  in  a  gray 
dress  of  rather  flowing  cut,  reminiscent 
of  the  sixties.  She  would  have  looked  a 
personage  anywhere.  August  was  the 
only  word  I  could  think  of  that  applied 
to  her  adequately,  and  the  thing  she 
was  most  like  was  a  splendid  if  some- 
what antiquated  vessel  under  full  sail. 
She  lacked,  just  a  little,  the  mag- 
nificent serenity  of  the  ships  that  sail- 
ed the  sea,  but  none  the  less  she  was 
magnificent.  As  though  reading  my 


648 


THE  DEVASTATION  OF  DENNISPORT 


thought,  Mrs.  Whorf  whispered  in  my 
ear:  — 

'An'  he  tops  her  by  a  half  head  or 
more!' 

She  bore  down  upon  us  superbly  and 
came  to  anchor  near  Mrs.  Whorf.  In- 
troductions were  effected,  and  it  was 
my  good  luck  to  make  friends.  I  found 
myself  engaged  to  go  next  day  and  look 
at  a  collection  of  fur  robes  and  Arctic 
things. 

The  impression  her  house  left  upon 
me  was  of  a  marvelously  immaculate 
ship  now  being  used  as  a  museum,  but 
a  museum  kept  more  exquisitely  and 
wonderfully  clean  than  anyone  could 
imagine. 

I  expressed  my  wonder  at  the  ar- 
rangement and  perfection  of  her  collec- 
tion of  Arctic  things. 

'It  must  be  hard  to  keep  them  in 
such  good  condition,'  I  said;  'it  is  hard 
to  keep  dirt  from  any  house.' 

She  looked  at  me  with  her  clear  eyes. 
*  I  fight  It  day  and  night! '  she  said,  and 
her  mouth  bent  itself  into  a  firm  line, 
and  her  shoulders  squared  themselves. 

I  saw  indeed  that  she  fought  It  day 
and  night,  even  if  she  had  to  pay  a 
price  for  it  and  even  if  Captain  Nicker- 
son  had  to  remain  in  the  wood-shed  as 
part  of  the  price. 

I  saw  that  I  had  before  me  a  splendid 
if  tyrannical  perfectionist.  The  nature 
of  women  must  be  satisfied  and  if  it 
does  not  find  itself  satisfied  in  one  way 
it  will  in  another  —  it  makes  no  differ- 
ence at  what  cost. 

Such  thoughts,  half-formed,  floated 
through  my  mind  as  for  some  seconds 
of  silence  my  eyes  and  those  of  my 
hostess  rested  upon  the  beautiful  out- 
going boats. 

'I  ean  never  look  at  'em,'  said  Mrs. 
Niekerson,  *  without  thinking  what 
whited  sepulchres  they  are!  The  scent 
of  a  fresh  fisherman  is  nothing  for  a 
decent  Christian  woman  to  dwell  upon, 
and  yet,  I  can't  see  them  go  past  with- 


out thinking  of  the  state  the  gurry- 
butts  is  in,  and  what  the  bilge  is  like 
that  is  a-sloshing  about  the  keel!  Oh, 
you  should  have  seen  the  clipper  ships 
of  my  father's  day,  Mis'  Towner,  with 
their  decks  holy-stoned  so  that  they 
shone  in  the  sun  like  a  white  beach  at 
noonday!  And  the  smell  of  some  of  the 
spice-ships  from  the  Injys  —  the  scent 
is  in  my  nostrils  yet!  And  the  look  of 
them,  with  their  cordage  all  coiled  like 
it  seems  no  seaman  knows  how  to  coil 
rope  these  days.  There!  that  is  what 
irritates  me  so  with  Man ! '  The  empha- 
sis which  she  gave  to  this  word  stamped 
her  opinion  of  men.  'Look  how  they 
keep  their  ships,  and  then  see  how  they 
keep  their  houses  on  land!  What  ails 
'em?'  she  cried,  *  holy-stoning  their 
vessels,  going  daft  if  a  bit  of  cordage 
is  adrift;  and  get  'em  ashore  and  they 
wallow!  Wallow  in  the  mud  of  the 
street,  bringing  it  through  their  clean 
houses  with  no  more  thought  than  if 
they  were  senseless  animals.  Off  their 
clean  vessels  they  come  to  wallow! 
What  ails  'em? 

'Look,'  she  went  on,  her  deep  voice 
rising  under  the  pressure  of  her  emo- 
tion, 'look  at  this  beach,  look  at  this 
street!  I  like  to  stand  with  my  back  to 
it!  It's  gettin'  so  I  can't  think  of  out- 
of-doors.  Garbage  on  the  beach,  Mis' 
Towner,  and  refuse  and  tomato  cans  in 
the  back  country.  Yes,  the  back  coun- 
try's  littered  till  there's  no  peace  for 
the  eye  till  you  reach  the  clean  sands  of 
the  dunes  and  the  peace  of  the  open 
sea.' 

The  slanting  rays  of  the  sun  struck 
her  as  she  stood  there  in  her  window, 
and  gilded  the  gray  of  her  dress.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  eyes  glowed 
dark  under  the  stress  of  her  emotion. 
She  seemed  like  some  reincarnation  of 
an  ancient  prophetess,  like  some  force 
of  nature,  powerful  and  dominant,  re- 
strained for  the  moment  in  the  form  of 
a  majestic  woman. 


THE  DEVASTATION  OF  DENNISPORT 


649 


I  understood  her  emotions  more  than 
was  seemly,  and  with  the  instinct  which 
makes  us  poor  human  beings  forever 
hasten  away  from  the  too  revealing 
moment,  I  began  prattling  of  the  clean- 
ing-up  of  a  Western  town,  while  Mrs. 
Nickerson  listened  with  a  disquiet- 
ingly  hungry  air. 

II 

The  next  day  I  was  given  a  glimpse 
into  the  nature  of  the  terrific  force  with 
which  I  had  unwittingly  trifled. 

Captain  Dan'el  Whorf  was  lounging 
at  ease  in  his  Gloucester  hammock.  I 
was  pottering  about  my  sweet  peas, 
which  I  hoped  would  in  time  bloom 
next  their  fence.  The  windows  of  his 
house  were  open,  and  from  within  came 
noises  as  of  furniture  being  moved. 

The  handsome  head  of  Mrs.  Whorf 
emerged  through  the  open  window. 
Her  hair  was  in  a  dust-cap;  her  face  was 
pink  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with  some 
deep  and  inner  emotion. 

'Dan'el!'  she  called,  'Dan'el,  you 
come  in  and  help  me  heave  this  living- 
room  rug  on  to  the  line.  Isaiah 's  comin' 
to  beat  to-day.' 

Captain  Whorf  stirred  his  powerful 
frame  uneasily  in  the  hammock.  A 
strange  look  crept  over  his  face,  a  look 
one  might  have  called  timorous,  al- 
most fearful.  He  was  profoundly  dis- 
turbed. 

'I  thought  you  warn't  going  to  do 
It  till  my  next  trip?'  he  said  wretch- 
edly. 

*  Warn't  going  to  do  It  till  your  next 
trip!'  she  echoed,  with  sparkling  eyes, 
'I'd  never  do  It  if  I  waited  for  you, 
Dan'el  Whorf!' 

She  was  usually  soft  and  good-tem- 
pered in  her  manner  to  her  husband. 
Now  her  words  came  with  a  crackling 
crispness  as  of  a  pennant  snapping  in 
the  breeze  of  a  great  wind. 

*I  can't  live  in  such  dirt  no  longer!' 


she  blazed.  'It's  no  good  sweeping  no 
more.  There 's  dirt  in  every  crack  and 
corner  of  this  house.' 

'But,'  moaned  Captain  Whorf  mis- 
erably, 'you  said  you'd  wait  till  I  got 
home  next  time?' 

'And  how '11  I  know  what  the  wea- 
ther's going  to  be  next  time?  Do  you 
think  I'm  going  to  fly  in  the  face  of 
Providence  with  the  weather  bureau 
saying  fair  weather  for  a  spell?  Do  you 
suppose  I  'm  going  to  let  every  woman 
in  all  Dennisport  have  her  house  clean- 
ed before  me?  Come  and  heave  out 
this  living-room  rug!' 

He  rose  slowly,  painfully,  and  un- 
willingly; but  he  obeyed  his  master's 
voice. 

It  was  then  that  I  witnessed  the 
metamorphosis  that  is  so  terrifying  and 
disquieting  to  the  heart  of  man.  For 
eleven  months  and  some  days  Mrs. 
Dan'el  Whorf  was  a  woman  who  had 
for  a  man's  erring  ways  the  tolerance 
of  a  mother  for  a  little  child.  Then,  be- 
tween one  day  and  the  next  she  became 
transformed.  Within  her  was  unleashed 
a  demonic  fury,  and  under  its  spell  she 
fell  upon  her  house  and  cleaned  it.  But 
it  was  no  mere  house-cleaning  that  I 
witnessed :  what  I  saw  had  an  element 
of  the  orgiastic,  it  took  upon  itself  the 
proportions  of  a  great  natural  cata- 
clysm. Now  I  would  catch  glimpses 
of  her,  scrubbing  and  cleaning  with 
tense  fury.  Again  with  the  aid  of  Cap- 
tain Whorf,  she  would  hurl  forth  the 
rugs  and  carpets  of  the  house.  She 
drove  him  before  her  to  do  her  bid- 
ding as  a  wind  of  autumn  drives  the  dry 
leaves,  his  occasional  protests  as  futile 
as  the  fluttering  of  a  leaf  itself. 

Her  orgy  communicated  itself  to 
Mary,  her  sixteen-year-old  daughter. 
There  was  something  madman-like  in 
their  swift  ascents  and  descents  of 
staircases,  their  rapid  flights  out-of- 
doors.  Captain  Whorf  did  the  bidding 
of  his  two  furious  women,  while  an  old 


650 


THE  DEVASTATION  OF  DENNISPORT 


man  called  Isaiah  kept  staccato  time 
to  the  wild  doings  within,  thumping 
perpetually  from  dawn  to  dark  on  the 
carpets  and  rugs  that  were  suspended 
on  the  clothes-line. 

I  realized  then  what  a  force  woman 
has  hidden  within  her.  I  realized  how  it 
is  compelled  to  wreak  itself  upon  house- 
cleaning,  circumscribed  as  its  energies 
now  are  in  our  shrunken  homes.  As 
contagion  goes  its  devastating  way, 
so  did  the  lust  for  cleaning  devastate 
the  village.  Clothes-lines  on  all  sides 
blossomed  with  hand-woven  rugs, 
with  comforters  of  many  colors,  and 
with  carpets. 

The  air  was  full  of  the  smell  of  fresh 
paint  and  varnish,  for  the  women  of 
Dennisport  are  not  content  with  mere 
cleaning.  They  have  learned  a  trick  or 
two  from  their  husbands,  the  owners  of 
vessels.  They  do  not  merely  clean 
their  houses,  they  overhaul  them,  and 
paint  them  and  varnish  them  yearly 
as  though  they  were  boats,  until  their 
mahogany  furniture  becomes  encrust- 
ed with  thick  translucent  layers  of 
varnish. 

With  superb  and  relentless  energy 
the  Dennisport  women  wantoned  and 
rioted  in  cleanliness.  The  distraught 
males,  when  their  services  were  not 
required  at  home,  skulked  unhappily  in 
stores  and  on  the  ends  of  wharves  and 
spat,  in  melancholy  mood,  seaward. 
Each  year  when  the  cleaning  mania 
recurred  they  found  themselves  as  dis- 
turbed as  before.  They  never  got  used 
to  it;  nor  did  they  ever  see  the  sense 
of  it. 

Not  with  such  tense  enthusiasm  did 
they  attack  their  boats.  Overhauling 
a  boat  wag  a  time  of  leisure,  of  con- 
versations, of  fair  peaceful  hours  spent, 
now  spoke-shaving  a  mast,  now  sitting 
on  the  shady  side  of  a  boat,  painting 
or  caulking.  A  peaceful,  reposeful 
time,  the  overhauling  season,  with  no- 
thing whatever  in  common  with  the 


spirit  that  was  now  breaking  up  homes 
and  devastating  the  town. 

From  time  to  time  Captain  Whorf 
would  pause  to  mop  his  streaming  face 
with  his  bandanna,  lean  over  his  fence 
and  let  fall  words  like,  'The  deck  of  a 
vessel 's  a  peaceful  place.' 

Ill 

It  was  with  this  fury  spending  itself 
that  Mrs.  Ephraim  Nickerson  returned 
my  call. 

*I  want  you/  she  said,  'to  come  and 
say  the  words  you  said  to  me,  and  more 
of  them,  about  those  Western  women 
that  straightened  out  their  town.  I 
want  you  to  come  and  speak  to  the 
ladies  of  the  Shakespeare  and  Literary 
Association/ 

To  this  club  belonged  the  flower  of 
the  womanhood  of  Dennisport.  Most 
of  them  were  women  in  the  prime  of 
life,  women  of  forty  and  upwards;  cap- 
able women  they  were. 

They  listened  to  my  words,  exchang- 
ing significant  glances.  They  beheld 
wider  fields  and  a  broader  scope  for 
their  mature  activities.  There  unfold- 
ed before  them  the  vision  of  stupen- 
dous house-cleaning,  a  gigantic,  cata- 
clysmic affair  which  made  the  cleaning 
of  the  Augean  stables  as  insignificant 
as  an  infant's  brushing  up  of  the  sand 
with  a  toy  broom  on  the  Dennisport 
beach. 

Up  to  this  time  they  had  wallowed  in 
little  private  orgies  of  cleaning,  each 
one  in  her  own  home.  For  the  first 
time  in  their  lives  the  mob-spirit  seized 
them. 

The  cleanings-up  which  I  had  wit- 
nessed in  Western  towns  were  brisk, 
efficient  affairs,  conducted  with  good 
humor  and  with  no  emotion.  With 
those  women,  house-cleaning  had  not 
partaken  of  the  nature  of  a  pagan  re- 
ligious festival.  Not  in  the  West  did 
clothes-lines  flower  with  patchwork 


THE  DEVASTATION  OF  DENNISPORT 


651 


quilts  as  irresistibly  as  in  spring  the 
sap  flows  in  the  trees.  House-cleaning 
there  was  a  duty  rather  than  an  emo- 
tional outbreak. 

But  it  was  in  this  religious  spirit  that 
the  Dennisport  Ladies  Sanitary  and 
Health  Association  was  formed.  They 
set  forth  on  Dennisport  with  the  mad 
and  covetous  lust  of  looters.  In  Dennis- 
port  the  venerable  selectmen  nodded 
over  their  books  as  they  had  these 
many  years.  The  Board  of  Health  con- 
fined itself  to  tacking  occasional  pink 
or  red  cards  labeled  'Contagious  dis- 
ease '  on  houses.  This  they  did  with  the 
greatest  possible  infrequency,  and  paid 
a  small  sum  to  three  aged  men  whose 
duties  were  supposed  to  be  burying 
dead  fish  which  had  floated  up  on  the 
beach. 

It  was  the  custom  for  these  sinecures 
to  be  given  to  one  half-blind  grandsire 
and  two  other  aged  and  infirm  men. 
The  Board  of  Health  had  never  thought 
of  imagining  their  functions  to  have  a 
wider  range  than  this.  Why  should 
thev? 

*/ 

The  dav  after  the  formation  of  the 

«/ 

Society  the  town  looked  as  usual :  egg- 
shells and  refuse  floated  out  with  the 
receding  tide  as  people  had  thrown 
them  into  the  sea;  papers  blew  about 
the  street,  and  the  back  country  flow- 
ered with  many  a  dump. 

Captain  Dan'el  Whorf,  upon  whom 
his  duties  as  a  member  of  the  Board  of 
Health  sat  jauntily,  was  engaged  in 
caulking  the  seams  of  his  hen-house. 
Peace  reigned  when  I  saw  coming  down 
the  street  under  a  full  head  of  steam, 
Mrs.  Whorf  and  three  other  ladies  of 
the  Sanitary  and  Health  Association. 
They  dropped  anchor  beside  him. 

'Dan,'  said  Mrs.  Whorf,  'as  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Board  of  Health,  you  are  re- 
quested by  the  Ladies  Sanitary  and 
Health  Association  to  go  and  tell  Hen 
Morse  he 's  got  to  quit  throwing  every- 
thing in  creation  into  the  bay!' 


'Tell  my  own  brother-in-law  to  quit 
throwing  things  into  the  bay?'  was 
Captain  Whorf 's  first  exclamation ;  and 
'What  in  Tophet  's  the  Ladies  Sani- 
tary and  Health  Association  ? '  was  his 
next. 

With  classic  simplicity  his  wife  re- 
plied, — 

'The  Ladies  Sanitary  and  Health 
Association  is  US,  and  Zephiry  Nicker- 
son  is  the  president ! ' 

'Ah,  ha!'  he  cried,  'I  might  'a' 
known  Zephiry  was  behind  anything 
as  loony  as  fighting  with  your  relatives 
over  a  coupler  egg-shells ! ' 

Hen  Morse  was  a  baker  by  trade,  and 
in  common  with  all  the  other  trades- 
people of  Dennisport  he  threw  the  re- 
fuse of  his  shop  into  the  bay.  Every 
morning  at  an  early  hour,  banana 
stalks,  empty  crates,  spoiled  melons, 
sprouted  onions,  and  tin  cans  were 
floated  out  by  the  outgoing  tide  and 
floated  back  on  the  incoming,  accom- 
panied by  newspapers,  sweepings,  and 
tin  cans  from  almost  all  the  private 
houses  facing  on  the  beach.  Later,  one 
might  have  thought,  from  the  way  the 
beach  looked,  that  the  kitchen  of  some 
vast  hotel  had  been  wrecked  some- 
where near  by. 

Garments,  too,  one  could  find  on  the 
shore;  old  shoes,  corsets,  and  overalls 
were  numerous,  being  indestructible. 
Indeed,  one  could  have  picked  up  a 
whole  wardrobe  for  Lazarus  and  his 
wife,  in  the  course  of  a  short  stroll,  and 
a  ruined  bed-tick  for  them  to  sleep 
upon. 

As  is  the  custom  in  New  England, 
the  inhabitants  showed  due  deference 
to  the  laws  they  did  not  intend  to  keep, 
by  making  these  offerings  to  Neptune 
in  an  unostentatious  fashion;  for  your 
New  Englander,  even  when  he  is  a 
seafaring  man  and  comes  of  seafar- 
ing stock,  does  not  defy  the  law  —  he 
merely  breaks  it  with  as  little  noise  as 
possible. 


652 


THE  DEVASTATION  OF  DENNISPORT 


'I'm  not  going  to  make  bad  blood 
between  me  and  my  sister  because  of 
a  coupler  tin  cans,  for  any  Zephiry 
Nickerson,'  protested  Captain  Whorf 
again. 

'Don't  worry  about  your  sister,'  his 
wife  responded  dryly.  '  It 's  she  who 's 
asked  this  committee  to  speak  to  you 
because  you've  got  so  much  influence 
with  Hen!  She's  talked  and  talked  to 
him,  but  God  knows  what  comes  of  a 
wife's  talking!  Not  a  woman  in  town 
whose  husband 's  got  a  work-shop  or  a 
store  anywhere  but  what  his  wife's 
ached  to  get  her  fingers  on  it  and  give 
it  a  good  house-cleaning!  But  now,' 
she  concluded  triumphantly,  'we've 
got  a  way  better  than  that !  The  Sani- 
tary and  Health  Association  is  going  to 
look  after  you.  Yes,  sir,  after  every 
one  of  you,  till  you've  cleaned  up! 
We're  going  to  look  into  the  fish  fac- 
tories. We're  going  to  clean  up  the 
gurry-butts  on  the  ends  of  the  wharves. 
We  're  going  to  stop  this  here  taking  the 
livers  out  of  dog-fish  to  make  cod-liver 
oil,  and  then  throwing  the  dog-fish  over 
the  ends  of  wharves,  floating  in  and  out 
till  they  're  et  by  crabs.' 

She  talked  in  a  triumphant  way,  like 
a  religious  zealot  reading  the  Psalms 
of  David.  'Yes,  sir;  and  we've  got  the 
law  behind  us.  Laws  is  goin'  to  be 
obeyed  in  this  town,  Dan' el  Whorf  /' 

A  more  revolutionary  sentiment 
could  not  have  been  uttered  by  the  lips 
of  woman. 

'You  made  the  laws;  now  our  Sani- 
tary and  Health  Association  will  see 
you  keep  'em!  An'  while  we're  about 
it  you'd  better  tell  Sy  Medders  to  get 
rid  of  his  blind  pig  if  he  don't  want  to 
get  arrested.  Oh,  don't  look  at  me!  I 
don't  care  if  he  is  my  cousin!  I  know 
why  his  pool-room  is  so  popular!  And 
Gideon  Boyden  can  just  stop  asking 
folks  to  come  into  his  shop  and  look  at 
the  new  dory  he's  building,  at  ten  cents 
a  look!' 


Thus  did  the  ladies  of  the  Sanitary 
and  Health  Association  taste  the  power 
of  solidarity. 

'  Now,'  continued  Mrs.  Whorf, '  Dan- 
'el,  step  right  in  along  of  us  ladies  and 
write  a  letter  to  Hen  warning  him.  Tell 
him  we're  not  going  to  stop  at  a  con- 
stable. Tell  him  his  own  wife's  come 
to  an  end  of  her  patience  along  of  his 
dirty,  messy  ways,  like  all  of  us  ladies 
have  done  with  all  Dennisport,  and, 
—  yes,  sir, — with  all  our  husbands! 
Tell  him  Zephiry  Nickerson 's  the  only 
woman  in  all  Dennisport  that  acted 
like  she  felt  up  to  now,  but  there 's  one 
hundred  and  twenty-three  Zcphirys  this 
minute  in  Dennisport  all  fightin'  with 
the  law  behind  'em!' 

In  her  tone  of  voice  there  was  a 
quality  of  triumph,  and  that  tone  of 
decision  and  command  which  women 
employ  when  they  are  about  to '  house- 
clean.'  All  women  have  these  mo- 
ments when  the  dread  words,  'I  can't 
live  in  such  dirt  any  longer,'  pass  their 
lips.  Even  the  man  who  is  most  'mas- 
ter in  his  own  house'  recognizes  its 
voice. 

Captain  Dan 'el  Whorf  was  not  a 
man  to  argue  with  the  fury  of  the  hurri- 
cane. He  went  into  the  house. 

'There's  three  things  we're  going  to 
do,'  Mrs.  Whorf  told  him,  with  the 
wild  house-cleaning  light  in  her  eye. 
'We're  going  to  warn  you  you've  got 
to  clean,  and  we're  going  to  see  you  do 
clean,  and  we're  going  to  keep  after 
you  so  you  '11  keep  clean ! ' 

The  men  of  Dennisport  seem  lazy  to 
the  outsider.  They  probably  work 
when  on  their  vessels,  but  when  ashore 
there  are  long  hours  spent  in  whittling 
on  the  ends  of  wharves,  other  hours 
spent  in  painting  and  varnishing  their 
boats,  and  very  long  hours  of  grave  in- 
spection of  a  new  boat.  Indeed,  when 
ashore,  they  give  the  impression  of  the 
lilies  of  the  field ;  and  the  men  who  stay 
ashore  habitually  have  the  manner 


THE  DEVASTATION  OF  DENNISPORT 


653 


born  of  extensive  and  spacious  leisure, 
of  those  who  have  the  *  Lords  of  Time 
to  friend.' 

Now  from  one  day  to  another  this 
calm  was  broken;  from  one  day  to  an- 
other a  feverish  activity  was  manifest 
in  the  streets.  Everywhere  were  seen 
men  raking  up  beaches,  the  State  For- 
ester was  kept  busy  all  day  issuing  per- 
mits for  bonfires,  one  could  not  get  a 
teamster  who  would  cart  off  rubbish, 
—  not  to  miscellaneous  dumps',  but  to 
the  town  dump  —  that  is  to  say,  to 
a  place  appointed  by  the  town  to  be 
filled  in. 

The  classic  calm  which  had  always 
before  reigned  among  the  selectmen 
in  the  Town  Hall  was  shattered,  as  one 
woman  after  another  went  to  lodge 
complaints  against  violations  of  town 
ordinances  by  Dennisport's  chief  citi- 
zens. Small  worried  knots  of  men  met 
to  discuss  things  in  the  street,  and  to 
ask  one  another,  'Has  all  the  women 
folks  gone  daft  ? '  only  to  sweep  asunder 
like  leaves  before  a  northeaster,  as  one 
or  another  of  the  committees  would  be 
seen  bearing  down  on  them. 

It  is  bad  enough  for  a  man  to  be 
caught  up  in  the  maelstrom  of  his  wife's 
house-cleaning,  but  he  miserably  looks 
forward  to  this  cataclysm;  he  knows 
that  it  must  come;  but  out  of  the  peace- 
ful blue  of  a  May  morning  to  have  his 
women-folk  transform  themselves  into 
dragons  and  swoop  down  upon  him,  in- 
sisting that  he  *  house-clean '  all  his  own 
domain,  his  barn,  his  wood-shed,  his 
store,  his  fish-house,  his  carpenter  shop; 
that  he  clean  up  the  beach  and  the 
sea  and  the  back  country,  —  this  is 
more  than  can  be  borne. 


IV 

It  was  several  days  after  the  cyclone 
had  left  the  men  of  Dennisport  in  dark- 
ness that  I  happened  to  pass  the  house 
of  Captain  Ephraim  Nickerson.  Peace 


reigned  in  his  yard.  On.  one  side  of  his 
house  nasturtiums  bloomed  profusely 
in  an  old  boat.  A  whale's  vertebra  sat 
austerely  on  either  side  of  his  doorstep. 
A  bed  of  petunias  was  edged  with  pink- 
lipped  shells.  This  was  as  usual.  But 
something  had  been  added  to  the  front 
yard.  It  was  a  Gloucester  hammock, 
and  in  it,  his  stockinged  feet  in  the 
sun,  lay  Captain  Ephraim  Nickerson, 
peacefully  whittling  long  curly  shav- 
ings from  a  stick,  on  the  hitherto  speck- 
less  grass. 

Before  him  stood  two  of  the  vener- 
able selectmen.  I  heard  one  of  them 
remark,  — 

*  Say,  Ephraim,  you  know  as  well  as 
me  that  woman's  place  is  in  the  home! ' 

Captain  Nickerson  shaved  off  an- 
other long  ringlet. 

'I  don't  see  why,'  he  said  slowly;  'I 
think  we  're  better  off  for  women  par- 
takin'  of  our  national  life.' 

Something  like  a  groan  went  up  from 
the  selectmen. 

'You  would  n't  say  that  if  you  was 
a  selectman,'  said  one  of  them.  'You 
don't  know  what  it 's  ben  like,  bein'  a 
selectman.  Women's  too  delicate  and 
fragile  to  be  fussin'  with  dirty  things 
like  gurry-butts  and  water  fronts.' 

Captain  Nickerson's  eyes  twinkled, 
but  the  muscles  of  his  face  did  not  relax 
their  serious  reflective  calm.  He  let  a 
moment  elapse  before  he  said,  — 

'I  believe  in  trusting  woman's  in- 
stinct; the  instinct  of  a  pure  woman 
won't  lead  her  to  any  place  where  she 
had  n't  ought  to  be.' 

I  heard  no  more,  but  I  saw  them 
standing  before  him  pleading  in  words 
which  meant,  'For  the  sake  of  peace, 
for  the  sake  of  decency,  for  the  sake  of 
our  sanity  and  that  of  all  the  other  men 
in  Dennisport,  call  off  your  wife  and 
her  friends!' 

For  two  weeks  I  watched  the  pro- 
gress of  Dennisport's  clean-up.  It  was 
no  little  clean-up  week.  Within  and 


654 


THE  DEVASTATION  OF  DENNISPORT 


without,  Dennisport  was  cleansed  of 
its  sin. 

Over  Dennisport  towers  a  Sailors' 
Monument,  a  shaft  tall  as  a  lighthouse; 
and  presently,  dropped  down  its  sur- 
face, I  saw  men  on  scaffold  boards.  I 
saw  them  painstakingly  and  labori- 
ously scrubbing  the  face  of  the  Monu- 
ment. 

One  rainy  day  I  had  occasion  to  call 
on  Mrs.  Nickerson.  The  door  was 
opened  by  Captain  Nickerson,  and 
there  rushed  out  the  smell  of  fragrant 
tobacco  smoke.  He  was  in  his  socks 
and  in  his  hand  he  carried  a  pipe. 

'Come  in,'  he  said,  'come  in  and 
wait.  Zephiry  '11  be  home  before  long.' 

He  led  me  into  the  sitting-room.  I 
could  see  that  he  had  been  taking  his 
ease  in  two  chairs  in  his  own  bow-win- 
dow, looking  at  the  ships  as  they  floated 
out  beyond  the  Point. 

A  very  slight  but  pleasant  sense  of 
disorder  prevailed,  although  perhaps 
disorder  is  too  strong  a  word.  It  was 
as  though  the  room  had  relaxed  its 
former  rigidity.  An  open  book  lay  on 
the  table,  sofa-cushions  showed  signs 
of  use,  the  perfume  of  good  tobacco 
hung  in  the  air. 

'Zephiry,'  said  Captain  Nickerson, 
'  is  out  with  a  stop-watch  lookin'  after 


speedin'  automobiles  and  arrestin' 
folks  who's  breakin'  the  laws.  I  tell 
you  it  takes  women  to  do  things!  I 
ain't  got  no  patience  with  folks  who 
don't  want  women  to  vote  or  to  take 
part  in  makin'  an'  keepin'  the  laws  of 
the  land.' 

Our  eyes  met. 

'I  don't  mind  if  you  want  to  smoke, 
captain,'  I  suggested. 

He  struck  a  match.  Slowly  a  smile 
dawned  in  his  eyes  and  spread  over  his 
face,  and  for  a  moment  in  silence  we 
grinned  at  each  other  in  perfect  under- 
standing. 

'  I  've  got  something  to  show  you,'  he 
whispered.  'Look  behind  them  shells 
on  the  mantel!'  I  did.  A  fine,  very 
fine  film  of  dust  marred  its  brightness. 
'I  ain't  seen  a  sight  as  comfortin'  as 
that  these  twenty  years,'  said  he.  He 
puffed  for  a  moment  at  his  pipe;  then 
he  let  drop,  — 

'Did  you  ever  consider  why  't  is  that 
women  live  longer 'n  men?  Don't  talk 
to  me  about  woman's  place  bein>  in 
the  home!  Talk  about  the  vote  bein' 
what  eight  million  women  want !  I  tell 
you  what  eight  million  women  want 
is  what  eight  million  men  must  have 
if  our  longevity's  ever  goin'  to  equal 
theirs!' 


GERMAN  LITERATURE  AND  THE  AMERICAN  TEMPER 


BY   KUNO   FRANCKE 


[The  writer  of  this  article  wishes  to 
state  that  it  was  written  last  spring, 
and  is  printed  here  without  changes, 
although  in  the  present  condition  of 
European  affairs,  the  opening  para- 
graph sounds  grimly  irrelevant.] 


IN  this  age  of  exchange  professor- 
ships, peace  dinners,  and  other  means 
of  cementing  friendships  between  great 
nations,  it  is  a  somewhat  ungrateful, 
if  not  dangerous,  undertaking  to  em- 
phasize differences  of  national  temper. 
If,  then,  I  make  bold  to  venture  a  few 
remarks  upon  the  essential  dissimilar- 
ity of  the  American  and  the  German 
temper,  and  upon  the  effect  of  this  dis- 
similarity on  the  standing  of  German 
literature  in  America,  I  had  better 
preface  them  by  saying  that  nothing 
is  further  removed  from  my  mind  than 
the  desire  to  sow  seeds  of  international 
discord,  even  if  it  were  in  my  power 
to  do  so.  Indeed,  having  entertained 
for  some  thirty  years  relations  to  both 
Germany  and  the  United  States  which 
might  be  described  as  a  sort  of  intel- 
lectual bigamy,  I  have  come  to  be  as 
peaceable  a  person  as  it  behooves  a 
man  in  such  a  delicate  marital  situa- 
tion to  be.  But  while  I  have  honestly 
tried  in  these  thirty  years  to  make  the 
two  divinities  presiding  over  my  intel- 
lectual household  understand  and  ap- 
preciate each  other,  I  have  again  and 
again  been  forced  to  the  conclusion 
that  such  a  mutual  understanding  of 
my  two  loves  was  for  the  most  part  a 


matter  of  conscious  and  conscientious 
effort,  and  hardly  ever  the  result  of 
instinctive  give-and-take. 

Perhaps  the  most  fundamental,  or 
shall  I  say  elementary,  difference  be- 
tween the  German  temper  and  the 
American  may  be  expressed  by  the 
word  'slowness.'  Is  there  any  possible 
point  of  view  from  which  slowness 
might  appear  to  an  American  as  some- 
thing desirable?  I  think  not.  Indeed, 
to  call  a  thing  or  a  person  slow  seems  to 
spread  about  them  an  atmosphere  of 
complete  and  irredeemable  hopeless- 
ness. Compare  with  this  the  reverently 
sturdy  feelings  likely  to  be  aroused  in  a 
German  breast  by  the  words  '  langsam 
und  feierlich '  inscribed  over  a  religious 
or  patriotic  hymn,  and  imagine  a  Ger- 
man Mannerchor  singing  such  a  hymn, 
with  all  the  facial  and  tonal  symptoms 
of  joyful  and  devout  slowness  of  cere- 
bral activity  —  and  you  have  in  brief 
compass  a  specimen-demonstration  of 
the  difference  in  tempo  in  which  the  two 
national  minds  habitually  move. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  *  langsamer 
Schritt'  of  the  German  military  drill 
was  in  the  last  resort  responsible  for 
the  astounding  victories  which  in  1870 
shook  the  foundations  of  Imperial 
France.  Similarly,  it  might  be  said 
that  slowness  of  movement  and  careful 
deliberateness  are  at  the  bottom  of 
most  things  in  which  Germans  have 
excelled.  To  be  sure,  the  most  recent 
development  of  Germany,  particularly 
in  trade  and  industry,  has  been  most 
rapid,  and  the  whole  of  German  life  of 
to-day  is  thoroughly  American  in  its 

655 


656    GERMAN  LITERATURE  AND  THE  AMERICAN  TEMPER 


desire  for  getting  ahead  and  for  work- 
ing under  high  pressure.  But  this  is  a 
condition  forced  upon  Germany  from 
without  through  international  compe- 
tition and  the  exigencies  of  the  world- 
market  rather  than  springing  from  the 
inner  tendency  of  German  character 
itself.  And  it  should  not  be  forgotten 
that  it  was  the  greatest  German  of 
modern  times,  Goethe,  who,  anticipat- 
ing the  present  era  of  speed,  uttered 
this  warning :  *  Railways,  express  posts, 
steamships,  and  all  possible  facilities 
for  swift  communication,  —  these  are 
the  things  in  which  the  civilized  world 
is  now  chiefly  concerned,  and  by  which 
it  will  over-civilize  itself  and  arrive 
at  mediocrity.' 

As  to  German  literary  and  artistic 
achievements,  is  it  not  true  that  —  for 
better  or  worse  —  their  peculiarly  Ger- 
man stamp  consists  to  a  large  extent  in 
a  certain  slowness  of  rhythm  and  mas- 
si  veness  of  momentum?  Goethe  him- 
self is  a  conspicuous  example.  Even  in 
his  most  youthful  and  lively  drama, 
Goetz  von  Berlichingen,  what  a  broad 
foundation  of  detail,  how  deliberately 
winding  a  course  of  action,  how  little 
of  dramatic  intensity,  how  much  of 
intimate  revelation  of  character!  His 
Iphigenie  and  Tasso  consist  almost  ex- 
clusively of  the  gentle  and  steady  sway- 
ing to  and  fro  of  contrasting  emotions; 
they  carry  us  back  and  forth  in  the  ebb 
and  flow  of  passion,  but  they  never  hurl 
us  against  the  rocks  or  plunge  us  into 
the  whirlpool  of  mere  excitement.  No 
wonder  the  American  college  boy  finds 
them  slow.  And  what  shall  we  say  of 
Wilhelm  Meister  ?  Not  only  American 
college  boys,  I  fear,  will  sympathize 
with  Marianne's  falling  soundly  asleep 
when  Wilhelm  entertains  her  through 
six  substantial  chapters  with  the  ac- 
count of  his  youthful  puppet-plays  and 
other  theatrical  enterprises.  And  yet, 
what  thoughtful  reader  can  fail  to  see 
that  it  is  just  this  halting  method  of  the 


narrative,  this  lingering  over  individual 
incidents  and  individual  states  of  mind, 
this  careful  balancing  of  light  and  shade, 
this  deliberate  arrangement  of  situa- 
tions and  conscious  grouping  of  char- 
acters, this  constant  effort  to  see  the 
particular  in  the  light  of  the  universal, 
to  extract  wisdom  out  of  the  seemingly 
insignificant,  and  to  strike  the  water 
of  life  out  of  the  hard  and  stony  fact 
—  that  it  is  this  which  makes  Wilhelm 
Meister  not  only  a  piece  of  extraordi- 
nary artistic  workmanship,  but  also 
a  revelation  of  the  moving  powers  of 
human  existence. 

Schiller's  being  was  keyed  to  a  much 
higher  pitch  than  Goethe's,  and  vi- 
brated much  more  rapidly.  But  even 
his  work,  and  above  all  his  greatest  dra- 
matic productions,  from  Wallenstein  to 
Wilhelm  Tell,  are  marked  by  stately 
solemnity  rather  than  by  swiftness  of 
movement;  he  too  loves  to  pause,  as  it 
were,  ever  and  anon,  to  look  at  his  own 
creations,  to  make  them  speak  to  him 
and  unbosom  themselves  to  him  about 
their  innermost  motives.  No  other  dra- 
matist has  used  the  monologue  more 
successfully  than  he  as  a  means  of 
affording  moments  of  rest  from  the 
ceaseless  flow  of  action* 

As  to  the  German  Romanticists,  — 
who  has  decried  more  persistently  than 
they  the  restlessness  and  hasty-shal- 
lowness  of  human  endeavor?  Who  has 
sung  more  rapturously  the  praises  of 
the  deep,  impenetrable,  calm,  unruffled 
working  of  nature,  the  abyss  of  silent, 
immovable  forces  in  whose  brooding 
there  is  contained  the  best  and  holiest 
of  existence?  And  must  it  not  be  ad- 
mitted that,  in  the  best  of  their  own 
productions,  such  as  parts  of  Novalis's 
rhythmical  prose,  some  Romantic  lyr- 
ics, some  Romantic  paintings,  above 
all  in  the  work  of  Beethoven  and  his 
peers,  we  receive  the  impression  of  a 
grand,  benign,  heavenly,  all-compre- 
hensive being,  slowly  and  majestically 


GERMAN  LITERATURE  AND  THE  AMERICAN  TEMPER      657 


breathing,  slowly  and  majestically  ir- 
radiating calm  and  joy  and  awe  and 
all  the  blessings  of  life. 

Something  of  this  same  slowness 
of  movement  we  find  throughout  the 
nineteenth  century  in  many  of  the 
most  characteristically  German  liter- 
ary achievements.  We  find  it  in  Kleist's 
Michael  Kohlhaas,  with  its  seemingly 
imperturbable,  objective,  cold,  and  cir- 
cumstantial account  of  events  which 
make  one's  blood  boil  and  one's  fist 
clench.  We  find  it  in  Otto  Ludwig's 
Between  Heaven  and  Earth,  with  its  con- 
stant reiteration  of  the  fundamental 
contrast  between  the  two  leading  fig- 
ures, and  with  its  constant  insistence 
on  the  relentlessness  of  Fate,  which 
gradually,  imperceptibly,  but  inevit- 
ably drives  them  to  the  deadly  clash 
with  each  other.  We  find  it  in  the  dif- 
fuse, lingering,  essentially  epic  style  of 
most  of  Gerhart  Hauptmann's  dramas. 
We  find  it  even  in  a  man  of  such  ex- 
traordinary nervous  excitability  and 
sensitiveness  as  Richard  Wagner.  No- 
thing perhaps  is  more  German  in  Rich- 
ard Wagner  than  the  broad,  steady, 
sustained  onward  march  of  his  musical 
themes,  —  notably  so  in  Tristan,  Die 
Meister singer,  and  Die  Waikure.  Surely 
there  is  no  haste  here;  the  question  of 
time  seems  entirely  eliminated;  these 
masses  of  sound  move  on  regardless, 
one  might  say,  of  the  limitations  of  the 
human  ear;  they  expand  and  contract, 
gather  volume  and  disperse,  in  endless 
repetition,  yet  in  always  new  combina- 
tions; they  advance  and  recede,  surge 
on,  ebb  away  and  rise  again  to  a  mighty 
flood,  with  something  like  rhythmical 
fatality,  so  that  the  hearer  finally  has 
no  other  choice  than  to  surrender  to 
them  as  to  a  mighty  and  overwhelming 
pressing  on  of  natural  forces.  To  be 
sure,  I  have  known  people  —  and  not 
only  Americans — who  would  have  pre- 
ferred that  the  death-agonies  of  Tris- 
tan in  the  last  act  should  be  somewhat 

VOL.  114  -NO.  5 


accelerated  by  a  stricter  adherence  of 
Isolde's  boat  to  schedule  time. 

A  striking  consequence  of  this  dif- 
ference of  tempo  in  which  the  American 
mind  and  the  German  naturally  move, 
and  perhaps  the  most  conspicuous  ex- 
ample of  the  practical  effect  of  this  dif- 
ference upon  national  habits,  is  the 
German  regard  for  authority  and  the 
American  dislike  of  it.  For  the  slower 
circulation  in  the  brain  of  the  German 
makes  him  more  passive  and  more  eas- 
ily inclined  to  accept  the  decisions  of 
others  for  him,  while  the  self-reliant 
and  agile  American  is  instinctively  dis- 
trustful of  any  decision  which  he  has 
not  made  himself. 

Here,  then,  is  another  sharp  distinc- 
tion between  the  two  national  tempers, 
another  serious  obstacle  to  the  just 
appreciation  of  the  German  spirit  by 
the  American. 

I  verily  believe  that  it  is  impossible 
for  an  American  to  understand  the  feel- 
ings which  a  loyal  German  subject, 
particularly  of  the  conservative  sort, 
entertains  toward  the  State  and  its  au- 
thority. That  the  State  should  be  any- 
thing more  than  an  institution  for  the 
protection  and  safeguarding  of  the  hap- 
piness of  individuals;  that  it  might 
be  considered  as  a  spiritual,  collective 
personality,  leading  a  life  of  its  own, 
beyond  and  above  the  life  of  individ- 
uals; that  service  for  the  State,  there- 
fore, or  the  position  of  a  state  official, 
should  be  considered  as  something  es- 
sentially different  from  any  other  kind 
of  useful  employment,  —  these  are 
thoughts  utterly  foreign  to  the  Amer- 
ican mind,  and  very  near  and  dear  to 
the  heart  of  a  German.  The  American 
is  apt  to  receive  an  order  or  a  commun- 
ication from  a  public  official  with  feel- 
ings of  suspicion  and  with  a  silent  pro- 
test; the  German  is  apt  to  feel  honored 
by  such  a  communication  and  fancy 
himself  elevated  thereby  to  a  position 
of  some  public  importance. 


658      GERMAN  LITERATURE  AND  THE  AMERICAN  TEMPER 


The  American  is  so  used  to  thinking 
of  the  police  as  the  servant,  and  mostly 
a  very  poor  servant,  of  his  private  af- 
fairs, that  on  placards  forbidding  tres- 
passing upon  his  grounds  he  frequently 
adds  an  order,  *  Police  take  notice ' ;  the 
German,  especially  if  he  does  not  look 
particularly  impressive  himself,  will 
think  long  before  he  makes  up  his  mind 
to  approach  one  of  the  impressive-look- 
ing Schutzleute  to  be  found  at  every 
street  corner,  and  deferentially  ask  him 
the  time  of  day.  The  American  dislikes 
the  uniform  as  an  embodiment  of  irk- 
some discipline  and  subordination,  he 
values  it  only  as  a  sort  of  holiday  out- 
fit and  for  parading  purposes;  to  the 
German  the  *  King's  Coat '  is  something 
sacrosanct  and  inviolable,  an  embodi- 
ment of  highest  national  service  and 
highest  national  honor. 

With  such  fundamental  antagonism 
in  the  American  to  the  German  view  of 
state  and  official  authority,  is  it  sur- 
prising that  a  large  part  of  German  lit- 
erature, that  part  which  is  based  on 
questions  touching  the  relations  of  the 
individual  to  state  and  country,  should 
have  found  very  little  sympathy  with 
the  average  American  reader?  It  has 
taken  more  than  a  hundred  years  for 
that  fine  apotheosis  of  Prussian  disci- 
pline, Heinrich  von  Kleist's  Prinz  von 
Hamburg,  to  find  its  way  into  Ameri- 
can literature  through  the  equally  fine 
translation  by  Hermann  Hagedorn; 
and  I  doubt  whether  this  translation 
would  have  been  undertaken  but  for  its 
author's  having  German  blood  in  his 
veins. 

As  for  other  representative  men  of 
nineteenth-century  German  literature 
who  stood  for  the  subordination  of  the 
individual  to  monarchical  authority, — 
men  like  Hebbel,  W.  H.  Riehl,  Gustav 
Freytag,  Ernst  von  Wildenbruch,  — 
they  have  remained  practically  with- 
out influence,  and  certainly  without 
following,  in  America. 


ii 

Closely  allied  with  this  German  sense 
of  authority,  and  again  in  sharp  con- 
trast with  American  feeling,  is  the  Ger- 
man distrust  of  the  average  man.  In 
order  to  realize  the  fundamental  polar- 
ity of  the  two  national  tempers  in  this 
respect  also,  one  need  only  think  of  the 
two  great  representatives  of  American 
and  German  political  life  in  the  nine- 
teenth century:  Lincoln  and  Bismarck. 
Lincoln  in  every  fibre  of  his  being  a  son 
of  the  people,  an  advocate  of  the  com- 
mon man,  an  ideal  type  of  the  best  in- 
stincts of  the  masses,  a  man  who  could 
express  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child 
his  ineradicable  belief  in  the  essential 
right-mindedness  of  the  plain  folk.  Bis- 
marck with  every  pulse-beat  of  his 
heart  the  chivalric  vassal  of  his  impe- 
rial master;  the  invincible  champion  of 
the  monarchical  principle;  the  caustic 
scorner  of  the  crowd;  the  man  who, 
whenever  he  notices  symptoms  in  the 
crowd  that  he  is  gaining  popularity 
with  it,  becomes  suspicious  of  himself 
and  feels  inclined  to  distrust  the  justice 
of  his  own  cause;  the  merciless  cynic 
who  characterizes  the  futile  oratorical 
efforts  of  a  silver-tongued  political  op- 
ponent by  the  crushing  words,  *  He  took 
me  for  a  mass  meeting.' 

But  not  only  the  political  life  of  the 
two  countries  presents  this  difference 
of  attitude  toward  the  average  man. 
The  great  German  poets  and  thinkers 
of  the  last  century  were  all  of  them 
aristocrats  by  temper.  Goethe,  Schil- 
ler, Kant,  Schelling,  Hegel,  the  Roman- 
ticists, Heine,  Schopenhauer,  Wagner, 
Nietzsche  —  is  there  a  man  among 
them  who  would  not  have  begged  off 
from  being  classed  with  the  advocates 
of  common  sense  or  being  called  a 
spokesman  of  the  masses?  What  a  dif- 
ference from  two  of  the  most  charac- 
teristically American  men  of  letters, 
Walt  Whitman  and  Emerson:  the  one 


GERMAN  LITERATURE  AND  THE  AMERICAN  TEMPER      659 


consciously  and  purposely  a  man  of  the 
street,  glorying,  one  might  say  boast- 
fully, in  his  comradeship  with  the  crud- 
est and  roughest  of  tramps  and  dock- 
hands;  the  other  a  philosopher  of  the 
field,  a  modern  St.  Francis,  a  prophet 
of  the  homespun,  an  inspired  inter- 
preter of  the  ordinary,  —  perhaps  the 
most  enlightened  apostle  of  democracy 
that  ever  lived.  Is  it  not  natural  that 
a  people  which,  although  with  varying 
degrees  of  confidence,  acknowledges 
such  men  as  Lincoln,  Walt  Whitman, 
and  Emerson  as  the  spokesmen  of  its 
convictions  on  the  value  of  the  ordi- 
nary intellect,  should  on  the  whole  have 
no  instinctive  sympathy  with  a  peo- 
ple whose  intellectual  leaders  are  men 
like  Bismarck,  Goethe,  and  Richard 
Wagner? 

To  be  sure,  there  is  another,  a  demo- 
cratic side  to  German  life,  and  this  side 
naturally  appeals  to  Americans.  But 
German  democracy  is  still  in  the  mak- 
ing, it  has  not  yet  achieved  truly  great 
things,  it  has  not  yet  found  a  truly 
great  exponent  either  in  politics  or  in 
literature.  In  literature  its  influence 
has  exhausted  itself  largely,  on  the  one 
hand,  in  biting  satire  of  the  ruling 
classes,  such  as  is  practiced  to-day 
most  successfully  by  the  contributors 
to  Simplizissimus  and  similar  papers, 
sympathizing  with  Socialism;  on  the 
other  hand,  in  idyllic  representations  of 
the  healthy  primitiveness  of  peasant 
life  and  the  humble  contentedness  and 
respectability  of  the  artisan  class,  the 
small  tradespeople  and  subaltern  offi- 
cials- -I  am  thinking,  of  course,  of  such 
sturdy  and  charming  stories  of  provin- 
cial Germany  as  have  been  written  by 
Wilhelm  Raabe,  Fritz  Reuter,  Peter 
Rosegger,  and  Heinrich  Seidel.  It  may 
be  that  all  these  men  have  been  paving 
the  way  for  a  great  epoch  of  German 
democracy;  it  may  be  that  some  time 
there  will  arise  truly  constructive  minds 
that  will  unite  the  whole  of  the  German 


people  in  an  irresistible  movement  for 
popular  rights,  which  would  give  the 
average  man  the  same  dominating  posi- 
tion which  he  enjoys  in  this  country. 
But  clearly  this  time  has  not  yet  come. 
In  Germany,  expert  training  still  over- 
rules common  sense  and  dilettanteism. 
The  German  distrust  of  the  average 
intellect  has  for  its  logical  counterpart 
another  national  trait  which  it  is  hard 
for  Americans  to  appreciate  —  the  Ger- 
man bent  for  vague  intuitions  of  the 
infinite.  It  seems  strange  in  this  age  of 
cold  observation  of  facts,  when  the 
German  scientist  and  the  German  cap- 
tain of  industry  appear  as  the  most 
striking  embodiments  of  national  great- 
ness, to  speak  of  vague  intuitions  of 
the  infinite  as  a  German  characteristic. 
Yet  throughout  the  centuries  this  long- 
ing for  the  infinite  has  been  the  source 
of  much  of  the  best  and  much  of  the 
poorest  in  German  intellectual  achieve- 
ments. From  this  longing  for  the  infin- 
ite sprang  the  deep  inwardness  and 
spiritual  fervor  which  impart  such 
a  unique  charm  to  the  contemplative 
thought  of  the  German  Mystics  of  the 
fourteenth  century.  In  this  longing  for 
the  infinite  lay  Luther's  greatest  inspi- 
ration and  strength.  It  was  the  longing 
for  the  infinite  which  Goethe  felt  when 
he  made  his  Faust  say,  — 

The  thrill  of  awe  is  man's  best  quality. 

This  longing  for  the  infinite  was  the 
very  soul  of  German  Romanticism; 
and  all  its  finest  conceptions,  the  Blue 
Flower  of  Novalis,  Fichte's  Salvation  by 
the  Will,  Hegel's  Self -revelation  of  the 
Idea,  Schopenhauer's  Redemption  from 
the  Will,  Nietzsche's  Revaluation  of  all 
Values,  are  nothing  but  ever  new  at- 
tempts to  find  a  body  for  this  soul. 

But  while  there  has  thus  come  a  great 
wealth  of  inspiration  and  moral  ideal- 
ism from  this  German  bent  for  reveling 
in  the  infinite,  there  has  also  come  from 
it  one  of  the  greatest  national  defects: 


660       GERMAN  LITERATURE  AND  THE  AMERICAN  TEMPER 


German  vagueness,  German  lack  of 
form,  the  lack  of  sense  for  the  shape 
and  proportion  of  finite  things.  Here, 
then,  we  meet  with  another  discrep- 
ancy between  the  American  and  the 
German  character.  For  no  thing  is  more 
foreign  to  the  American  than  the  mys- 
tic and  the  vague,  nothing  appeals  more 
to  him  than  what  is  clear-cut,  easy  to 
grasp,  and  well  proportioned;  he  culti- 
vates '  good  form '  for  its  own  sake,  not 
only  in  his  social  conduct,  but  also  in 
his  literary  and  artistic  pursuits,  and 
he  usually  attains  it  easily  and  in- 
stinctively, often  at  the  expense  of  the 
deeper  substance.  To  the  German,  on 
the  contrary,  form  is  a  problem.  He 
is  principally  absorbed  in  the  subject- 
matter,  the  idea,  the  inner  meaning;  he 
struggles  to  give  this  subject-matter, 
this  inner  meaning,  an  adequate  outer 
form;  and  he  often  fails.  To  comfort 
himself,  he  has  invented  a  technical 
term  designed  to  cover  up  his  failure: 
he  falls  back  on  the  *  inner  form '  of  his 
productions. 

German  literature  and  art  afford 
numerous  examples  of  this  continuous 
and  often  fruitless  struggle  with  the 
problem  of  form.  Even  in  the  greatest 
of  German  painters  and  sculptors, — 
Diirer,  Peter  Vischer,  Adolph  Menzel, 
Arnold  Bocklin,  —  there  are  visible  the 
furrows  and  the  scars  imprinted  upon 
them  by  the  struggle;  rarely  did  they 
achieve  a  complete  and  undisputed  tri- 
umph. Does  the  literature  of  any  other 
people  possess  an  author  so  crowded 
with  facts  and  observations,  so  full  of 
feeling,  so  replete  with  vague  intima- 
tions of  the  infinite,  and  so  thoroughly 
unreadable  as  Jean  Paul?  Is  there  a 
parallel  anywhere  to  the  formlessness 
and  utter  lack  of  style  displayed  in 
Gutzkow's  ambitious  nine-volumed 
Kulturromane?  Did  any  writer  ever 
consume  himself  in  a  more  tragic  and 
more  hopeless  striving  for  a  new  artis- 
tic form  than  did  Kleist  and  Hebbel? 


Among  the  greatest  of  living  European 
writers  is  there  one  so  uneven  in  his 
work,  so  uncertain  of  his  form,  so  in- 
clined to  constant  experiment  and  to 
constant  change  from  extreme  natural- 
ism to  extreme  mysticism,  and  from 
extreme  mysticism  to  extreme  natural- 
ism, as  Gerhart  Hauptmann?  And 
who  but  a  German  could  have  written 
the  Second  Part  of  Faust,  that  tanta- 
lizing and  irresistible  pot-pourri  of  me- 
tres and  styles  and  ideas,  of  symbolism 
and  satire,  of  metaphysics  and  passion, 
of  dryness  and  sublimity,  of  the  dim 
mythical  past,  up-to-date  modernity, 
and  prophetic  visions  of  the  future  — 
all  held  together  by  the  colossal  striv- 
ing of  an  individual  reaching  out  into 
the  infinite? 

in 

I  have  reserved  for  the  last  place  in 
this  review  of  differences  of  German 
and  American  temper  another  trait  in- 
timately connected  with  the  German 
craving  for  the  infinite;  I  give  the  last 
place  to  the  consideration  of  this  trait, 
because  it  seems  to  me  the  most  un- 
American  of  all.  I  mean  the  passion 
for  self-surrender. 

I  think  I  need  not  fear  any  serious 
opposition  if  I  designate  self-possession 
as  the  cardinal  American  virtue,  and 
consequently  as  the  cardinal  American 
defect  also.  It  is  impossible  to  imag- 
ine that  so  unmanly  a  proverb  as  the 
German  — 

Wer  niemals  einen  Rausch  gehabt 
Der  ist  kein  rechter  Mann  — 

should  have  originated  in  New  Eng- 
land or  Ohio.  But  it  is  impossible  also 
to  conceive  that  the  author  of  Werthers 
Leiden  should  have  obtained  his  youth- 
ful impressions  and  inspirations  in  New 
York  City.  '  Conatus  sese  conservandi 
unicum  virtutis  fundamentum '  —  this 
Spinozean  motto  may  be  said  to  con- 
tain the  essence  of  the  American  deca- 
logue of  conduct.  Always  be  master  of 


GERMAN  LITERATURE  AND  THE  AMERICAN  TEMPER      661 


yourself;  never  betray  any  irritation,  or 
disappointment,  or  any  other  weakness ; 
never  slop  over;  never  give  yourself 
away;  never  make  yourself  ridiculous 
—  what  American  would  not  admit 
that  these  are  foremost  among  the 
rules  by  which  he  would  like  to  regu- 
late his  conduct? 

It  can  hardly  be  denied  that  this  hab- 
itual self-mastery,  this  habitual  con- 
trol over  one's  emotions,  is  one  of  the 
chief  reasons  why  so  much  of  Amer- 
ican life  is  so  uninteresting  and  so  mo- 
notonous. It  reduces  the  number  of 
opportunities  for  intellectual  friction, 
it  suppresses  the  manifestation  of 
strong  individuality,  often  it  impover- 
ishes the  inner  life  itself.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  it  has  given  the  American 
that  sureness  of  motive,  that  healthi- 
ness of  appetite,  that  boyish  frolic- 
someness,  that  purity  of  sex-instincts, 
that  quickness  and  litheness  of  man- 
ners, which  distinguish  him  from  most 
Europeans;  it  has  given  to  him  all 
those  qualities  which  insure  success  and 
make  their  possessor  a  welcome  mem- 
ber of  any  kind  of  society. 

If,  in  contradistinction  to  this  funda- 
mental American  trait  of  self-posses- 
sion, I  designate  the  passion  for  self-sur- 
render as  perhaps  the  most  significant 
expression  of  national  German  char- 
acter, I  am  well  aware  that  here  again, 
I  have  touched  upon  the  gravest  de- 
fects as  well  as  the  highest  virtues  of 
German  national  life. 

The  deepest  seriousness  and  the 
noblest  loyalty  of  German  character  is 
rooted  in  this  passion. 

Sich  hinzugeben  ganz  und  eine  Wonne 
Zu  f tihlen  die  ewig  sein  muss, 
Ewig,  ewig  — 

that  is  German  sentiment  of  the  most 
unquestionable  sort.  Not  only  do  the 
great  names  in  German  history  —  as 
Luther,  Lessing,  Schiller,  Bismarck, 
and  so  many  others  —  stand  in  a  con- 
spicuous manner  for  this  thoroughly 


German  devotion,  this  absorption  of 
the  individual  in  some  great  cause  or 
principle,  but  countless  unnamed  men 
and  women  are  equally  typical  repre- 
sentatives of  this  German  virtue  of  self- 
surrender:  the  housewife  whose  only 
thought  is  for  her  family;  the  crafts- 
man who  devotes  a  lifetime  of  content- 
ed obscurity  to  his  daily  work;  the 
scholar  who  foregoes  official  and  social 
distinction  in  unremitting  pursuit  of 
his  chosen  inquiry;  the  official  and  the 
soldier,  who  sink  their  personality  in 
unquestioning  service  to  the  State. 

But  a  German  loves  not  only  to  sur- 
render himself  to  a  great  cause  or  a 
sacred  task,  he  equally  loves  to  sur- 
render himself  to  whims.  He  loves  to 
surrender  to  feelings,  to  hysterias  of 
all  sorts;  he  loves  to  merge  himself  in 
vague  and  formless  imaginings,  in  ex- 
travagant and  reckless  experience,  in 
what  he  likes  to  call  *  living  himself 
out.'  And  thus  this  same  passion  for 
self-surrender  which  has  produced  the 
greatest  and  noblest  types  of  German 
earnestness  and  devotion,  has  also  led 
to  a  number  of  paradoxical  excrescences 
and  grotesque  distortions  of  German 
character.  Nobody  is  more  prone  to 
forget  his  better  self  in  this  so-called 
*  living  himself  out '  than  the  German. 
Nobody  can  be  a  cruder  materialist 
than  the  German  who  has  persuaded 
himself  that  it  is  his  duty  to  unmask 
the  'lie  of  idealism.'  Nobody  can  be  a 
more  relentless  destroyer  of  all  that 
makes  life  beautiful  and  lovely,  nobody 
can  be  a  more  savage  hater  of  religious 
beliefs,  of  popular  tradition,  of  patri- 
otic instincts,  than  the  German  who 
has  convinced  himself  that  by  the  up- 
rooting of  all  these  things  he  performs 
the  sacred  task  of  saving  society. 

In  literature  this  whimsical  fanati- 
cism of  the  German  temper  has  made 
an  even  development  of  artistic  tradi- 
tion, such  as  is  found  most  conspicu- 
ously in  France,  impossible.  Again  and 


662      GERMAN  LITERATURE  AND  THE  AMERICAN  TEMPER 


again  the  course  of  literary  develop- 
ment has  been  interrupted  by  some  bold 
iconoclast,  some  unruly  rebel  against 
established  standards,  some  impassion- 
ed denouncer  of  what  thus  far  had  been 
considered  fine  and  praiseworthy;  so 
that  practically  every  German  writer 
has  had  to  begin  at  the  beginning,  by 
creating  his  own  standards  and  canons 
of  style. 

No  other  literature  contains  so 
much  defamation  of  its  own  achieve- 
ments as  German  literature;  no  writ- 
ers of  any  other  nation  have  spoken 
so  contemptuously  of  their  own  coun- 
trymen as  German  writers  of  the  last 
hundred  years  have  spoken  of  theirs, 
from  Holderlin's  characterization  of  the 
Germans  as  'barbarians,  made  more 
barbarous  by  industry,  learning,  and  re- 
ligion/ to  some  such  sayings  by  Nietz- 
sche as,  *  Wherever  Germany  spreads 
she  ruins  culture';  or,  *  Wagner  is  the 
counter-poison  to  everything  essential- 
ly German;  the  fact  that  he  is  a  poison 
too  I  do  not  deny';  or,  'The  Germans 
have  not  the  faintest  idea  how  vulgar 
they  are,  they  are  not  even  ashamed 
of  being  merely  Germans';  or,  'Words 
fail  me,  I  have  only  a  look,  for  those 
who  dare  to  utter  the  name  of  Goe- 
the's Faust  in  the  presence  of  Byron's 
Manfred;  the  Germans  are  incapable 
of  conceiving  anything  sublime.' 

Is  there  cause  for  wonder,  when 
Germans  themselves  indulge  in  such 
fanatically  scurrilous  vagaries  about 
their  own  people  and  its  greatest  men, 
that  foreigners  are  inclined  to  take 
their  cue  from  them  and  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  German  literature  is 
after  all  '  merely  German '  ? 

IV 

We  have  considered  a  number  of 
peculiarly  German  traits:  slowness  of 
temper,  regard  for  authority,  distrust 
of  the  average  intellect,  bent  for  vague 


intuitions  of  the  infinite,  defective  sense 
of  form,  passion  for  self-surrender, 
whimsical  fanaticism;  and  we  have 
seen  how  every  one  of  these  German 
traits  is  diametrically  opposed  to 
American  ways  of  thinking  and  feel- 
ing. We  cannot  therefore  be  surprised 
that  the  literature  in  which  these  pe- 
culiarly German  traits  find  expression 
should  not  be  particularly  popular  in 
America. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  has  been 
only  one  period,  and  a  brief  one  at  that, 
when  German  literature  exercised  a 
marked  influence  upon  this  country, 
when  it  even  held  something  like  a 
dominant  position.  That  was  about  the 
middle  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the 
time  of  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Hedge, 
and  Bayard  Taylor.  That  was  the  time 
when  the  creations  of  classic  German 
literature  of  the  days  of  Weimar  and 
Jena  were  welcomed  and  exalted  by 
the  leaders  of  spiritual  America  as  re- 
velations of  a  higher  life,  of  a  new 
and  hopeful  and  ennobling  view  of  the 
world. 

At  that  time  there  did  not  exist  in 
America,  as  to-day,  millions  of  citizens 
of  German  birth,  the  great  majority  of 
whom  have  little  in  common  with  the 
ideals  of  Goethe  and  Schiller.  At  that 
time  the  age  of  industrialism  and  im- 
perialism had  not  dawned  for  Germany. 
Germany  appeared  then  to  the  intel- 
lectual elite  of  America  as  the  home  of 
choicest  spirits,  as  the  land  of  true  free- 
dom of  thought.  Wilhelm  Meister  and 
Faust,  Jean  Paul's  Titan  and  Flegel- 
jahre,  Fichte's  Destiny  of  Man,  Schleier- 
macher's  Addresses  on  Religion,  were 
then  read  and  reread  with  something 
like  sacred  ardor  by  small  but  influ- 
ential and  highly  cultivated  circles  in 
Boston,  New  York,  and  Philadelphia. 
And  the  few  Germans  who  at  that 
time  came  to  America,  most  of  them 
as  political  refugees  and  martyrs  of  the 
Liberal  cause,  appeared  as  living  em- 


GERMAN  LITERATURE  AND  THE  AMERICAN  TEMPER      663 


bodiments  of  the  gospel  of  humanity 
contained  in  German  literature,  and 
were  therefore  given  a  cordial  and  re- 
spectful reception. 

Things  are  very  different  to-day. 
To  be  sure,  the  noble  bronze  figures  of 
Goethe  and  Schiller  by  Rietschel,  which 
stand  in  front  of  the  Ducal  theatre  at 
Weimar,  also  look  down,  in  the  shape  of 
excellent  reproductions,  upon  multi- 
tudes of  Americans  at  San  Francisco, 
Cleveland,  and  Syracuse;  and  one  of 
the  finest  monuments  to  the  genius 
of  Goethe  ever  conceived  has  recently 
been  dedicated  in  Chicago.  But  are 
these  monuments  in  reality  expres- 
sions of  a  wide  sway  exercised  by  these 
two  greatest  German  writers  upon  the 
American  people?  Are  they  not  appeals 
rather  than  signs  of  victory  —  appeals 
above  all  to  the  Germans  in  this  coun- 
try to  be  loyal  to  the  message  of  classic 
German  literature,  to  be  loyal  to  the 
best  traditions  which  bind  them  to 
the  land  of  their  ancestors,  to  be  loyal 
to  the  ideals  in  which  Germany's  true 
greatness  is  rooted? 

The  most  encouraging  aspect  of  the 
present  situation  is  to  be  found  in  the 
study  of  German  literature  in  Amer- 
ican colleges  and  universities;  for  there 
is  not  a  university  or  a  college  in  the 
land  where  there  are  not  well-trained 
teachers  and  ardent  admirers  of  what  is 
truly  fine  and  great  in  German  letters. 
And  in  spite  of  all  that  has  been  said 
to-day,  there  is  plenty  in  the  German 
literary  production  of  the  last  hundred 
years  which  is,  or  at  least  should  be,  of 
intense  interest  to  Americans,  — plenty 
of  wholesome  thought,  plenty  of  deep 
feeling,  plenty  of  soaring  imagination, 
plenty  of  spiritual  treasures  which  are 
not  for  one  nation  alone,  but  for  all 
humanity. 

For  it  is  a  grave  mistake  to  assume, 
as  has  been  assumed  only  too  often, 
that,  after  the  great  epoch  of  Classicism 
and  Romanticism  in  the  early  decades 


of  the  nineteenth  century,  Germany 
produced  but  little  of  universal  signifi- 
cance, or  that,  after  Goethe  and  Heine, 
there  were  but  few  Germans  worthy 
to  be  mentioned  side  by  side  with  the 
great  writers  of  other  European  coun- 
tries. True,  there  is  no  German  Tolstoi, 
no  German  Ibsen,  no  German  Zola,  but 
then,  is  there  a  Russian  Nietzsche,  or 
a  Norwegian  Wagner,  or  a  French  Bis- 
marck? Men  like  these —  men  of  re- 
volutionary genius,  men  who  start  new 
movements  and  mark  new  epochs  — 
are  necessarily  rare,  and  stand  isolated 
among  any  people  and  at  all  times. 

The  three  names  mentioned  indicate 
that  Germany,  during  the  last  fifty 
years,  has  contributed  a  goodly  share  of 
even  such  men.  Quite  apart,  however, 
from  such  men  of  overshadowing  gen- 
ius and  all-controlling  power,  can  it  be 
truly  said  that  Germany,  since  Goe- 
the's time,  has  been  lacking  in  writers 
of  high  aim  and  notable  attainment? 

It  can  be  stated  without  reservation 
that,  taken  as  a  whole,  the  German 
drama  of  the  nineteenth  century  has 
maintained  a  level  of  excellence  su- 
perior to  that  reached  by  the  drama  of 
almost  any  other  nation  during  the 
same  period.  Schiller's  Wallenstein  and 
Telly  Goethe's  Iphigenie  and  Faust, 
Kleist's  Prinz  von  Hamburg,  Grillpar- 
zer's  Medea,  Hebbel's  Maria  Magda- 
lena  and  Die  Nibelungen,  Otto  Ludwig's 
Der  Erbforster,  Freytag's  Die  Journal- 
isten,  Anzengruber's  Der  Meineidbauer, 
Wilbrandt's  Der  Meister  von  Palmyra, 
Wildenbruch's  Konig  Heinrich,  Su- 
dermann's  Heimat,  Hauptmann's  Die 
Weber  and  Der  arme  Heinrich,  Hof- 
mannthal's  Elektra,  and,  in  addition 
to  all  these,  the  great  musical  dramas 
of  Richard  Wagner  —  this  is  a  cen- 
tury's record  of  dramatic  achieve- 
ment of  which  any  nation  might  be 
proud.  I  doubt  whether  either  the 
French  or  the  Russian  or  the  Scandi- 
navian stage  of  the  nineteenth  century, 


664      GERMAN  LITERATURE  AND  THE  AMERICAN  TEMPER 


as  a  whole,  comes  up  to  this  standard. 
Certainly,  the  English  stage  has  no- 
thing which  can  in  any  way  be  com- 
pared with  it. 

That  German  lyric  verse  of  the  last 
hundred  years  should  have  been  distin- 
guished by  beauty  of  structure,  depth 
of  feeling,  and  wealth  of  melody,  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at  if  we  remember 
that  this  was  the  century  of  the  revival 
of  folk-song,  and  that  it  produced  such 
song-composers  as  Schubert  and  Schu- 
mann and  Robert  Franz  and  Hugo 
Wolf  and  Richard  Strauss.  But  it 
seems  strange  that,  apart  from  Heine, 
even  the  greatest  of  German  lyric  poets, 
such  as  Platen,  Lenau,  Morike,  Annette 
von  Droste,  Geibel,  Liliencron,  Deh- 
mel,  Miinchhausen,  Rilke,  should  be  so 
little  known  beyond  the  borders  of  the 
Fatherland. 

The  German  novel  of  the  past  cen- 
tury was,  for  a  long  time,  unquestion- 
ably inferior  to  both  the  English  and 
the  French  novel  of  the  same  epoch. 
But  in  the  midst  of  much  that  is  tire- 
some and  involved  and  artificial,  there 
stand  out,  even  in  the  middle  of  the 
century,  such  masterpieces  of  charac- 
terization as  Otto  Ludwig's  Zwischen 
Himmel  und  Erde  and  Wilhelm  Raabe's 
Der  Hunger  Pastor;  such  delightful 
revelations  of  genuine  humor  as  Fritz 
Renter's  Ut  mine  Stromtid ;  such  pene- 
trating studies  of  social  conditions  as 
Gustav  Freytag's  Soil  und  Haben.  And 
during  the  last  third  of  the  century 


there  has  clearly  developed  a  new,  for- 
cible, original  style  of  German  novel- 
writing. 

Seldom  has  the  short  story  been 
handled  more  skillfully  and  felicitous- 
ly than  by  such  men  as  Paul  Heyse, 
Gottfried  Keller,  C.  F.  Meyer,  Theodor 
Storm.  Seldom  has  the  novel  of  tragic 
import  and  passion  been  treated  with 
greater  refinement  and  delicacy  than 
in  such  works  as  Fontane's  Effi  Briest, 
Ricarda  Huch'sLudolfUrsleu,  Wilhelm 
von  Polenz's  Der  Biittnerbauer,  and 
Ludwig  Thoma's  Andreas  Vost.  And  it 
may  be  doubted  whether,  at  the  pres- 
ent moment,  there  is  any  country  where 
the  novel  is  represented  by  so  many 
gifted  writers  or  exhibits  such  exuber- 
ant vitality,  such  sturdy  truthfulness, 
such  seriousness  of  purpose,  or  such  a 
wide  range  of  imagination,  as  in  con- 
temporary Germany. 

It  is  for  the  teachers  of  German  lit- 
erature in  the  universities  and  colleges 
throughout  the  country  to  open  the 
eyes  of  Americans  to  the  vast  and  solid 
treasures  contained  in  this  storehouse 
of  German  literary  production  of  the 
last  hundred  years.  They  are  doing 
this  work  of  enlightenment  now,  with 
conspicuous  popular  success  at  the  uni- 
versities of  the  Middle  West.  And  I 
look  confidently  forward  to  a  time 
when,  as  a  result  of  this  academic 
instruction  and  propaganda,  German 
literature  will  have  ceased  to  be  un- 
popular in  America. 


BRITISH  LIBERALISM  AND  THE  WAR 


BY   J.    O.   P.   BLAND 


ANY  attempt  to  forecast  the  prob- 
able tendencies  of  Liberal  opinion  in 
England,  whensoever  peace  shall  have 
been  restored,  must  be  based  on  the 
assumption  that  Germany  will  be  com- 
pletely defeated  and  Europe  be  reliev- 
ed, once  and  for  all,  from  the  overshad- 
owing menace  of  Prussian  militarism. 
For  the  ultimate  issue  of  the  present 
titanic  struggle  resolves  itself,  so  far  as 
the  great  mass  of  our  wage-earners  is 
concerned,  into  the  question  whether 
the  rights  of  men  or  the  rights  of  au- 
tocratic power  shall  hereafter  domi- 
nate their  political  and  economic  des- 
tinies. Say  what  we  will  of  the  splendid 
achievements  of  German  science  and 
culture,  the  spirit  which  controls  and 
directs  the  life  of  the  German  people 
is  that  of  Prussia's  blood-and-iron  des- 
potism, a  spirit  that  frankly  denies  and 
despises  the  rights  of  man  and  exalts 
those  of  a  privileged  military  caste. 

If  it  were  possible  that  the  command 
of  the  sea  should  now  pass  from  Eng- 
land to  Germany,  its  passing  could 
mean  only  the  substitution  of  mili- 
tary for  industrial  civilization  through- 
out Western  Europe.  Liberalism,  that 
great  force  of  progressive  public  opin- 
ion which,  above  and  beyond  all  party 
politics,  stands  for  freedom  of  social 
development  and  ethical  ideas,  would 
find  no  place  of  refuge  on  this  side  of 
the  Atlantic  until  that  tyranny  was 
finally  overthrown.  If  England  were 
defeated  and  invaded  by  the  triumph- 
ant Teuton,  Liberalism,  in  the  accepted 


sense  of  the  term,  must  be  submerged, 
for  a  generation  at  least,  in  the  wreck 
and  ruin  of  our  national  life. 

But  it  cannot  be.  This  war  can  end 
only  with  the  final  uprooting  of  the  Bis- 
marckian  tradition  and  a  wider  free- 
dom for  the  nations.  The  struggle  of 
armed  hosts  is  also  a  conflict  of  vital 
ideas;  it  is  essentially  a  war  between  the 
fundamental  principles  of  autocracy 
and  those  of  democracy;  and  democra- 
cy must  triumph.  It  is  true  that  in  the 
turmoil  of  conflicting  impulses  of  na- 
tionalism, Russia,  an  autocratic  power, 
finds  herself  ranged  on  the  side  of  de- 
mocracy for  the  furtherance  of  Pan- 
Slav  ambitions,  which,  in  the  past,  have 
had  little  enough  to  do  with  Liberal- 
ism; but  the  movement,  and  the  racial 
instincts  of  self-preservation  which 
have  inspired  it,  are  in  themselves  full 
of  promise  for  the  future  liberties  of 
Poland,  Finland,  and  the  Jewish  sub- 
jects of  the  Tsar.  Russian  Liberalism 
cannot  fail  to  derive  a  new  sanction 
and  a  new  inspiration  from  the  disap- 
pearance of  the  cult  of  the  German 
War  Lord,  and  the  Russian  bureau- 
cracy must  of  necessity  acquire  a 
broader  and  more  humane  outlook,  by 
virtue  of  its  alliance  with  the  forces 
which  stand  for  the  liberties  of  the 
smaller  nations.  j 

Assuming,  then,  that  Western  Eu- 
rope is  destined  to  be  relieved  of  the 
overshadowing  menace  of  German  he- 
gemony, it  is  evident  that,  as  this  war 
draws  to  its  close,  the  minds  of  thought- 
ful men  will  be  deeply  concerned  with 
the  social  and  political  changes  which 

665 


666 


BRITISH  LIBERALISM  AND  THE  WAR 


must  naturally  follow  upon  so  vast  an 
upheaval.  But  with  regard  to  Great 
Britain's  domestic  affairs  (closely  af- 
fected as  they  are  by  the  still  unsolved 
Irish  problem  and  the  undefined  atti- 
tude of  the  Labor  party)  the  future  of 
Liberalism,  and  the  constitution  of  its 
leadership,  must  evidently  depend  in 
no  small  measure  on  the  duration  of 
the  war. 

If,  as  Lord  Kitchener  appears  to  ex- 
pect, the  struggle  should  be  protracted 
for  two  or  three  years,  not  only  those 
who  now  direct  the  nation's  affairs,  but 
the  leaders  of  public  opinion  through- 
out all  classes  of  society,  will  inevit- 
ably approach  many  of  our  national 
problems  from  standpoints  either  com- 
pletely new,  or  greatly  modified  by  the 
psychological  effect  of  so  prolonged 
a  conflict.  Industrial  England  cannot 
leave  its  factories  and  warehouses  for 
two  or  three  years,  to  follow  the  drum 
in  Belgium  and  France  (and,  let  us 
hope,  in  Germany),  without  acquiring 
new  and  fruitful  ideas  concerning  the 
nation's  foreign  policy,  alliances,  and 
diplomatic  relations. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  as  many  be- 
lieve, the  war  is  brought  to  a  much 
earlier  conclusion,  —  either  by  the  de- 
feat of  the  German  forces  in  the  field 
or  by  the  economic  exhaustion  of  West- 
ern Europe,  —  its  effect  on  the  labor- 
ing and  industrial  classes  in  England 
would  naturally  be  less  marked;  in 
that  case,  Liberalism  might  confident- 
ly expect  speedily  to  reorganize  its  po- 
litical forces  and  reassert  its  domes- 
tic policy  on  lines  generally  based  on 
those  which  have  been  laid  down  by  the 
present  administration.  Questions  of 
foreign  policy  and  of  national  defense 
would  require  to  be  adjusted  to  changed 
and  changing  conditions,  but  it  may 
safely  be  predicted  that  the  nation's 
chief  attention  would  speedily  revert 
to  matters  of  social  legislation,  to  the 
lesser  conflicts  of  class  interests  and 


party  faction,,  unless  the  people  itself 
had  learned,  by  the  chastening  disci- 
pline of  a  prolonged  struggle,  that  'na- 
tions, like  individuals,  have  souls  as 
well  as  bodies.' 

A  short,  successful  war  would  prob- 
ably tend  to  confirm  the  industrial 
population  of  England  in  its  somewhat 
narrow  outlook  on  life,  in  its  well-order- 
ed but  unsatisfied  materialism;  a  long 
one,  waged  in  a  just  cause  for  the  great- 
er freedom  of  democracy,  could  not 
fail  to  create  a  higher  type  of  intelli- 
gent nationalism  in  the  masses.  Clear- 
ly, then,  the  future  of  Liberalism,  both 
as  regards  its  leadership  and  its  domi- 
nant principles,  depends  greatly  on  the 
duration  and  results  of  the  war. 

But,  whether  it  be  long  or  short, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  memory 
of  these  days,  in  which  the  people  has 
heard  and  answered  the  higher  call  of 
patriotism  in  the  hour  of  national  peril, 
must  infuse  into  Liberalism,  as  into 
Conservatism,  a  broader  view  of  the 
public  interest,  something  less  paro- 
chial and  more  truly  national  in  its 
attitude.  The  spirit  of  comradeship, 
of  kindly  sympathy  of  class  for  class, 
the  common  hopes  and  sorrows  and 
fears,  that  have  united  the  nation  to 
confront  a  common  danger,  these  will 
not  lightly  be  forgotten.  War,  despite 
all  its  horrors,  undoubtedly  calls  forth 
in  men  some  of  the  noblest  virtues. 
Tried  in  its  cleansing  fires,  the  gold  of 
humanity  is  purified.  From  this  great 
upheaval  of  all  our  comfortable  securi- 
ties, the  nation  will  emerge  with  new 
and  broader  conceptions  of  duty  and 
self-denial  and  discipline. 

Our  class  wars  will  not  end,  but  they 
will  surely  be  made  less  bitter,  at  least 
during  the  life  of  the  present  generation, 
by  recollection  of  the  days  when  dukes' 
sons  and  cooks'  sons  fought  side  by  side 
in  the  trenches  and  together  stormed 
the  deadly  breach.  Conservatives  will 
remember  that,  in  the  supreme  hour  of 


BRITISH  LIBERALISM  AND  THE  WAR 


667 


trial,  it  was  the  leaders  of  the  Liberal 
party,  Mr.  Asquith,  Sir  Edward  Grey, 
Mr.  Churchill,  and  Mr.  Lloyd  George, 
who  upheld  the  nation's  honor,  and  re- 
fused to  parley  with  the  '  infamous  pro- 
posal,' which  would  have  bought  peace 
at  the  price  of  Belgium's  freedom  and 
the  utter  humiliation  of  France.  And 
Liberals  will  remember  that,  when  the 
storm  broke,  there  was  no  voice  of  re- 
crimination or  reproach  from  the  ranks 
of  their  political  opponents,  from  the 
men  who,  following  Lord  Roberts,  had 
for  years  urged  the  utter  inadequacy  of 
the  nation's  military  defenses. 

When  this  war  is  over  and  done,  and 
civilization  comes  to  count  its  appall- 
ing cost,  there  must  be  a  strong  reac- 
tion against  militarism,  and  especially 
against  that  which  Mr.  Wells  calls 
Kruppism;  but  never  again,  we  may 
be  sure,  will  England  consent  to  be 
an  unarmed  nation  amongst  nations 
in  arms.  Pacifists  and  humanitarians 
will  continue,  as  Liberals,  to  proclaim 
their  traditional  principles  and  poli- 
cies; Nonconformists  and  the  Society 
of  Friends  will  continue  to  work  for 
the  day  when  arbitration  treaties  and 
mutual  goodwill  between  the  nations 
shall  be  the  guarantees  of  universal 
peace;  but  Liberalism,  both  among  the 
classes  and  among  the  masses,  has  been 
rudely  awakened  from  dreams  to  the 
tough  world  of  realities.  If  Lord  Ro- 
berts lives  to  see  England's  house  set 
in  order  after  this  war,  he  should  have 
the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  his  life 
work  has  been  crowned  by  the  nation's 
recognition  of  the  need  for  national 
military  service,  organized  on  an  equit- 
able and  democratic  basis. 


ii 

As  we  look  back  on  the  record  of 
Liberalism  in  recent  years,  it  is  impos- 
sible to  deny  that,  under  the  baneful 
influences  of  the  party  system,  many  of 


its  noblest  aspirations  have  been  dulled 
by  contact  with  the  sordid  warfare  of 
professional  politicians.  The  people, 
while  pursuing  their  business  and  their 
pleasures  in  a  narrow  groove  of  unin- 
spired commercialism,  have  looked  on 
with  almost  callous  indifference  at  a 
game  in  which  principles  have  been 
frankly  subordinated  to  the  spoils  sys- 
tem, and  in  which  public  honors  and  ti- 
tles have  been  sold  for  cash,  to  replenish 
the  party  funds.  They  have  seen  the 
business  of  Parliamentary  representa- 
tion gradually  degraded  to  the  point 
where  the  Labor  Party  may  deliberate- 
ly record  its  vote  against  Labor  inter- 
ests, in  order  to  keep  its  salaries  and 
its  seats  under  a  Liberal  government. 
They  have  seen  vital  national  ques- 
tions, such  as  the  future  government 
of  Ireland  and  Woman  Suffrage,  treat- 
ed by  all  parties  alike,  not  on  their 
merits,  but  as  stakes  in  the  party  game 
of  Ins  and  Outs,  —  the  splendid  tradi- 
tions and  principles  of  English  Liber- 
alism abused  as  vote-winning  catch- 
words by  a  soulless  caucus. 

Had  there  been  no  war  with  Ger- 
many, these  growing  evils  must  sure- 
ly have  been  purged  from  the  body 
politic,  and  the  nation's  political  con- 
science awakened,  by  the  civil  strife 
which  the  Irish  question  had  render- 
ed inevitable.  Throughout  all  classes 
of  society,  from  the  landed  gentry  to 
the  leaders  of  the  Independent  Labor 
Party,  a  strong  force  of  public  opinion 
has  been  steadily  growing  for  the  past 
few  years  against  the  callous  cynicism 
of  the  party  system.  Is  it  too  much  to 
hope  that,  strengthened  and  purified 
by  the  ordeal  of  this  war,  this  force  of 
public  opinion  will  hereafter  devote  it- 
self to  the  cleansing  of  the  Augean  sta- 
bles, and  that  Liberalism  may  become 
once  more,  as  it  was  under  Gladstone 
and  Bright,  a  definite  and  disinterested 
solicitude  for  the  moral  and  material 
well-being  of  the  people? 


668 


BRITISH  LIBERALISM  AND  THE  WAR 


Indeed,  there  must  be  good  reason 
to  hope  and  believe  that  the  spirit  of 
Liberalism  will  emerge  greatly  invigor- 
ated from  a  struggle  which,  in  a  few 
short  weeks,  has  brought Jiome  to  every 
one  of  us  the  truth  that,  in  a  vital  cri- 
sis of  the  nation's  life,  all  these  party 
questions,  that  lead  us  to  such  bitter- 
ness and  wasteful  strife,  sink  into  utter 
insignificance.  At  the  first  breath  of 
a  common  danger,  the  jarring  voices 
of  class  and  party  faction  are  hushed 
to  silence.  The  war  must  needs  bring 
great  evil  of  sorrow  and  suffering  to 
England  at  large,  but  from  this  evil 
great  good  will  spring  if  it  teaches  the 
nation  that  the  government  of  the 
country  need  not  necessarily  and  eter- 
nally be  hampered  by  the  unworthy 
discords  of  professional  agitators  and 
politicians.  Already  it  has  learned  that, 
if  their  patriotism  and  their  pride  are 
aroused,  Conservatives  and  Liberals 
can  forget  their  bitterest  difference  in 
order  to  serve  a  common  national  pur- 
pose. The  lesson  will  not  lightly  be 
forgotten. 

If  one  may  judge  by  the  current  writ- 
ings of  representative  men,  one  of  the 
first  results  of  this  war  in  its  effect  upon 
Liberal  opinion  must  be  to  increase  and 
emphasize  its  humanitarian  and  paci- 
fist activities.  Already  the  keynote  of 
that  opinion  is  unmistakably  given  in 
the  Liberal  press.  In  the  Nation,  the 
Daily  Chronicle,  the  New  Statesman, 
and  many  other  influential  organs,  the 
conclusion  is  unanimously  voiced  that 
'it  must  never  happen  again/  Mr. 
Wells,  in  particular,  stands  out  as 
prophet  and  advocate  of  a  world-wide 
movement  for  the  moral  regeneration 
of  the  nations,  a  movement  in  which 
the  pacifist  forces  of  the  United  States 
are  expected  to  play  a  leading  part. 
There  is  to  be,  there  must  be,  through- 
out Europe  (to  quote  the  words  of 
Mr.  Massingham) ,  *  a  complete  change 
of  political  organization,'  a  federation 


of  powers  firmly  pledged  to  keep  the 
world's  peace. 

Mr.  Wells  is  splendidly  optimistic 
in  his  visions  of  the  Utopia  of  an  in- 
dustrial civilization  that  shall  now,  at 
last,  replace  the  civilization  of  militar- 
ism. He  admits  indeed  'that  it  is  no 
good  to  disarm  while  any  one  single 
power  is  still  in  love  with  the  dream 
of  military  glory/  but  he  looks  to  see 
that  dream  definitely  abolished,  and 
the  peace  of  the  world  permanently 
established,  by  a  consensus  of  human 
intelligence  and  morality.  He  would 
begin  by  'the  abolition  of  Kruppism, 
—  the  sordid,  enormous  trade  in  the 
instruments  of  death/  — and  the  neu- 
tralization of  the  sea.  He  would  make 
national  wars  on  land  impossible,  by 
giving  to  the  confederate  peace  powers 
charge  and  command  of  the  ocean  high- 
ways, making  the  transport  of  armed 
men  and  war  materials  contraband, 
and  impartially  blockading  all  belliger- 
ents. 'The  Liberalism  of  France  and 
England  must  make  its  immediate  ap- 
peal to  the  Liberalism  of  all  the  world, 
to  share  in  the  glorious  ends  for  which 
this  war  is  being  waged/  He  would 
have  a  new  and  enlightened  Democra- 
cy '  impose  upon  this  war  the  idea  that 
this  war  must  end  war  .  .  .  that  hence- 
forth no  nationality  shall  oppress  any 
nationality  or  language  again  in  Eu- 
rope for  ever/ 

The  Nation  (an  organ  identified  with 
the  Radical  wing)  advises  Liberalism 
to  seek  the  same  end  by  other  means. 
It  advocates  'the  cutting  down  of 
purely  national  forces  in  favor  of 
something  that  we  can  truly  call  an  In- 
ternational Police,  controlled  by  an 
International  Parliament/  This  result 

.1 

will  not  be  attained,  it  foresees,  merely 
by  the  abolition  of  Kaiserism  —  '  all 
will,  and  must  be,  changed:  the  inner 
thoughts  of  men,  the  power  of  the 
masses  to  safeguard  their  simplest 
rights/  For  the  nation  has  gone  into 


BRITISH  LIBERALISM  AND  THE  WAR 


669 


this  fight,  'not  perhaps  with  full  con- 
sciousness of  the  character  of  the  issue, 
but  with  the  desire,  and  we  pray  with 
the  result,  of  moderating  the  play,  not 
only  of  the  more  primitive  lusts  of 
successful  war,  but  of  seeing  a  new 
Europe  emerge  from  it.' 

I  quote  these  opinions  of  Mr.  Wells 
and  of  the  editor  of  the  Nation  because 
they  are  influential,  as  well  as  typical 
of  a  frame  of  mind  which  is  certain 
to  determine  the  future  attitude  of  a 
considerable  section  of  Liberalism,  not 
only  as  regards  matters  of  national  de- 
fense and  of  foreign  policy,  but  toward 
what  may  be  called  its  higher  morali- 
ties. The  practical  value  of  these  pro- 
posals for  abolishing  militarism  and 
radically  changing  the  tendencies  of 
nationalism,  may  be  open  to  dispute; 
but  the  moral  effect  of  such  an  attitude 
cannot  fail  to  be  important.  When, 
with  the  restoration  of  peace  abroad, 
pa  ty  war  breaks  out  again  (as  it  needs 
must)  at  home,  it  may  safely  be  pre- 
dicted that  a  definite  line  of  cleavage 
will  present  itself,  from  the  outset,  be- 
tween Liberalism  and  Conservatism  on 
these  issues  of  pacificism,  international 
arbitration,  and  disarmament. 

Once  more  we  shall  witness  the  old- 
world  battle  joined  between  the  Ideal- 
ists and  the  Realists;  between  the  fol- 
lowers of  Plato  and  those  of  Aristotle, 
believers  in  what-ought- to-be,  against 
those  who  prefer  to  deal  with  things  as 
they  are.  While  it  is  impossible  to 
withhold  admiration  for  the  splendid 
optimism  of  the  pacifists  (applied  to 
the  uncertain  soil  of  human  nature 
in  Europe,  in  much  the  same  spirit  in 
which  Mr.  Wilson  and  Mr.  Bryan  are 
endeavoring  to  apply  it  in  Mexico),  it 
is  equally  impossible  to  forget  that  (as 
Herbert  Spencer  sums  up  the  matter), 
'human  nature,  though  indefinitely 
modifiable,  can  be  modified  but  very 
slowly,  and  that  all  laws  and  institu- 
tions and  appliances  which  count  on 


getting  from  it,  within  a  short  time, 
results  much  better  than  present  ones, 
will  inevitably  fail,'  —  in  other  words, 
that  human  nature  cannot  be  radical- 
ly changed  by  modes  of  repression  or 
international  agreements,  but  only  by 
educative  processes,  which  must  neces- 
sarily extend  over  considerable  periods 
of  time. 

What  you  put  into  the  school,  said 
Humboldt,  you  take  out  of  the  State 
—  and,  if  this  be  true,  the  abolition 
of  war  must  be  preceded  for  a  gen- 
eration at  least  by  the  provision  of  a 
new  type  of  schoolmaster,  not  only  in 
Germany,  but  in  Japan,  Russia,  and 
other  countries.  There  are  times  and 
places  where  his  services  might  have 
been  useful  during  recent  years  even  in 
England  and  America. 

Many  peace-advocates  and  humani- 
tarians prominently  identified  with 
Liberalism  unconsciously  admit  the 
weakness  of  their  position  in  this  mat- 
ter. The  Nation,  in  a  striking  article 
entitled  'Utopia  or  Hell'  (August  15), 
declares  that '  the  future  turns  main- 
ly on  the  readiness  of  all  nations  to 
abstain  from  crushing  or  humiliating 
any  .  .  .  The  limitation  of  armaments 
must  be  universal,  and  it  must  be  vol- 
untary .  .  .  The  civilian  mind  must  im- 
pose itself  upon  the  pugnacity  of  the 
soldier.'  The  Society  of  Friends  (Lib- 
erals all),  in  a  remarkable  manifesto 
recently  published,  declares  that,  after 
this  war,  civilization  will  be  able  'to 
make  a  new  State  and  to  make  it  all 
together.'  They  hope  and  trust  'to 
reconstruct  European  culture  upon  the 
only  possible  permanent  foundation  — 
mutual  trust  and  goodwill';  to  lay 
down  'far-reaching  principles  for  the 
future  of  mankind,  such  as  will  insure 
us  forever  against  a  repetition  of  this 
gigantic  folly.' 

Yet  even  while  they  proclaim  this 
splendid  vision,  their  minds  are  not  a 
little  disturbed  by  the  thought  of  Rus- 


670 


BRITISH  LIBERALISM  AND  THE  WAR 


sia.  Mr.  Wells,  it  is  true,  has  endeav- 
ored to  reassure  his  friends  on  this 
score,  to  convince  Liberalism  that  its 
dread  of  that  semi-Oriental  autocracy 
'is  due  to  fundamental  misconceptions 
and  hasty  parallelisms':  but  they  re- 
fuse to  be  entirely  comforted.  The 
Tsar's  proclaimed  intention  of  liberat- 
ing Poland  and  Finland,  his  promises 
of  kindlier  treatment  for  his  Jewish 
subjects,  and  his  undertaking  to  respect 
the  independence  of  Sweden,  are  ac- 
cepted by  the  Nonconformist  con- 
science with  evident  misgivings,  which 
suggest  an  almost  Spencerian  attitude 
of  doubt  in  regard  to  the  sudden  dimi- 
nution of  original  sin  in  the  soul  of  the 
Slav.  And  so,  before  ever  the  vision  of 
universal  peace  can  find  practical  ex- 
pression in  statesmanship,  new  causes 
of  racial  antagonism  are  casting  their 
shadows  of  strife. 

Evidently  the  first  task  of  Liberal- 
ism must  be  to  determine  its  future 
attitude  toward  European  alliances  in 
general,  and  the  Triple  Entente  in  par- 
ticular. It  will  have  to  consider  and 
decide,  as  a'matter  of  high  national  pol- 
icy, whether  by  any  means  (for  exam- 
ple, by  the  establishment  of  an  Amer- 
ican-Anglo-French Peace  Federation)  a 
measure  of  international  disarmament 
can  be  attained;  and,  if  it  cannot,  what 
should  be  Great  Britain's  future  role 
on  the  Continent  of  Europe. 

And  here,  at  the  outset,  its  difficul- 
ties are  obvious.  To  oppose  a  good  un- 
derstanding with  Russia  must  in  the 
long  run  involve  support  to  Japan's 
ambitions  in  the  Far  East,  a  line  of 
policy  that  could  hardly  fail  to  antag- 
onize public  opinion  in  America,  — 
which  is  the  last  thing  that  either  Lib- 
eralism or  Conservatism  wants  to  do. 
It  would  also  mean  giving  further  coun- 
tenance to  the  'unspeakable  Turk,' 
who,  at  this  moment  of  writing,  ap- 
pears to  be  bent  on  tempting  Provi- 
dence to  the  utmost  and  selling  the 


remnants  of  his  birthright  in  Europe 
for  a  very  doubtful  mess  of  German 
red  pottage. 

in 

So  far  as  may  be  inferred  from  the 
views  currently  expressed,  a  consider- 
able body  of  English  Liberal  and  La- 
bor opinion  will,  in  future,  be  opposed 
to  the  whole  policy  of  alliances  and 
ententes.  Already  this  attitude  finds 
frequent  and  forcible  expression  in  the 
press.  Mr.  Ramsay  Macdonald,  nom- 
inal leader  of  the  Labor  Party,  has  pub- 
licly denounced  Sir  Edward  Grey  be- 
cause '  under  his  management  we  have 
been  weaving  round  ourselves  for  eight 
years  the  mesh  of  entanglements 
which  has  brought  us  to  our  present 
confusion.'  He  and  those  who  think 
with  him  maintain  that,  come  what 
may,  the  tremendous  issues  of  war  and 
peace  'can  no  longer  be  entrusted  to 
the  soldiers  and  diplomats  who  now 
control  them.'  They  denounce  all  the 
machinery  of  the  Balance  of  Power, 
holding  it  to  be  futile  at  its  best,  and 
dangerously  provocative  at  its  worst; 
and  they  would  replace  it  by  'the 
forms  and  the  reality  of  a  European 
concert.' 

These,  it  must  be  admitted,  are  ra- 
ther the  opinions  of  extreme  Radical- 
ism than  of  Liberalism,  —  the  views  of 
men  who  approach  the  wide  field  of 
European  politics  from  narrow  lanes 
of  insular  thought*  Experienced  Lib- 
eral leaders,  like  Lord  Morley  and 
Lord  Rosebery,  are  not  likely  to  pin 
their  faith  on  any  concert  of  Europe 
as  a  regenerating  moral  force.  They 
know  that  it  is  an  expedient  which  has 
been  tried  and  found  wanting.  Was 
not  Bismarck,  single-handed,  able  to 
reduce  its  good  intentions  to  impo- 
tence, and  to  prove,  long  before  Alge- 
ciras,  that  voluntary  respect  for  the 
sanctity  of  international  treaties  is  not 
an  effectively  restraining  force  in  the 


BRITISH  LIBERALISM  AND  THE  WAR 


671 


world's  affairs?  At  the  conference  of 
the  nations,  which  must  surely  assem- 
ble to  revise  the  map  of  Europe  after 
this  war,  the  humanitarian  idealists 
are  likely  to  find,  as  they  found  more 
than  once  at  The  Hague,  that,  even  be- 
yond the  frontiers  of  the  Balkans,  ne- 
cessity and  force  and  national  ideals 
are  still  powerful  factors  in  determin- 
ing the  destinies  of  peoples. 

On  the  whole,  it  seems  most  likely 
that,  in  the  domain  of  foreign  policy, 
constructive  Liberalism  will  direct  its 
humane  activities  toward  consolida- 
ting a  good  understanding  with  Russia 
along  lines  which  shall  involve  no  for- 
feiture of  our  own  national  ideals  as 
a  democracy.  For  by  this  means  only 
can  its  main  object  be  secured,  name- 
ly, the  avoidance  of  any  cause  of  mis- 
givings or  misunderstanding  on  the 
part  of  the  American  people. 

In  expressing  this  opinion,  I  do  not 
forget  that,  in  America,  as  in  England, 
there  exist  very  real  and  widespread 
misgivings  about  Russia,  and  particu- 
larly among  that  Jewish  element  of 
the  population  which  plays  so  import- 
ant a  part  in  the  high  places  of  inter- 
national finance.  But  when  all  is  said 
and  done,  a  nation's  policy  instinctive- 
ly follows  the  lines  of  least  resistance 
and  least  danger,  and  it  requires  no 
powers  of  divination  to  foresee  that, 
while  Russia  will  continue  to  stand  in 
need  of  the  friendship  of  England  and 
France  after  this  war,  her  political  act- 
ivities in  the  immediate  future  are  not 
at  all  likely  to  threaten  either  English 
or  American  interests.  As  a  commer- 
cial competitor,  she  will  continue  to 
be  a  negligible  quantity  and,  with  re- 
gard to  her  internal  politics,  the  cause 
of  humanity  has  everything  to  gain 
from  her  association  with  the  Liberal- 
ism of  England  and  France. 

Among  thoughtful  politicians  and 
writers,  a  clear  understanding  as  to  the 
country's  future  foreign  policy  is  re- 


cognized as  a  matter  of  paramount  im- 
portance. Without  going  so  far  as  Mr. 
Macdonald,  who  in  his  wrath  advocates 
the  suppression  of  diplomatists,  Lib- 
eral opinion  as  a  whole  would  welcome 
any  departure  from  the  existing  sys- 
tem, which  might  allow  Parliament 
and  the  press  to  form  clearer  ideas 
concerning  the  international  situation 
at  any  given  moment,  and  concerning 
England's  obligations.  Democratically 
speaking,  it  is  absurd  that  a  nation 
should  be  called  upon  to  make  war  in 
defense  of  obligations  (such  as  those  of 
the  Anglo-French  naval  entente)  which 
have  been  neither  published  nor  de- 
fined. Yet,  under  our  present  political 
system,  there  are  obvious  and  almost 
insuperable  objections  to  the  detailed 
discussion  in  Parliament  of  interna- 
tional relations,  —  objections  which 
would  continue  to  exist  even  if,  in  the 
interests  of  peace,  Europe  could  be  per- 
suaded to  intrust  the  execution  of  a 
concert's  decisions  to  an  international 
police  force. 

It  is  not  easy  to  see  by  what  means 
constructive  Liberalism,  however  well- 
intentioned,  is  to  supersede  the  exist- 
ing machinery  of  statecraft  in  England 
or  to  improve  upon  the  conduct  of  its 
foreign  relations  as  handled  by  Sir  Ed- 
ward Grey.  Take  away  all  power  of 
making  war  from  kings  and  govern- 
ors, replace  them  by  whatsoever  other 
machinery  we  will,  and  still,  at  the  end 
of  the  long  chain  of '  isms '  and  grouped 
authorities,  there  remains  ever  the  fal- 
lible human  equation. 

Next  to  the  question  of  our  future 
foreign  policy,  and  in  a  great  measure 
dependent  thereon,  Liberalism  must 
face  the  problems  of  national  defense. 
WTith  the  removal  of  the  German  in- 
vasion bogey,  those  who  advocate  a 
great  reduction  of  expenditure  on  ar- 
maments, both  on  economic  and  on 
moral  grounds,  will  be  in  a  strong  posi- 
tion. That  position  will  be  reinforced 


672 


BRITISH  LIBERALISM  AND  THE  WAR 


by  the  financial  exhaustion  of  the  coun- 
try; the  best  of  patriots,  faced  with  a 
ten  per  cent  tax,  must  look  about  him 
for  relief.  Expenditure  on  progressive 
legislation,  social  reform,  and  the  relief 
of  distress,  is  bound  to  increase  stead- 
ily, and  the  country's  taxable  resources 
are  not  unlimited.  All  this  is  indisput- 
able; nevertheless,  the  people  whose 
children  are  now  being  taught,  when 
they  say  grace,  to  *  thank  God  for  the 
British  navy  which  secures  them  a 
good  breakfast,'  are  not  likely  to  forget 
the  lesson  which  this  war  has  brought 
home  to  all  sorts  and  conditions  of 
men. 

A  general  reduction  of  armaments 
throughout  the  civilized  world,  the  ab- 
olition of  private  ownership  in  muni- 
tions of  war,  the  extension  of  arbitral 
machinery  to  international  disputes  un- 
der conditions  that  would  make  it  effec- 
tive —  all  these  things  might  well  come 
within  the  range  of  practical  politics. 
They  are  certain  in  any  case  to  come 
within  the  programme  of  advanced  Lib- 
eralism in  England.  But  neither  Mr. 
Norman  Angell's  exposition  of  the  eco- 
nomic futility  of  war,  nor  all  the  mor- 
al pacifists'  visions  of  a  Federation  of 
United  States  in  Europe,  will  ever  per- 
suade the  present  generation  of  Eng- 
lishmen to  endanger  Great  Britain's 
command  of  the  sea. 

Before  this  war,  the  warning  of  Lord 
Roberts,  Admiral  Mahan,  and  other 
seers,  had  fallen  upon  ears  that  heard 
not;  the  masses,  though  sympathetic, 
remained  unconvinced.  To-day,  they 
have  learned  and  know  that  England's 
daily  bread,  her  commerce,  her  colo- 
nies, her  very  existence,  depend  upon 
the  supremacy  of  the  British  Navy. 
With  a  dislike  for  militarism  quite  as 
deep-rooted  as  that  of  the  American 
people,  the  great  majority  of  English- 
men will  therefore  continue  to  oppose 
any  attempt  to  weaken  the  country's 
naval  defenses.  The  vital  importance 


of  sea-power  has  now  been  brought 
home  to  the  man  in  the  street  by  ar- 
guments and  facts  which  have  com- 
pletely convinced  him. 

Therefore,  whatever  be  the  humane 
aspirations  of  Liberalism,  Liberal  poli- 
ticians are  not  likely  to  follow  Mr. 
Wells  on  that  new  path  of  his  which  is 
to  lead  to  Utopia  by  way  of  *  the  neu- 
tralization of  the  sea,5  by  placing  all 
armed  ships  under  the  control  of  a 
confederation  of  peace  powers.  They 
will  prefer  to  work  for  an  all-round,  but 
fairly  proportionate,  reduction  of  arm- 
aments, both  on  land  and  sea;  opinion 
in  the  moderate  Liberal  press  already 
foreshadows  this  line  of  policy. 


IV 

It  will  be  observed  that,  so  far,  I 
have  discussed  the  principles  and  fu- 
ture policies  of  Liberalism  without  re- 
ference to  the  dominating  personalities 
with  which  they  are  generally  associ- 
ated in  the  public  mind,  or  the  exigen- 
cies of  their  party  tactics.  As  matters 
stand  to-day,  although  vital  move- 
ments of  opinion  are  taking  place  in 
many  directions  and  finding  tentative 
expression,  —  movements  which,  in 
days  to  come,  will  produce  world-wide 
effects,  —  these  are  due,  not  to  the  sur- 
face activities  of  politicians,  but  rather 
to  a  stirring  of  the  great  deeps  of  na- 
tional life,  to  an  awakening  of  morali- 
ties and  humanities  which  the  even  ten- 
or of  that  life  had  long  left  dormant. 

Forasmuch  as  there  are  no  party 
politics  to-day  (when  even  press  dis- 
cussion of  the  Home  Rule  question 
is  deprecated  by  common  consent),  it 
is  impossible  to  foretell  either  the  ulti- 
mate direction  of  these  movements  of 
public  opinion  or  their  probable  ac- 
tions and  reactions  upon  the  political 
life  of  the  country.  He  would  indeed  be 
a  bold  man  who  should  prophesy  even 
concerning  the  constitution,  leader- 


BRITISH  LIBERALISM  AND  THE  WAR 


673 


ship,  and  platforms  of  the  two  great 
parties  in  the  state  at  the  close  of  this 
war.  To  a  great  extent,  as  I  have  al- 
ready observed,  these  things  must  de- 
pend upon  the  duration  and  varying 
fortunes  of  the  struggle.  For  example, 
it  requires  no  great  stretch  of  imagi- 
nation to  conceive  the  possibility  of  a 
coalition  war  government,  pledged  to 
carry  on  the  campaign  to  its  bitter  end 
in  Berlin,  if  a  section  of  Russophobe 
Liberals  were  to  move  in  Parliament 
(as  it  is  already  doing  in  the  press)  for 
the  conclusion  of  a  peace  which  might 
leave  Prussian  militarism  partly  unbro- 
ken and  wholly  unrepentant. 

The  government  of  England  at  this 
moment  is  neither  Liberal  nor  Conser- 
vative, but  only  National.  Its  de  facto 
leaders  are  the  Secretary  for  War  and 
the  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty,  and 
the  business  of  the  politician  is  defi- 
nitely in  abeyance.  The  Independent 
Labor  Party's  half-hearted  attempt 
to  break  the  united  front  has  been 
promptly  repudiated  by  the  labor 
unions. 

But  many  things  might  occur,  such 
as  a  disaster  to  the  fleet  or,  if  the  war 
be  protracted,  a  great  increase  of  unem- 
ployment at  industrial  centres,  which 
would  bring  new  party  issues  to  the 
front,  and  create  divisions  in  the  state. 
In  such  an  event,  either  great  changes 
would  have  to  take  place  in  the  con- 
stitution of  the  Liberal  government,  or 
a  coalition  ministry  would  have  to  be 
formed  (confronted  by  an  active  op- 
position) to  serve  during  the  continu- 
ance of  the  war. 

It  is  an  open  secret  that  a  coalition 
government  was  seriously  discussed 
for  several  days  before  that  fateful 
Sunday  (August  2)  when  the  peace- 
at-almost-any-price  advocates  in  the 
Cabinet  were  finally  persuaded  by  Sir 
Edward  Grey  —  backed  by  the  Pre- 
mier, Mr.  Churchill,  and  Mr.  Lloyd 
George  -  -  to  indorse  his  policy  of  op- 

VOL.  114- NO.  5 


posing  by  force  of  arms  the  violation 
of  Belgium's  territory. 

Not  all  foolishly  did  German  diplo- 
macy rely  upon  England's  internal  dif- 
ferences to  secure  her  neutrality.  The 
resignation  of  Lord  Morley  and  Mr. 
Burns  was  the  only  sign  vouchsafed  to 
the  public  of  the  Cabinet's  momentous 
crisis,  but  the  pacifist  views  of  many 
ministers — notably  Mr.  McKenna  and 
Mr.  Birrell — had  been  sufficiently  pro- 
claimed to  indicate  the  nature  of  that 
crisis,  and  to  cause  the  most  acute  anx- 
iety among  those  who  actually  knew 
what  was  occurring  in  Downing  Street 
and  Whitehall  during  the  three  days 
which  preceded  the  declaration  of  war. 
And,  even  to-day,  if  we  bear  in  mind 
the  pacifist  convictions  and  the  Ger- 
man sympathies  which  have  been  so 
frankly  displayed  from  time  to  time  by 
Lord  Haldane,  Mr.  Samuel,  and  other 
ministers  (not  forgetting  the  influence 
of  Berlin  on  our  high  finance),  we  may 
form  an  idea  of  the  difficult  situation  in 
which  Mr.  Lloyd  George,  for  instance, 
would  be  placed,  if  hereafter  com- 
pelled by  circumstances  to  choose  be- 
tween adherents  to  his  *  fight-to-a-fin- 
ish'  policy  and  the  pacific  tendencies 
of  his  Nonconformist  supporters  in  the 
constituencies. 

A  similar  problem  may  possibly  con- 
front individual  leaders  of  the  Liberal 
party  in  connection  with  the  Irish  ques- 
tion. As  matters  stand,  Sir  Edward 
Carson  has  definitely  relegated  the 
Home  Rule  dispute  to  the  background, 
and  encouraged  his  Ulster  Volunteers 
to  enlist  for  service  at  the  front.  Mr. 
Redmond  and  the  Nationalist  lead- 
ers hung  back  for  a  time,  stipulating 
that  the  Home  Rule  bill  should  be 
placed  on  the  statute  book  before  they 
authorized  the  Nationalist  Volunteers 
to  place  their  services  at  the  disposal 
of  the  Crown;  and  this,  despite  the 
loyal  enthusiasm  of  many  of  their  fol- 
lowers. It  was  bad  generalship.  A 


674 


BRITISH  LIBERALISM  AND  THE  WAR 


spontaneous  and  unconditional  mani- 
festation of  loyalty  would  undoubtedly 
have  done  more  to  reconcile  wavering 
opinion  in  England  to  Home  Rule  than 
this  display  of  party  tactics. 

If,  at  a  time  when  India  and  all  the 
dominions  overseas  are  sending  their 
contingents  to  the  front,  Nationalist 
Ireland  refuses  to  come  forward  and 
crowd  the  recruiting  offices  in  sign  of 
its  renewed  loyalty,  there  must  inevit- 
ably occur  a  powerful  revulsion  of  feel- 
ing throughout  the  British  electorate. 
Such  a  policy  would  do  more  to  justify 
the  Ulster  Convenanters  than  all  the 
prophecies  and  pleadings  of  their  po- 
litical representatives  at  Westminster; 
and  it  would  inevitably  react  with 
deadly  effect  upon  the  Liberal  govern- 
ment. But  Mr.  Redmond  is  no  novice 
in  strategy;  he  has  certainly  counted 
the  cost  of  this  manoeuvring  for  posi- 
tion, and,  having  attained  his  end  and 
justified  himself  in  the  eyes  of  his  sup- 
porters in  Ireland  and  America,  he  is 
now  calling  upon  his  Nationalist  forces 
to  fight  side  by  side  with  the  Ulster- 
men,  in  the  cause  of  Catholic  Belgium 
and  France.  And  thus  Liberalism  may 
reckon  on  having  found  a  happy  issue 
out  of  all  its  Irish  afflictions. 

On  the  question  of  Woman  Suffrage, 
the  opinion  is  steadily  growing  in  the 
ranks  of  Liberalism  that  its  attitude 
has  hitherto  been  lacking  in  courage 
and  intelligent  anticipation.  A  refer- 
endum on  the  subject  would  undoubt- 
edly show  an  enormous  majority  of 
Radical  and  Labor  opinion  in  favor 
of  giving  the  vote,  upon  reasonable 
terms,  to  women.  One  of  the  chief  ob- 
stacles in  the  path  of  this  necessary 


and  equitable  extension  of  the  fran- 
chise has  hitherto  lain  in  Mr.  Asquith's 
personal  opinion  in  the  matter,  and  in 
the  vague  fears  entertained  by  a  cer- 
tain section  of  his  followers  that  to 
confer  the  vote  on  women  would  mean 
an  accession  of  strength  to  the  Con- 
servative party.  But  in  this,  as  in 
many  other  questions,  the  effect  of 
this  war  upon  the  public  conscience  is 
likely  to  prove  a  broadening  and  stimu- 
lating influence.  The  public  spirit,  pa- 
triotism, and  common  sense  which  wo- 
men of  all  classes  have  displayed  since 
war  broke  out,  have  greatly  impressed 
public  opinion.  If  the  Liberal  party 
hereafter  refuses  to  put  Woman  Suf- 
frage in  its  political  platforms,  it  will 
assuredly  find  its  short-sighted  Con- 
servatism condemned  by  a  majority  of 
the  constituencies. 

But  the  future  of  Liberalism,  as  of 
the  Empire  itself,  lies  now  on  the  knees 
of  the  gods.  With  all  Europe  seething 
in  the  melting-pot  of  war,  it  may  in- 
deed seem  presumptuous  thus  calmly 
to  discuss  the  chances  and  changes  of 
principles  and  policies,  which  an  ad- 
verse fate  might  utterly  submerge  to- 
morrow. Yet,  seeing  this  England  of 
ours,  a  friend  to  peace,  yet  staunch  in 
war,  drawing  loyal  men  to  her  side 
from  the  four  corners  of  the  earth,  be- 
cause her  cause  is  just  and  brave  - 
may  we  not  rightly  hope  that  she  will 
come  forth  victorious  from  this  strug- 
gle, and  that,  in  the  day  of  victory, 
English  Liberalism  also  may  emerge 
triumphant  from  the  fettering  condi- 
tions of  party,  and,  with  a  broader 
vision  of  wisdom  and  truth,  lead  the 
people  in  the  way  that  they  should  go? 


BLUE  REEFERS 


BY   ELIZABETH   ASHE 


'THE  child  will  have  to  have  a  new 
dress  if  she 's  to  take  part  in  the  Christ- 
mas entertainment.5 

My  mother  spoke  very  low  so  as  not 
to  wake  me,  but  I  heard  her.  I  had 
been  too  excited  to  fall  asleep. 

'Of  course/  said  my  father  in  his  big 
voice  that  never  could  get  down  to  a 
whisper. 

'S-sh,'  warned  my  mother,  and  then 
added,  'But  we  shouldn't  get  it, 
George.  You  know  what  the  last  doc- 
tor's bill  amounted  to.' 

'Oh,  let  the  little  thing  have  it.  It's 
her  first  chance  to  show  off.' 

'S-sh,'  my  mother  warned  again. 
After  a  moment  I  heard  her  say, '  Well, 
perhaps  it  won't  cost  so  very  much, 
and  as  you  say  it's  the  first  time.' 

I  turned  over  in  bed  and  prayed, 
'Dear  Lord,  please  help  my  mother  to 
get  me  a  new  dress.'  For  a  new  dress 
was  one  of  the  chief  joys  of  taking  part, 
and  I  had  longed  so  to  take  part. 

Although  I  had  been  a  member  of 
our  Sunday  school  in  good  and  regular 
standing  ever  since  I  was  three  weeks 
old,  and  had  been  put  on  the  Cradle 
Roll,  that  being  in  the  eyes  of  my  par- 
ents the  nearest  approach  to  dedica- 
tion allowable  to  Baptists,  I  was  taking 
part  for  the  first  time,  and  I  was  seven. 
There  had  been  numerous  occasions  in 
these  seven  years  for  taking  part;  our 
Sunday  school  celebrated  Easter,  Chil- 
dren's Day,  Anniversary  Day,  Thanks- 
giving, and  Christmas,  with  quite  ap- 
propriate exercises.  But  it  was  a  large 


school,  and  I  had  freckles  and  what 
Aunt  Emma,  my  cousin  Luella's  mo- 
ther, called  'that  child's  jaw.'  Aunt 
Emma  meant  my  front  teeth,  which 
were  really  most  dreadfully  prominent : 
in  fact  they  stuck  out  to  such  an  extent 
that  Aunt  Emma  seldom  failed  to  see 
them  when  she  saw  me. 

Aunt  Emma  was  n't  used  to  children 
with  jaws.  Her  little  Luella  had  the 
prettiest  teeth  imaginable:  she  was 
pretty  all  over,  pretty  golden  hair, 
pretty  blue  eyes,  pretty  pink  cheeks, 
—  not  a  freckle,  —  and  pretty  arms 
very  plump  and  white.  She  was  just 
my  age,  and  she  was  invariably  asked 
to  take  part.  It  seemed  reasonable 
that  she  should,  and  yet  I  felt  that  if 
they  only  knew  that  I  had  a  mind,  —  a 
mind  was  what  an  uncle  once  said  I 
had,  after  hearing  me  recite  the  one 
hundred  and  third  Psalm,  the  fifty- 
second  chapter  of  Isaiah,  and  the  thir- 
teenth chapter  of  First  Corinthians 
with  only  one  mistake,  —  they  would 
ask  me  too.  A  mind  should  count  for 
something,  I  thought,  but  it  did  n't 
seem  to  with  Miss  Miriam. 

Miss  Miriam  was  the  assistant  super- 
intendent. She  was  a  tall,  thin,  young- 
ish-looking woman,  with  fair  hair  and 
a  sweet,  rather  white,  face.  She  always 
wore  very  black  dresses  and  a  little 
gold  cross,  which  one  of  the  Big  Girls 
told  us  was  left  to  her  by  her  mother, 
who  was  an  Episcopalian.  Miss  Miriam 
got  up  all  the  entertainments,  and  it 
was  she  who  made  out  the  list  of  the 
people  who  were  to  take  part  in  them. 
Three  or  four  Sundays  before  an  enter- 

675 


676 


BLUE  REEFERS 


tainment  was  to  be  given,  Miss  Miriam 
would  come  from  the  Big  Room  to  our 
Primary  Department  with  a  lot  of  lit- 
tle white  slips  in  her  hand  and  a  pad 
and  pencil.  While  we  were  having 
the  closing  exercises  she  would  walk 
very  quietly  from  class  to  class  distrib- 
uting the  little  white  slips.  The  slips 
said,  *  Please  meet  me  after  Sunday 
school  in  the  Ladies'  Parlor.'  If  you 
were  given  a  slip  it  meant  you  were 
chosen  to  take  part. 

Once  I  confided  my  longing  to  my 
mother. 

'What  makes  you  want  to  so  much, 
Martha?  You're  not  a  forward  little 
girl,  I  hope.' 

Forwardness  in  my  elders'  opinion 
was  the  Eighth  Deadly  Sin,  to  be  ab- 
horred by  all  little  girls,  especially 
those  who  had  heard  it  said  that  they 
had  a  mind.  Little  girls  who  had  heard 
that  might  so  easily,  from  sheer  pride 
of  intellect,  become  'forward.' 

'I'm  not  forward,'  I  assured  her.  'I 
—  I,  oh,  mother,  it 's  so  nice  to  be  in 
things.' 

And  now  at  last  I  was  in  things.  I 
could  still  feel  the  touch  of  the  white 
slip  which  had  been  put  into  my  hand 
only  that  afternoon,  and  I  turned  over 
in  my  bed  on  my  other  side  and  prayed 
with  even  more  fervor. 

'Oh,  Lord,  please  help  my  mother  to 
get  me  a  new  dress.' 

He  did.  A  week  later  my  mother 
went  to  town.  She  brought  back  white 
Persian  lawn,  the  softest,  sheerest  stuff 
I  had  ever  felt.  I  could  see  the  pink  of 
my  skin  through  it  when  I  laid  it  over 
my  hand. 

'I'm  going  to  have  a  new  dress  for 
the  entertainment,'  I  told  Luella  on 
my  way  to  rehearsal.  'Are  you?' 

'  Why,  of  course.  I  always  do.  Mine 's 
going  to  have  five  rows  of  lace  inser- 
tion in  the  skirt  and  tiny  tucks  too.' 

'Mine's  to  have  tucks,  but  it  won't 
have  only  one  row  of  lace  in  the  skirt. 


Mother  says  little  girls'  dresses  don't 
need  much  lace.' 

'I  like  lots  of  lace,'  said  Luella;  but 
her  tone  of  finality  did  not  disturb  my 
happiness.  I  was  disturbed  only  when, 
at  another  rehearsal,  Luella  told  me 
that  her  mother  was  making  a  blue- 
silk  slip  to  wear  under  her  white  dress. 
Almost  everyone  wore  slips  when  they 
spoke  pieces. 

I  gave  my  mother  this  information. 

'  Is  n't  the  white  dress  pretty  enough, 
Martha?' 

I  fingered  the  soft  material  she  was 
sewing.  'It's  beautiful,'  I  said,  hiding 
my  face  in  her  neck.  Then  I  whispered, 
'I  don't  mind  if  Luella  has  a  slip, 
mother.' 

I  did  mind,  but  I  knew  I  ought  n't. 

My  mother  raised  my  head  and  ad- 
justed the  bow  on  one  of  my  skimpy 
little  pigtails.  She  looked  as  she  did 
sometimes  after  my  Aunt  Emma  had 
just  gone. 

'We'll  see  if  you  can  have  a  slip. 
What  color  would  you  like  —  suppos- 
ing you  can  ? ' 

'Pink,'  I  answered  promptly,  'like 
my  best  hair-ribbons.' 

Pink  china  silk  was  bought.  When 
I  tried  it  under  the  Persian  lawn  it 
matched  the  ribbons  exactly.  I  jiggled 
up  and  down  on  my  toes  —  my  only 
way  of  expressing  great  joy. 

The  dress,  when  my  mother  was  not 
working  on  it,  lay  in  the  spare  room  on 
the  bed.  I  made  countless  pilgrimages 
to  the  spare  room.  Once  I  slipped  the 
dress  on  by  myself.  I  wanted  to  see 
how  I  looked.  But  the  mirror  of  the 
spare-room  bureau  was  very  small;  so  I 
inserted  a  hair-brush.  With  the  mirror 
tipped  I  could  see  quite  all  of  me  — 
only  I  did  n't  see  quite  all.  I  did  n't 
see  my  freckles,  or  my  jaw,  or  my  very 
thin  legs.  I  saw  a  glory  of  pink  and 
white  and  I  grinned  from  sheer  rapture. 
The  spare  room  had  no  heat :  there  was 
a  register,  but  unless  we  had  company 


BLUE  REEFERS 


677 


the  register  was  closed.  My  mother 
found  me  one  day  kneeling  by  the  bed 
shivering  but  in  ecstatic  contemplation 
of  my  dress,  which  I  had  not  dared  to 
try  on  a  second  time.  She  gave  me 
ginger  tea.  I  gulped  it  down  meekly. 
I  felt  even  then  that  as  a  punishment 
ginger  tea  is  exquisitely  relevant.  It 
chastens  the  soul  but  at  the  same  time 
it  warms  the  stomach  you've  allowed 
to  get  cold. 

I  had  been  very  much  afraid  that  be- 
fore the  night  of  the  entertainment,  — 
it  was  to  be  given  the  twenty-third  of 
December,  —  something  would  surely 
happen  to  my  dress  or  to  me,  but  the 
night  arrived  and  both  were  in  a  per- 
fect state  of  preservation.  To  expedite 
matters,  as  the  Sunday  school  was  to 
assemble  at  a  quarter  past  seven,  my 
mother  dressed  me  before  supper.  Just 
as  the  last  button  was  fastened  we 
heard  footsteps  on  the  front  porch. 

'There,  Martha!  Go  show  your 
father.' 

I  ran  down  into  the  hall  and  took  up 
my  position  in  the  centre  of  it,  but 
when  I  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  latch 
of  the  inside  door  I  wanted  to  run  away 
and  hide.  I  had  never  felt  so  beautiful. 

My  father  stopped  short  when  he 
saw  me.  'By  the  Lord! '  he  ejaculated. 

'Why,  George!' 

My  mother  was  on  the  stairs. 

'Well,  by  the  Great  Guns  then  — 
you're  a — a  vision,  Marty.' 

I  could  only  grin. 

'Here's  some  more  pinkness  for  you 
to  wear,'  he  said,  producing  a  long  tis- 
sue-paper package  that  he  had  been 
holding  behind  his  back.  He  chuckled 
as  he  unwrapped  it. 

'Twelve,  Marty;  twelve  solid  pink 
carnations.  What  do  you  say  to  'em? 
Show  your  mother.' 

I  said  nothing.  I  only  jiggled  on  my 
toes. 

'George,  dear,  what  made  you?  A 
little  child  like  that  can't  wear  flowers 


—  and  they  're  seventy-five  cents  a 
dozen ! ' 

All  the  chuckle  went  out  of  my 
father's  eyes :  he  looked  at  me,  then  at 
the  carnations,  then  at  my  mother;  just 
like  a  little  boy  who  finds  that  after 
all  he 's  done  the  wrong  thing.  I  wanted 
to  run  and  take  his  hand,  but  while  I 
stood  wanting  and  not  daring,  my 
mother  had  crossed  the  hall  and  was 
putting  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

'They're  beautiful,  George  dear. 
She  can  wear  three  or  four  of  them, 
anyway.  They  will  make  her  so  happy, 
and  the  rest  we  '11  put  in  her  room.  Her 
room  is  pink  too.' 

'So  it  is.'  He  kissed  my  mother  and 
then  me.  'Say  your  piece,  Marty  — 
quick!  Before  we  have  supper.' 

I  had  learned  my  piece  so  thoroughly 
that  the  order  was  like  turning  on  a 
spigot.  Four  verses,  four  lines  in  each, 
gushed  forth. 

My  father  clapped.  'Now  for  some- 
thing to  eat,'  he  said. 

Immediately  after  supper  my  mother 
and  I  set  out,  leaving  my  father  to 
shave  and  come  later.  It  was  a  cold 
night  with  a  great  many  bright  stars. 
At  the  corner  we  met  Luella  and  her 
mother.  Luella's  mother  was  carrying 
over  her  arm  Luella's  spring  coat,  her 
everyday  one,  a  dark  blue  reefer. 

'Martha  ought  to  have  hers  along, 
too,'  said  my  Aunt  Emma.  'If  the 
church  should  be  chilly  they'll  catch 
their  death  sitting  in  thin  dresses.' 

My  mother  thought  it  was  probable 
we  would.  So  I  was  sent  back  to  hunt 
for  my  little  reefer.  It  was  like  Luella's, 
dark  blue  with  tarnished  gilt  anchors 
on  the  corners  of  the  sailor  collar,  and 
like  hers  it  was  second-best  and  out- 
grown. 

Luella  and  I  parted  with  our  mothers 
at  the  door  of  the  Sunday-school  room. 

'Don't  forget  to  take  your  reefers 
when  you  march  in,'  admonished  my 
Aunt  Emma. 


678 


BLUE  REEFERS 


'Must  we  carry  them  while  we 
march? '  I  almost  wailed. 

My  mother  came  to  the  rescue. 
*  Hold  them  down  between  you  and  the 
little  girl  you  march  with.  Then  no 
one  will  see.' 

'Yes'm.'   I  was  much  relieved. 

n 

The  Sunday  school  was  a  hubbub  of 
noise  and  pink  and  blue  hair-ribbons. 
In  among  the  ribbons  and  responsible 
for  some  of  the  noise  were  close-cropped 
heads  and  white  collars  and  very  new 
ties,  but  you  did  n't  notice  them  much. 
There  were  so  many  pink  and  blue  rib- 
bons. After  a  while  the  room  quieted 
down  and  we  formed  in  line.  Miss 
Miriam,  who  even  that  night  wore  a 
black  dress  and  her  little  gold  cross, 
distributed  among  us  the  eight  silk 
banners  that  when  we  were  n't  march- 
ing always  hung  on  the  walls  of  the 
Sunday-school  rooms.  There  were  sub- 
dued whispers  and  last  prinkings.  Then 
the  piano,  which  had  been  moved  into 
the  church,  gave  the  signal  and  we 
marched  in.  We  marched  with  our 
banners  and  our  pink  and  blue  hair- 
ribbons  up  and  down  the  aisles  so 
that  all  the  Mothers-and-Fathers-and- 
Friends-of-the-School  could  see  us. 
Whenever  we  recognized  our  own  spe- 
cial mother  or  father  we  beamed.  The 
marching  finally  brought  us  to  the  pews 
assigned  to  our  respective  classes.  Lu- 
ella's  class  and  mine  were  to  sit  to- 
gether that  night.  I  turned  around  — 
almost  every  little  girl,  after  she  was 
seated  and  had  sufficiently  smoothed 
out  skirts  and  sash,  turned  around  — 
and  saw  that  my  mother  and  aunt  were 
only  two  pews  behind  us.  I  grinned 
delightedly  at  them,  and  they  both 
nodded  back.  Then  I  told  Luella. 
After  that  I  settled  down. 

The  church  was  decorated  with  ropes 
of  green  and  with  holly  wreaths.  At 


either  side  of  the  platform  was  a  Christ- 
mas tree  with  bits  of  cotton-batting 
scattered  over  it  to  represent  snow.  I 
had  heard  that  there  were  to  be  two 
Christmas  trees,  and  I  had  looked  for- 
ward to  a  dazzling  glitter  of  colored 
balls  and  tinsel  and  candles,  maybe. 
The  cotton-batting  was  a  little  disap- 
pointing. It  made  you  feel  that  it  was 
not  a  real  Christmas  tree,  but  just  a 
church  Christmas  tree.  Church  things 
were  seldom  real.  The  Boys  Brigade  of 
our  church*  carried  interesting-looking 
cartridge-boxes,  that  made  them  look 
like  real  soldiers,  but  when  they  drilled 
you  found  out  that  the  cartridge-boxes 
were  only  make-believe.  They  held 
Bibles.  Still  the  cotton-batting  did 
make  you  think  of  snow. 

After  what  seemed  like  a  very  long 
wait  the  entertainment  began.  The 
minister,  of  course,  opened  it  with 
prayer.  Then  we  all  sang  a  carol.  As 
we  were  sitting  down  I  felt  some  one 
poke  my  shoulder. 

*  Your  mother  says  you  must  put  on 
your  jacket.  She  says  you  '11  take  cold,' 
whispered  the  little  girl  behind  me. 

I  had  n't  felt  cold,  but  the  command 
passed  along  over  two  church  pews 
had  the  force  of  a  Thus-saith-the-Lord. 
While  I  was  slipping  the  jacket  care- 
fully over  my  ruffles  some  one  poked 
Luella  and  whispered  to  her.  Luella 
looked  at  me,  then  put  on  her  jacket. 

The  superintendent  was  making  a 
speech  to  the  Fathers-and-Mothers- 
and-Friends-of-the-School.  When  he 
finished  we  rose  to  sing  another  carol, 
and  as  we  rose,  quite  automatically 
Luella  and  I  slipped  off  our  jackets.  I 
was  very  excited.  After  the  carol  there 
would  be  a  piece  by  one  of  the  Big 
Girls;  then  the  Infant  Class  would  do 
something;  then  I  was  to  speak.  I 
wondered  if  people  would  see  the  pink 
of  my  slip  showing  through  my  dress 
as  I  spoke  my  piece.  I  bent  my  head 
to  get  a  whiff  of  carnation. 


BLUE  REEFERS 


679 


We  were  just  seated  when  there  came 
another  poke  and  another  whisper. 

'Your  mother  says  to  keep  on  your 
jacket.' 

I  looked  back  at  my  mother.  She 
smiled  and  nodded,  and  Aunt  Emma 
pointed  to  Luella.  We  put  on  our  jack- 
ets again.  This  time  I  buttoned  it 
tight;  so  did  Luella.  I  felt  the  carna- 
tions remonstrate,  but  when  one  is  very 
excited  one  is  very  obedient :  one  obeys 
more  than  the  letter  of  the  law. 

The  Big  Girl  was  speaking  her  piece. 
I  did  n't  hear  the  words;  the  words  of 
my  own  piece  were  saying  themselves 
through  my  head;  but  I  was  aware  that 
she  stopped  suddenly,  that  she  looked 
as  though  she  were  trying  to  remember, 
that  someone  prompted  her,  that  she 
went  on.  Suppose  I  should  forget  that 
way  before  my  father  and  mother  and 
the  friends  of  the  school  and  Miss  Mir- 
iam. It  was  a  dreadful  thought.  I  com- 
menced again  —  with  my  eyes  shut  — 

'  Some  children  think  that  Christmas  day 
Should  come  two  times  a  year  '; 

I  went  through  my  verses  five  times, 
while  the  Infant  Class  individually  and 
collectively  were  holding  up  gilt  card- 
board bells  and  singing  about  them.  I 
was  beginning  the  sixth  time,  — 

'  Some  children  think  — ' 

when  the  superintendent  read  out,  — 
'The  next  number  on  the  programme 
will  be  a  recitation  by  Martha  Smith.' 
I  had  been  expecting  this  announce- 
ment for  four  weeks,  but  now  that  it 
came  it  gave  me  a  queer  feeling  in  my 
heart  and  stomach,  half  fear,  half  joy. 
Conscious  only  that  I  was  actually  tak- 
ing part,  I  rose  from  my  seat  and  made 
my  way  over  the  little  girls  in  the  pew 
who  scrunched  up  themselves  and  their 
dresses  into  a  small  space  so  that  I 
might  pass. 

As  I  started  down  the  aisle  I  thought 
I  heard  my  name  frantically  called  be- 
hind me;  but  not  dreaming  that  any 
one  would  wish  to  have  speech  with  a 


person  about  to  speak  a  piece,  I  kept 
on  down,  way,  way  down  to  the  plat- 
form, walking  in  a  dim  hot  maze  which 
smelled  insistently  of  carnations. 

But  the  poor  carnations  warned  in 
vain.  I  ascended  the  platform  steps 
with  my  reefer  still  buttoned  tightly 
over  my  chest. 

The  reefer,  as  I've  said,  was  dark 
blue,  adorned  with  tarnished  anchors, 
and  outgrown.  Being  outgrown  it 
showed  several  inches  of  my  thin  little 
wrists,  and  being  a  reefer  and  tightly 
buttoned,  it  showed  of  my  pink  and 
white  glory  a  little  more  than  the  hem. 

Still  in  that  dim  hot  maze  I  made  my 
bow  and  gave  the  title  of  my  piece, 
'Christmas  Twice  a  Year,'  and  recited 
it  from  beginning  to  end,  and  heard 
them  clap,  all  the  teachers  and  schol- 
ars and  Fathers-and-Mothers-and- 
Friends-of-the-School.  Then,  quite  diz- 
zied with  happiness,  I  hurried  down  off 
the  platform  and  up  the  aisle.  People 
smiled  as  I  passed  them  and  I  smiled 
back,  for  once  quite  unconscious  of  my 
jaw.  As  I  neared  my  seat  I  prepared  to 
smile  upon  my  mother,  but  for  a  mo- 
ment she  did  n't  see  me.  Aunt  Emma 
was  saying  something  to  her,  some- 
thing that  I  did  n't  hear,  something 
that  made  two  red  spots  flame  in  my 
mother's  face. 

'Is  n't  it  just  like  Martha  to  be  a  lit- 
tle fool!  She's  always  doing  things  like 
that.'  Aunt  Emma  was  one  of  those 
people  who  assume  that  you  always  do 
the  particular  foolish  thing  you  have 
just  finished  doing. 

The  red  spots  died  out  when  my 
mother  saw  me.  She  smiled  as  though 
she  were  very  proud  —  and  I  was  proud 
too.  But  before  I  could  settle  down 
to  enjoy  my  satisfaction  Luella's  name 
had  been  called  and  Luella  was  starting 
down  the  aisle.  Luella's  golden  curls 
bobbed  as  she  walked:  they  bobbed 
over  her  blue  reefer  jacket  which  was 
buttoned  snugly  over  her  plump  body. 


680 


THE  END  OF  THE  GAME 


There  was  a  suppressed  exclamation 
from  some  one  behind  me,  but  Luella 
kept  on.  Luella's  jacket  was  not  short 
in  the  sleeves  but  it  was  very  very  tight. 
Only  the  hem  of  her  blue  and  white 
glory  peeped  from  beneath  it,  and  a 
little  piece  of  ruffle  she  had  not  quite 
tucked  in  peeped  out  from  above  it. 

Luella  bowed  and  spoke  her  piece. 
All  the  teachers  and  scholars,  the 
Fathers-and-  Mothers-and-  Friends-of- 
the-School  applauded. 

A  queer  sound  made  me  look  round 
at  my  mother  and  aunt.  Their  heads 
were  bowed  upon  the  pew  in  front. 
Their  shoulders  were  shaking.  When  I 


turned  around  again  they  were  sitting 
up,  wiping  their  eyes  as  though  they 
had  been  crying. 

I  could  n't  understand  then,  nor  did 
I  understand  late  that  night  when  my 
father's  laugh  woke  me  up. 

'Poor  Emma! '  he  chuckled.  'What 
did  she  say?' 

And  my  mother  answered,  her  voice 
curiously  smothered,  'Why,  you  see, 
she  could  n't  very  well  say  anything 
after  what  she  had  just  said  before.' 

'I  suppose  not.  Poor  Emma,  I  sup- 
pose not.'  My  father's  laugh  broke  out 
again. 

'  S-sh,  George — you  '11  wake  Martha.' 


THE  END  OF  THE  GAME 


BY  M.   A.   DE  WOLFE   HOWE 


POUNDING  away  in  a  rhythm  bound  as  in  fetters  of  brass, 

Marches  the  band;  —  behind  it,  the  wildly  rhythmical  mass 

Of  headlong,  happiest  youth,  with  hats  flung  high  through  the  space 

Where  the  conquering  ball  had  sailed,  with  arms  chance-linked  for  the  race 

To  join  the  swirling,  delirious,  serpentine  measure  of  joy 

That  wells  from  the  leaping  heart  of  every  precipitate  boy. 

What  sends  from  my  older  heart  the  mist  to  my  musing  eyes? 

Not  envy,  I  think,  for  all  that  niggardly  age  denies; 

But  something  akin  to  pity  —  even  at  this  flaming  hour 

Filled  with  the  triumph  of  sharing  the  joy  of  triumphant  power  — 

Pity  that  ever  the  jubilant  springs  must  fail  of  their  flow, 

And  that  youth,  so  utterly  knowing  it  not,  must  one  day  know. 


THE  EUROPEAN  TRAGEDY 


BY   GUGLIELMO   FERRERO 


ON  the  fourteenth  of  July  I  was  in 
Paris,  and  curiosity  took  me  to  the 
grand  review,  held  every  year  in  the 
French  capital  on  that  day  of  national 
festival  which  commemorates  the  tak- 
ing of  the  Bastille.  I  saw  the  splendid 
battalions  file  past,  and  I  saw  also,  in 
the  tribune  of  the  President  of  the  Re- 
public, the  accredited  ambassadors  to 
t!  3  French  government,  in  gala  attire. 
They  were  all  talking  tranquilly  among 
themselves,  most  of  them  about  their 
approaching  vacations.  Some  were  on 
the  point  of  departure  for  the  moun- 
tains or  the  sea,  in  search  of  a  well- 
deserved  rest.  Austria  and  Russia, 
Germany  and  Servia,  England  and  Bel- 
gium, were  exchanging  good  wishes, 
compliments  and  friendly  adieux,  in 
the  persons  of  their  ambassadors.  Who 
would  have  said  that  three  weeks 
later  these  same  men  would  exchange 
as  many  declarations  of  war? 

The  tempest  broke  so  unexpectedly 
that  we  are  still,  as  it  were,  dazed. 
Every  one  asks  himself  constantly  if 
he  is  awake  or  dreaming.  The  Euro- 
pean war,  -  -  that  earthquake  which 
perhaps  will  overturn  from  its  founda- 
tions the  civilization  of  the  old  world; 
the  European  war,  of  which  every  one 
has  been  talking  for  so  many  years, 
but  for  the  most  part  without  believ- 
ing that  it  could  occur,  —  just  as  one 
speaks  of  the  day  in  which  the  sun  will 
be  extinguished  in  the  heavens,  or  of 
the  encounter  of  the  earth  with  some 
stray  comet  cutting  through  space,  — 


the  European  war  broke  out  within  a 
single  week. 

On  the  twenty-fourth  of  July  all 
Europe,  from  Ionia  to  the  Baltic,  from 
the  Pyrenees  to  the  Urals,  was  still  able 
to  go  to  bed  in  peace  and  to  dream 
of  the  approaching  summer  vacation, 
well-earned  by  the  long  labor  of  a  year. 
The  German  Emperor,  according  to 
his  custom  at  that  season,  was  cruising 
in  northern  waters;  the  Emperor  of 
Austria  was  at  the  Baths  of  Ischl;  the 
President  of  the  French  Republic  was 
leaving  Russia,  where  he  had  visited 
the  Tsar  and  toasted  peace,  to  pay  a 
visit  to  the  Scandinavian  sovereigns. 
On  the  morning  of  the  twenty-fifth  — 
it  was  a  Saturday  —  Europe  read  in 
her  thousand  newspapers  the  menacing 
note  sent  from  the  Austrian  minister 
to  the  Servian  government;  and  on  the 
Saturday  after — the  first  of  August — 
the  German  Ambassador  at  St.  Peters- 
burg handed  to  the  Russian  govern- 
ment the  declaration  of  war.  How 
did  it  happen?  Through  whose  fault? 
From  what  motives? 


II 

Eventually,  history  will  doubtless  in- 
vestigate, and  recount  what  happened 
day  by  day,  hour  by  hour,  in  the  courts 
and  in  the  chancelleries  of  Europe, 
during  that  fatal  week.  For  the  mo- 
ment, every  government  is  careful  to 
divulge  only  what  serves  to  throw  back 
on  the  other  governments  the  respon- 
sibility for  the  cruel  catastrophe.  The 
immediate  occasion,  so  to  speak,  of 

681 


682 


THE  EUROPEAN  TRAGEDY 


the  explosion,  is  therefore  a  mystery. 
Much  clearer,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
the  play  of  the  historical  forces  which, 
after  forty-four  years  of  peace,  have 
prepared,  and  in  the  end  precipitated, 
the  terrifying  disaster.  This  war  is  the 
supreme  duel  of  the  two  European 
enemies  who  for  a  century  have  lived 
side  by  side  in  every  state:  Europe 
bellicose,  the  daughter,  as  it  were,  of 
the  French  Revolution;  and  Europe 
pacific,  creature  of  the  philosophy  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  and  of  the 
whole  social  movement  of  the  nine- 
teenth. 

The  French  Revolution  initiated  in 
Europe  the  true  war  of  the  peoples.  Un- 
til the  French  Revolution,  sovereigns 
and  states,  rather  than  their  subjects, 
had  fought  and  made  peace  among 
themselves.  Armies  were  recruited  from 
professional  soldiers  alone;  the  greater 
part  of  the  population  was  exempt 
from  the  tribute  of  blood,  as  is  still  the 
case  to-day  in  England  and  in  Amer- 
ica. All  Europe  approved  when  revo- 
lutionary France,  in  order  to  defend 
herself,  made  a  universal  obligation 
of  military  service,  and  inaugurated 
the  general  conscription.  To  compen- 
sate for  the  abolition  of  feudal  servi- 
tude, for  the  division  of  the  lands  of 
nobles  and  clergy  among  the  peasants, 
the  Revolution  imposed  upon  the  peo- 
ple the  duty  of  taking  arms  to  defend 
the  country.  From  one  end  to  another 
of  France  resounded  the  terrible  cry, 
*  Aux  armeSy  dtoyens!9  But  the  mar- 
velous victories  of  the  Revolution  and 
of  the  Empire  obliged  the  monarchies 
of  Continental  Europe  to  imitate  the 
example  of  France  in  a  greater  or  less 
degree,  and  to  arm  their  peoples.  In 
almost  all  Europe,  the  ancient  system 
of  professional  soldiery  was  abandoned ; 
military  service  became  a  duty  of  the 
citizen  and  of  the  subject;  the  tribute 
of  blood  became  as  obligatory  as  the 
tax  in  money. 


Since  military  conditions  were  chan- 
ged in  this  way,  as  a  result  of  the 
wars  of  the  Revolution  and  the  Em- 
pire, it  was  necessary  to  change  the  en- 
tire policy  of  the  nations.  In  the  eight- 
eenth century,  so  long  as  armies  were 
composed  of  mercenaries  paid  by  the 
king,  there  was  no  need  to  explain  to 
the  soldiers  the  reasons  or  the  motives 
for  the  wars  to  which  the  generals  led 
them.  To  fight  was  their  trade;  they 
were  paid  to  do  battle,  whatever  the 
enemy  or  the  motive.  But  this  was  no 
longer  the  case  when  the  armies  were 
recruited  directly  from  the  people,  and 
service  under  the  flags  became  a  public 
duty.  Then  it  was  no  longer  possible 
to  demand  from  the  masses  the  tribute 
of  blood,  without  explaining  to  them 
the  reason  for  the  sacrifice,  without  by 
some  means  quickening  their  eagerness 
for  the  conflict  into  which  their  rulers 
were  sending  them. 

While  the  wars  of  the  Revolution 
and  of  the  Empire  lasted,  the  task  was 
easy.  In  that  convulsion  of  the  old 
world  the  French  soldiers  were  inform- 
ed that  they  were  fighting  for  liberty 
against  the  tyrants  of  Europe;  and  the 
peoples  hostile  to  France,  that  they 
were  warring  against  an  impious  race, 
destroyers  of  civilization,  —  foes  of  or- 
der, religion,  and  authority.  Prussia 
after  Jena  was  certainly,  among  the 
monarchies  of  Europe,  the  one  which 
knew  best  how  to  excite  hatred  for 
France  in  the  multitude,  and  to  inspire 
her  people  with  the  keenest  ardor  in 
the  supreme  struggles  against  the  rule 
of  Napoleon. 

But  when  Napoleon  had  fallen  and 
the  hurricane  of  the  Revolution  was 
stilled,  the  task  became  more  difficult. 
How  was  it  possible  to  continue  to  im- 
pose upon  the  multitude  obligatory 
military  service  for  a  number  of  years? 
how  could  the  people  be  maintained 
in  arms,  now  that  Europe  had  at  last 
obtained  the  peace  so  long  desired? 


THE  EUROPEAN  TRAGEDY 


683 


It  was  necessary  to  attempt  a  justifi- 
cation of  such  a  cruel  sacrifice,  yet  how 
could  it  be  done  except  by  persuading 
the  troops  that  an  enemy  was  encamped 
beyond  the  frontier?  The  army  which 
the  Revolution  created  by  calling  a 
whole  nation  to  arms  is  responsible  for 
the  fact  that,  ever  since  the  fall  of  Na- 
poleon, European  writers,  philosophers, 
statesmen,  and  military  experts  have 
tried  to  convince  each  new  generation, 
in  one  way  or  another,  of  the  exist- 
ence of  this  menace  along  the  frontier. 
Sometimes  it  has  been  described  as  a 
threatening  people,  desirous  of  oppress- 
ing its  neighbors;  sometimes  as  a  peo- 
ple or  peoples  who  must  be  impress- 
ed by  a  show  of  force.  And  all  reasons 
and  pretexts  sufficiently  convincing  to 
create,  to  cultivate,  and  to  diffuse  this 
feeling  of  suspicion  among  the  masses, 
have  been  looked  upon  as  fair  play 
throughout  the  countries  of  Europe. 
Such  attempts  are  usually  resorted  to 
whenever  there  is  a  movement  to  in- 
crease the  size  of  an  army  or  a  coun- 
ter-movement to  decrease  the  term  of 
service. 

Thus  the  nineteenth  century  and  the 
twentieth  have  both  tried  to  persuade 
French,  English,  Germans,  Italians, 
Russians,  and  the  rest,  that  they  ought 
to  distrust  one  another  because  they 
were  all  rivals  and  enemies.  Each  na- 
tion, naturally,  blamed  all  the  others 
for  the  hatred  it  felt  for  them.  The 
difference  in  language,  in  institutions, 
in  religious  beliefs,  in  culture;  the  mem- 
ories of  the  great  wars  of  the  past;  a 
certain  antagonism  in  material  inter- 
ests, have  rendered  this  task  of  so- 
called  national  education  easy  in  every 
country  to  writers,  historians,  philoso- 
phers, statesmen.  How  many  theories 
have  been  invented  concerning  Ger- 
manism, Slavism,  the  Latin  spirit,  the 
destiny  of  the  people,  the  superiority  of 
certain  races  and  certain  cultural  stan- 
dards; how  many  have  been  seriously 


discussed  in  universities  and  academies, 
in  books  and  reviews,  which  were  de- 
signed solely  to  intensify  the  distrust 
and  hatred  of  one  people  for  another. 
How  many  literary  works,  ^sciences, 
philosophies,  dogmas,  have  been  ad- 
mired, praised,  magnificently  rewarded 
in  honors  and  in  money,  not  because 
they  were  full  of  beauty  and  truth,  but 
because  they  set  nation  against  nation, 
and  gave  to  international  disagreements 
high-sounding  and  virtuous  names! 

Nevertheless,  if  political  institutions 
and  military  exigencies  incited  the  peo- 
ples of  Europe  to  hate  one  another, 
civilization  and  economic  interests  also 
brought  them  together  in  the  old  world. 
The  French  Revolution  had  been 
forced  to  set  all  Europe  on  fire  in  order 
to  defend  itself,  but  it  had  also  pro- 
mised all  men  peace,  liberty,  and  bro- 
therhood. The  philosophy  of  the  eight- 
eenth century,  which  was  directly 
responsible  for  the  Revolution,  is  op- 
timistic: it  is  the  first  philosophy  which 
has  dared  affirm  that  human  nature  is 
not  perverse  but  good;  it  says  that 
man,  when  he  is  not  hindered  or  cor- 
rupted or  oppressed  by  iniquitous  and 
tyrannous  institutions,  is  a  creature  of 
generous  sentiments.  These  ideas,  in  a 
society  already  profoundly  softened  by 
Christianity,  have  also  brought  to  birth 
in  Europe  in  the  last  century  a  thou- 
sand doctrines,  a  thousand  chimeras, 
a  thousand  generous  and  stupendous 
dreams,  which  are  the  precise  opposite 
of  that  hatred  among  the  peoples  in 
which  governments  have  all  more  or 
less  sought  to  educate  the  masses. 
Hence  the  love  of  peace,  the  dreams  of 
universal  brotherhood,  the  proposals 
for  concord,  the  spirit  of  cosmopolitan- 
ism, the  attempts  at  international  arbi- 
tration; hence  the  vast  humanitarian 
propaganda  of  the  socialist  groups  and 
all  the  democratic  parties. 

The  example  of  America  and  her 
interests  has  favored  the  diffusion  of 


684 


THE  EUROPEAN  TRAGEDY 


these  ideas.  A  century  ago  every  coun- 
try of  Europe  lived  on  its  own  terri- 
tory, and  had  no  commerce  with  other 
peoples  except  in  objects  of  luxury; 
to-day  railways  have  bound  as  it  were 
into  a  single  sheaf  the  most  diverse  ne- 
cessities of  all  the  peoples.  England, 
Italy,  France,  Germany,  Russia,  Aus- 
tria, may  distrust  one  another  and  hate 
their  neighbors  as  much  as  they  will; 
but  each  one  has  need  every  day  of  the 
products  of  the  other  in  order  to  sat- 
isfy the  constantly  increasing  exigen- 
cies of  the  masses.  What  will  happen 
in  a  few  weeks  when  they  begin  to  feel 
the  economic  effects  of  this  sudden  in- 
terruption of  commerce  in  almost  all 
Europe! 

Two  souls,  then,  lived  side  by  side, 
in  every  country,  in  every  party,  al- 
most in  every  man  of  old  Europe:  a 
soul  of  war  and  a  soul  of  peace.  Hence 
the  infinite  contradictions  in  thought 
and  action  which  have  bewildered  the 
old  world  from  the  middle  of  the  cen- 
tury to  the  present  moment,  and  which 
have  at  last,  in  the  space  of  a  week,  re- 
sulted in  this  fearful  catastrophe.  For 
what  reason  has  the  soul  of  war  con- 
quered the  soul  of  peace? 


in 

One  cannot  deny  that  in  the  last 
thirty  years  the  idea  of  peace  had  made 
great  strides  in  Europe.  France  and 
England,  the  two  nations  of  Europe 
which  fought  the  greatest  wars  of  the 
eighteenth  and  nineteenth  centuries, 
have  been  governed  for  ten  years  by 
parties  openly  averse  to  all  aggressive 
intentions,  by  declared  pacifists.  Rus- 
sia is  governed  by  an  Emperor  who  had 
hardly  mounted  the  throne  when  he 
chose  to  connect  his  name  with  a  great 
work  of  peace.  In  all  Europe,  Social- 
ism has  acquired  millions  of  adherents 
among  the  lower  classes,  especially 
those  classes  from  which  the  soldiers 


are  recruited.  Who  does  not  know  that 
Socialism  affirms  that  peace  ought  to 
rule  among  the  peoples;  that  the  pro- 
letariat ought  to  clasp  hands  across  the 
frontiers,  and  beat  swords  into  plough- 
shares? It  is  true  that  during  the  same 
period  all  the  governments  were  asking 
for  money  to  forge  new  weapons;  but 
there  was  not  one  which,  in  asking  for 
them,  failed  to  declare  that  cannon 
and  guns  were  the  surest  instruments 
of  peace. 

The  Goddess  of  Peace  seemed  to 
have  found  a  new  and  singular  method 
of  enchaining  the  God  Mars :  by  load- 
ing him  down  so  heavily  with  arms 
that  he  could  no  longer  move.  Whence 
many  came  to  suppose  that  European 
war  was  no  longer  possible.  Even  the 
writer  of  the  present  essay,  while  aware 
that  in  foretelling  the  future  it  is  pru- 
dent to  leave  a  little  chink  always  open 
for  the  unexpected,  was  profoundly  con- 
vinced in  his  own  heart  that  he  was  des- 
tined to  close  his  eyes  without  having 
seen  the  horrid  spectacle  of  which,  like 
thousands  of  others,  he  is  to-day  a  terri- 
fied witness.  In  fine,  it  seemed  to  many, 
and  with  reason,  that  after  forty-four 
years  of  peace  the  victory  of  peace  over 
war  was  imminent.  And  instead,  war 
has  become  again  at  one  blow  master 
of  the  old  world!  Why?  The  chief  rea- 
son is  the  prestige  and  the  power  of 
the  military  caste  in  Germany. 

Although  the  spirit  of  peace  in  the 
last  fifteen  years  had  found  its  advo- 
cates throughout  all  the  rest  of  Eu- 
rope, it  had  hardly  ventured  across  the 
frontiers  of  Germany,  and  cannot  be 
said  to  have  obtained  a  foothold  in  the 
German  Empire.  The  memories  of  the 
war  of  1870,  the  immense  prestige  with 
which  that  war  had  invested  the  Ger- 
man army  and  the  dynasty  of  the 
Hohenzollerns  who  command  it,  had 
rendered  the  Empire  impervious,  or 
nearly  so,  to  the  spirit  of  peace.  Be- 
hind the  frontier  of  Germany  there 


THE  EUROPEAN  TRAGEDY 


685 


lived  a  people  which  believed  itself 
invincible.  Noble  or  Socialist,  Prus- 
sian or  Bavarian,  every  German  stated 
again  and  again,  either  in  pride  or  in 
sorrow,  that  no  army  in  the  world  was 
so  well  organized,  or  conducted  by  so 
intelligent  a  general  staff,  or  animated 
by  so  formidable  a  defensive  spirit,  as 
their  own.  But  a  people  that  believes 
itself  invincible  through  the  power  of 
its  army  will  never,  or  in  Europe  at 
least,  can  never,  be  profoundly  paci- 
fist. The  military  caste  will  so  rejoice 
in  such  prestige  that  it  will  never  allow 
the  desire  for  peace  to  increase  beyond 
a  certain  point. 

This  is  precisely  what  has  happen- 
ed in  Germany.  One  might  affirm  that 
the  European  war  of  1914  was  almost 
an  inevitable  heritage  from  the  war  of 
1870.  Between  1900  and  1905  France 
had  made  less  haste  to  increase  her 
armaments,  and  had  shown  by  a  thou- 
sand signs  her  readiness  to  be  recon- 
ciled with  her  old  rival,  to  forget  Al- 
sace and  Lorraine.  Germany  continued 
without  pause  to  increase  and  make 
ready  her  weapons.  Between  1900  and 
1910  England  tried  more  than  once  to 
come  to  an  agreement  with  Germany 
to  limit  the  increase  of  naval  expendi- 
tures. Every  attempt  was  vain.  To 
every  hint  that  the  other  nations  of 
Europe  gave  of  wishing,  I  will  not  say 
to  disarm,  but  to  arm  with  less  fury, 
the  German  government  responded  by 
the  rapid  increase  of  its  own  arma- 
ments. 

Since  1900,  Germany  has  taken  the 
initiative  in  all  the  increases  of  mil- 
itary outlay  which  have  caused  the 
expenditure  of  so  many  millions  in 
Europe.  The  Socialists,  and  a  certain 
fraction  of  the  liberal  parties  in  the 
Reichstag,  were  opposed  to  this;  but 
what  was  the  use  of  this  opposition? 
The  prestige  of  the  army  and  the  power 
of  the  government,  allied  to  the  mili- 
tary party,  were  too  great:  the  parties 


of  opposition  never  succeeded  even 
in  moderating  the  demands  of  the  gov- 
ernment. At  every  election  the  nation 
was  able  to  increase  the  number  of 
Socialist  deputies  who  sat  in  the  Reich- 
stag; but  what  was  the  use? 

It  will  suffice  to  recall  what  happened 
in  connection  with  the  great  military 
law  of  1912,  which  prepared  the  way 
for  the  war  of  1914.  The  German  gov- 
ernment had  proposed  to  increase  the 
army  to  eight  hundred  and  seventy 
thousand  men,  and  to  get  the  money 
by  imposing  an  extraordinary  war-tax 
on  the  rich  classes.  The  parties  of  the 
Right  in  the  Reichstag  desired  that 
the  army  should  be  increased,  but  not 
that  the  rich  classes  alone  should  be 
called  upon  to  pay  the  cost.  If  the  So- 
cialists who  did  not  wish  the  increase 
of  the  army  had  also  voted  against  this 
special  war-tax,  the  government  would 
have  found  itself  in  grave  perplexity; 
which  might  possibly  have  forced  it, 
because  of  the  financial  difficulty,  to 
moderate  its  requests.  And  perhaps 
then  the  war  of  1914  would  not  have 
broken  out.  But  the  Socialists,  al- 
though they  disapproved  the  military 
law,  were  not  able  to  resist  the  tempt- 
ation to  bleed  the  rich  through  an  in- 
creased income-tax.  The  government 
was  able  therefore  to  obtain  the  ad- 
ditional troops  by  a  majority  of  the 
Right,  and  to  obtain  the  money  by  a 
majority  of  the  Left,  —  in  which  there 
were  more  than  a  hundred  Socialists; 
and  within  two  years  Europe  burst  into 
flames. 

In  a  nation  in  which  the  military 
caste  is  so  respected  and  powerful, 
pacificist  ideas  cannot  find  much  of  a 
following  among  the  upper  and  edu- 
cated classes,  among  those  at  least 
which  have  the  most  influence  in  pub- 
lic affairs.  In  fact,  especially  within 
the  past  ten  years,  a  quite  contrary 
policy  has  obtained,  and  ideas  of  Ger- 
man supremacy,  of  German  culture,  of 


686 


THE  EUROPEAN  TRAGEDY 


Germany's  World-Mission,  and  of  Ger- 
many's right  to  illuminate  the  world, 
have  been  diffused  through  an  ardent 
propaganda,  continuous,  unwearied, 
among  the  aristocracy,  in'  official  cir- 
cles, in  the  universities,  in  the  newspa- 
pers. Great  associations  like  the  Naval 
League,  the  Military  League,  aided  by 
professors,  experts,  journalists,  have 
labored  with  a  truly  Teutonic  perse- 
verance, to  quicken  a  kind  of  aggres- 
sive national  sentiment  in  the  masses 
and  in  the  middle  classes. 

Thus,  little  by  little,  while  the  other 
states  of  Europe  were  preparing  them- 
selves for  the  changes  which  might 
have  assured  universal  peace,  in  Ger- 
many the  idea  was  taking  root  pretty 
nearly  everywhere  that  a  new  war  was 
inevitable;  that  Germany  could  not 
fulfill  her  great  historic  mission  with- 
out once  more  drawing  the  sword  of 
'70;  that  since  it  was  necessary  to  fight, 
it  was  desirable  that  Germany  should 
choose  the  right  moment,  that  is,  some 
opportunity  before  Russia  had  recov- 
ered entirely  from  the  wounds  of  the 
Russo-Japanese  war. 

A  very  intelligent  but  very  skeptical 
German  said  to  me  one  day,  'My 
friend,  there  is  only  one  pacificist  in 
Germany;  it  is  William  II.  But  he  can 
do  nothing  because  he  is  the  Emperor! ' 
A  paradox  which  contains  a  certain 
amount  of  truth.  William  II  will  have 
to  shoulder  before  the  world,  and  in 
history,  the  chief  responsibility  for  the 
war.  Yet  those  who  know  the  secrets 
of  political  Europe  are  aware  that  he 
has  been  for  twenty-five  years  perhaps 
the  most  active  protector  of  European 
peace.  In  1905  he  prevented  the  war 
which  a  strong  party  around  him  al- 
ready wished,  when  the  disputes  about 
Morocco  began  with  France.  *  History,' 
said  he  one  day,  to  a  French  friend 
of  mine  on  board  the  Hohenzollern 
during  the  regatta  at  Kiel,  *  history 
will  give  me  credit  for  this  at  least, 


that  Europe  has  owed   its   peace  to 
me.' 

By  temperament,  by  a  certain  mys- 
tical tendency,  by  the  sagacity  of  a 
statesman,  William  II  was  and  wishes 
to  be  an  emperor  of  peace.  But  he  is 
also  a  Hohenzollern  —  the  head  of  the 
army  which  is  reputed  strongest  among 
them  all,  and  invincible.  Thus  his 
ruling  passion  for  peace  was  not  pleas- 
ing to  the  very  powerful  military  caste 
which  surrounds  and  sways  him;  and 
it  has  been  the  chief  reason  for  the 
covert  hostility  which  a  section  of  the 
aristocracy,  of  the  government,  and  of 
the  press,  have  since  1895  carried  on 
in  opposition  to  him,  resulting  finally 
in  the  setting  up  of  the  Crown  Prince 
as  the  leader  of  the  opposition  to  him. 
Every  one  still  remembers  the  scandal 
of  1909,  the  cause  of  which  was  the 
interview  granted  by  the  Emperor  to 
a  great  American  magazine.  When  the 
whole  history  of  this  scandal  is  known 
it  will  also  be  known  what  was  done 
on  this  occasion  to  discredit  the  Em- 
peror by  the  military  party,  and  by 
that  section  of  the  government  which 
could  not  forgive  him  for  not  having 
declared  war  against  France  in  1905, 
with  Morocco  as  a  pretext. 

I  have  no  doubt  therefore  that  this 
time,  on  the  evening  of  August  1,  the 
Emperor  declared  war  on  Russia  and 
set  Europe  afire,  not  because  he  wished 
the  catastrophe,  but  because  he  was  un- 
able to  resist  the  war-party,  which  has 
increased  in  numbers,  influence,  and 
audacity  during  the  past  three  years, 
since  the  Balkan  conflicts  and  the  war 
between  Italy  and  Turkey  have  filled 
all  Europe  with  restlessness  and  dis- 
tress. It  is  sufficient  to  say  that,  in  the 
days  preceding  the  declaration  of  war, 
newspapers  conservative  in  the  ex- 
treme, like  the  Kreuzzeitung,  published 
articles  almost  threatening  William  II; 
reminding  him  that  he  had  not  the 
right  to  sacrifice  his  duties  as  emperor 


THE  EUROPEAN  TRAGEDY 


687 


to  the  personal  hobby  of  his  pacificism. 
In  fine,  the  European  war  was  let  loose 
by  the  German  military  party;  for 
among  all  the  countries  of  Europe,  in 
Germany  alone  the  army  had  enough 
power  and  enough  authority  to  compel 
the  government  to  take  so  frightful 
an  initiative.  Destiny  was  fulfilled  on 
August  1,  1914,  —  a  date  memorable 
and  fatal  in  the  history  of  the  twenti- 
eth century,  which  posterity  will  per- 
haps remember  with  terror  through 
the  ages. 

IV 

And  now,  what  will  happen?  What 
new  Europe  will  arise  from  the  ruins 
of  that  in  which  we  were  born  and 
grew  up?  How  will  it  be  possible  to 
reconstruct  order  out  of  this  chaos  let 
loose  in  one  blow? 

These  are  questions  to  which  no  one 
can  reply  to-day;  which  no  one  even 
dares  suggest.  The  dismay  of  souls 
surprised  by  the  catastrophe  is  too 
great.  We  all  feel  that  our  destiny  is 
in  the  control  of  historic  forces  which 
elude  our  understanding.  No  one  can 
say  whether  the  war  will  be  long  or 
short,  who  will  conquer  or  who  will  lose; 
and  in  what  manner  the  conquered 
will  be  conquered  and  the  victorious 
victor. 

Nevertheless  from  the  study  of  the 
causes  of  this  upheaval  one  conclusion 
appears  already  probable.  This  war 
will  either  increase  still  more  the  mili- 
tary caste  in  Germany  or  will  largely 
destroy  it.  Germany  is  moved  to  the 
conflict  with  the  expectation  of  repeat- 
ing 1870:  that  is,  of  making  a  rapid 
victorious  campaign,  the  cost  of  which 
will  be  covered  by  the  immense  indem- 
nities imposed  upon  the  conquered. 
And  if  the  General  Staff  succeeds  in 
this  enterprise,  the  German  army,  and 
the  Hohenzollerns  who  are  its  leaders, 
will  achieve  such  prestige  in  Germany, 
in  Europe,  and  in  the  world,  that  no 


strength  can  oppose  them.  If  instead 
Germany  is,  I  will  not  say  actually 
conquered,  but  not  wholly  successful, 
and  is  unable  to  snatch  territorial  and 
financial  indemnity  from  her  adversa- 
ries, then  the  prestige  of  the  army  and 
of  the  Hohenzollerns  will  receive  a  very 
heavy  blow.  The  people  will  cherish 
eternal  resentment  because  of  the  ter- 
rible sufferings  which  the  war  will  have 
caused  them:  they  will  accuse  the  mon- 
archy and  the  military  party  of  hav- 
ing led  the  nation  lightly  into  a  ruin- 
ous adventure,  provoking  the  whole  of 
Europe. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  difficult  to 
foresee  what  the  future  of  Europe  can 
be.  The  mind  is  appalled  merely  in 
thinking  about  it.  The  darkest  pro- 
phecies seem  legitimate.  Oppressions, 
new  wars,  revolutions,  a  terrible  crisis, 
economic,  political,  moral,  in  which  a 
great  part  of  European  civilization  will 
perish,  this  is  what  one  may  predict. 
For  however  great  may  be  the  quali- 
ties of  the  Germans  and  the  services 
that  they  have  rendered  to  civilization, 
Europe  can  never  and  will  never  be 
dominated  entirely  by  them.  As  it  re- 
belled a  century  ago  against  the  French 
supremacy,  so  it  would  revolt  to-day 
against  the  German  supremacy.  Eu- 
rope is  and  will  continue  to  be  a  mosaic 
of  cultures  and  of  diverse  languages. 
Therefore,  for  real  success  there  is  need 
of  a  certain  equilibrium  among  the 
diverse  races  which  inhabit  it.  If  this 
equilibrium  is  destroyed,  Europe  will  no 
longer  be  Europe;  and  to  denaturalize 
her  in  this  way,  to  change  the  course  of 
her  history,  the  European  war  would 
not  suffice.  The  democratic,  humani- 
tarian, pacificist  tendencies  are  now 
too  strong,  and  rooted  in  too  large  a 
part  of  the  continent.  Victorious  Ger- 
many could  impose  herself  on  Europe 
only  by  a  systematic  oppression  which 
would  provoke  the  most  terrible  reac- 
tions and  the  greatest  disasters. 


688 


THE  EUROPEAN  TRAGEDY 


If  on  the  other  hand  the  second  sup- 
position should  be  realized,  if  the  pres- 
tige of  the  Hohenzollerns  and  of  the 
German  army  should  collapse  because 
of  the  horror  and  destruction  of  this 
war  which  they  have  willed,  Europe 
will  finally  find  peace  and  concord  in  a 
reasonable  equilibrium  of  forces  and 
desires.  Germany  will  become  at  last 
democratic  and  pacific,  like  England 
and  France.  The  Prussian  aristoc- 
racy, so  powerful  to-day,  will  be  forced 
to  grant  a  reform  of  the  Prussian  elec- 
toral system,  and  to  open  the  doors  to 
the  power  of  the  middle  classes.  In 
Prussia,  and  in  the  Empire,  the  repre- 
sentative regime,  instead  of  remaining 
constitutional,  will  become  parliamen- 
tary; ministers  will  no  longer  be  nomi- 
nated by  the  emperor  but  by  parlia- 
ments; the  influence  of  the  court  and 
the  general  staff  will  diminish.  The 
parties  of  the  Left,  and  even  the  So- 
cialists, will  have  risen  to  power.  Ger- 
many in  short  will  be  inwardly  renewed 
as  France  was  renewed  after  1870. 

Between  France  and  England  on  the 
one  side  and  Germany  on  the  other, 
there  will  no  longer  be  that  lack  of  har- 
mony in  impulses  and  political  forms 
which  has  been  the  true  reason  why  all 
the  attempts  at  understanding,  repeat- 
ed during  the  past  thirty  years,  have 
failed.  Germany,  like  France  and  Eng- 
land, will  be  dominated  by  a  liberal 


democratic  spirit:  and  it  will  therefore 
be  possible  finally  for  these  three  peo- 
ples to  reach  a  permanent  and  true  un- 
derstanding. On  that  day  when  all  the 
peoples  shall  abandon  the  thought  of 
trampling  on  each  other,  and  shall  de- 
sire only  peaceful  emulation  among 
themselves  in  favor  of  the  progress  of 
the  world, — on  that  day  on  which  their 
governments  shall  be  animated  by  the 
same  spirit  of  sincere  friendship  and 
loyal  concord,  —  there  will  be  room 
under  the  sun  for  French,  English, 
Germans  —  all  races  —  to  dwell  toge- 
ther in  unity. 

France  and  England  are  ripe  for  a 
rule  of  ordered  and  peaceful  democracy. 
They  desire  it  and  press  toward  it. 
The  chief  point  that  this  war  ought  to 
decide  is  whether  Germany  also  wish- 
es to  become  democratic  and  peaceful, 
or  whether  instead  she  wishes  to  iso- 
late herself  still  in  Europe,  like  a  for- 
midable camp,  sustained  by  force  and 
by  an  autocratic  and  hierarchical  spir- 
it. On  this  alternative  depends  the  fu- 
ture of  Europe  and  the  destiny  of  our 
civilization.  Every  one  therefore  can 
understand,  without  further  parley, 
the  anxiety  which  is  felt  to-day  in 
Europe  by  the  kind  of  people  who  are 
in  a  position  to  appreciate  the  impor- 
tance of  this  conflict.  As  long  as  they 
live  they  will  not  forget  the  August  of 
fatal  1914! 


ACADEMIC  FREEDOM 


BY   HOWARD   CROSBY   WARREN 


FREEDOM  of  teaching,  as  scholars  un- 
derstand the  term,  means  control  of 
university  instruction  by  the  teaching 
profession  itself,  untrammeled  by  out- 
side interference.  The  university  teach- 
er is  a  prophet  of  the  truth.  His  tenure 
of  office  should  not  be  determined  by 
political,  theological,  or  popular  ap- 
proval; but  he  should  be  held  account- 
able to  his  own  calling. 

In  point  of  fact,  the  teacher  to-day 
is  not  a  free,  responsible  agent.  His 
career  is  practically  under  the  control 
of  laymen.  Fully  three  quarters  of  our 
scholars  occupy  academic  positions; 
and  in  America,  at  least,  the  teach- 
ing investigator,  whatever  professional 
standing  he  may  have  attained,  is  sub- 
ject to  the  direction  of  some  body  of 
men  outside  his  own  craft.  As  investi- 
gator he  may  be  quite  untrammeled, 
but  as  teacher,  it  has  been  said,  he  is 
half  tyrant  and  half  slave. 

The  professional  status  of  the  schol- 
ar differs  notably  in  this  respect  from 
that  of  the  other  learned  professions. 
The  physician  is  governed  by  a  code 
prescribed  by  his  own  medical  associa- 
tion. The  lawyer  is  responsible  for  his 
professional  conduct  to  a  bar  associa- 
tion composed  of  fellow  practitioners. 
In  most  denominations  the  clergy  are 
amenable  solely  to  ecclesiastical  courts 
or  church  dignitaries.  In  contrast  with 
these  self-organized  professions,  the 
scholar  is  dependent  for  opportunity 
to  practice  his  calling,  as  well  as  for 
material  advancement,  on  a  governing 

VOL.  114 -NO.  5 


board  which  is  generally  controlled  by 
clergymen,  financiers,  or  representa- 
tives of  the  state. 

The  reason  for  this  difference  is  not 
hard  to  discover.  Unlike  other  profes- 
sional men,  the  scholar  cannot  ply  his 
vocation  alone.  Aristotle  is  the  only  in- 
stance of  a  college  of  arts  and  sciences 
successfully  combined  in  one  person; 
the  tremendous  progress  of  learning 
since  his  day  has  made  it  impossible  for 
even  a  giant  intellect  to  repeat  the  at- 
tempt. Furthermore,  the  foundation  of 
an  institution  of  learning  on  any  ade- 
quate scale  requires  more  capital  than 
scholars  as  a  class  can  provide.  They 
are  compelled  to  rely  on  the  resources 
of  others.  The  initiative  in  establish- 
ing institutions  of  learning  is  usually 
taken  by  the  Church,  the  State,  or  the 
wealthy  class.  Many  of  the  early  Eu- 
ropean universities  were  outgrowths  of 
older  ecclesiastical  schools.  The  uni- 
versities of  Paris  and  Oxford  originated 
in  this  way.  Those  at  Naples  and  Vi- 
enna were  established  by  government 
and  maintained  from  state  funds.  Hei- 
delberg obtained  charters  from  both 
Church  and  State.  Even  in  mediaeval 
times  certain  colleges  and  chairs  de- 
rived their  endowment  from  the  pri- 
vate fortunes  of  princes.  Several  early 
foundations  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
belong  to  this  class. 

A  similar  development  took  place  in 
our  own  country.  Some  of  our  colleges 
were  founded  by  religious  bodies  — 
Wesleyan  and  the  Catholic  University 
of  America,  for  instance.  Others,  such 
as  Stanford,  Chicago,  and  Clark,  were 


690 


ACADEMIC  FREEDOM 


wholly  endowed  through  private  dona- 
tion. Our  state  universities  and  city 
colleges  are  maintained  by  state  and 
municipal  appropriations,  and  the  for- 
mer receive  large  sums  annually  from 
the  national  government  besides. 

The  power  of  appointment  to  the 
teaching  staff  generally  remains  with 
the  founders,  or  is  vested  in  a  self-per- 
petuating board.  In  a  few  instances 
control  has  passed  to  the  graduates, 
acting  through  their  chosen  representa- 
tives, as  at  Harvard,  or  is  shared  by 
them,  as  at  Yale  and  Princeton.  It  has 
never  been  delegated  to  the  teaching 
staff.  Yet  the  faculty  forms  the  very 
core  of  the  university. 

President  Schurman  of  Cornell  brings 
out  the  anomaly  most  strikingly  in  a 
recent  report  to  the  trustees  of  that 
institution.  He  says:  'The  university  is 
an  intellectual  organization,  composed 
essentially  of  devotees  of  knowledge  — 
some  investigating,  some  communicat- 
ing, some  acquiring  —  but  all  dedi- 
cated to  the  intellectual  life.  .  .  .  The 
faculty  is  essentially  the  university; 
yet  in  the  governing  boards  of  Ameri- 
can universities  the  faculty  is  without 
representation.' 

The  educational  policy  and  curricu- 
lum are  entrusted  more  largely  to  the 
care  of  the  teaching  body,  but  the 
trustees  or  regents  insist  upon  their 
legal  right  as  court  of  last  appeal.  Even 
at  our  least  provincial  universities  an 
academic  programme  adopted  by  the 
faculty  has  occasionally  been  vetoed 
by  the  corporation;  this  occurred  at 
Harvard  when  the  three-year  under- 
graduate course  was  first  planned.  On 
the  other  hand,  new  methods  of  in- 
struction have  sometimes  been  put  into 
operation  by  the  board  without  ever 
being  submitted  to  the  teaching  staff. 
The  Princeton  preceptorial  system  is 
an  instance  of  this. 

Moreover,  it  is  generally  conceded 
by  both  faculty  and  corporation  that 


the  president  or  chancellor  is  respons- 
ible for  the  formulation  and  adminis- 
tration of  the  academic  policy.  But, 
unlike  a  constitutional  prime  minister, 
he  is  chosen  by  the  governing  board 
and  is  not  directly  responsible  to  his 
colleagues  in  the  faculty.  He  generally 
selects  the  deans,  the  heads  of  depart- 
ments, and  often  the  faculty  commit- 
tees. The  entire  academic  machinery 
is  virtually  under  his  control,  and  the 
teaching  body  is  expected  to  carry  out 
his  theory  of  education. 

Despite  these  obvious  incongruities 
the  plan  has  worked  well.  College  in- 
struction in  America  has  kept  nearly 
abreast  with  the  progress  of  learning. 
At  most  institutions  the  curriculum  has 
been  steadily  advancing.  If  the  evolu- 
tion has  been  slow  in  some  branches,  we 
have  not  made  haste  to  adopt  startling 
innovations.  From  the  standpoint  of 
instruction  the  American  system  of  uni- 
versity government  makes  for  conser- 
vatism and  stability,  which  are  import- 
ant qualities  in  the  undergraduate  cur- 
riculum— more  fundamental,  perhaps, 
than  flexibility  and  progress.  It  is  only 
from  the  standpoint  of  scholarship  that 
our  theory  of  control  is  open  to  serious 
criticism. 

II 

The  principle  of  academic  constraint 
has  worked  injury  to  the  scholastic 
profession.  The  absence  of  true  profes- 
sional responsibility,  coupled  with  tra- 
ditional accountability  to  a  group  of 
men  devoid  of  technical  training,  nar- 
rows the  outlook  of  the  average  college 
professor  and  dwarfs  his  ideals.  Any 
serious  departure  from  existing  educa- 
tional practice,  such  as  the  reconstruc- 
tion of  a  course  or  the  adoption  of  a 
new  study,  must  be  justified  to  a  group 
of  laymen  and  their  executive  agent. 
The  board  which  engages  the  services 
of  a  scholar  is  apt  to  regard  him  in  the 
light  of  a  hired  workman,  rather  than  a 


ACADEMIC  FREEDOM 


691 


trained  expert  specially  qualified  to  of- 
fer advice  concerning  his  own  branch. 
Brought  up  to  regard  the  corporation 
as  the  source  from  which  all  favors 
flow,  it  is  not  strange  that  some  schol- 
ars lay  undue  stress  on  the  economic 
side  of  their  position.  A  colleague  of 
mine,  whose  learning  and  intellectual 
honesty  cannot  be  questioned,  tells  me 
that  he  performs  this  or  that  univer- 
sity duty  because  he  is  paid  to  do  it. 
It  might  well  be  pointed  out  that  the 
physician  fulfills  his  professional  obli- 
gations whether  he  is  paid  or  not. 

As  a  rule  the  scholar  is  quite  as  faith- 
ful, quite  as  altruistic,  as  the  physician. 
But  at  the  same  time  he  is  well  aware 
that  material  success  lies  in  securing  the 
favor  of  the  governing  board :  that  he 
endangers  his  career  if  the  mode  or  con- 
tent of  his  instruction  incurs  their  dis- 
approval. Wilfully  in  some  cases,  often- 
er  for  lack  of  incentive,  the  average 
scholar  fails  to  put  forth  his  best  efforts 
when  professional  zeal  would  carry  him 
beyond  the  established  programme. 

The  German  scholar  has  higher 
ideals.  In  German  universities  aca- 
demic freedom  of  teaching  (akademische 
Lehrfreiheit)  has  long  been  a  cardinal 
tenet.  The  professor  of  highest  rank 
(the  Ordinarius)  is  free  to  offer  any 
course  whatsoever  within  the  confines 
of  his  own  branch.  This  untrammeled 
freedom  of  teaching  has  led  to  a  some- 
what mistaken  conception  in  our  own 
country  of  the  real  meaning  of  academ- 
ic freedom.  It  is  often  imagined  that 
it  implies  liberty  on  the  part  of  a  pro- 
fessor to  advance  any  theory  in  class- 
room without  restraint.  Some  scholars 
may  accept  this  radical  interpretation. 
But  it  is  doubtful  whether  any  consid- 
erable number  would  practice  it  even 
if  present  limitations  were  removed. 

The  American  conception  of  univer- 
sity education,  especially  our  theory 
of  undergraduate  instruction,  differs 
widely  from  the  German.  The  Ameri- 


can college  seeks  to  weld  its  curriculum 
into  an  organic  unity,  and  this  neces- 
sitates a  definite  apportionment  of 
courses  among  the  staff.  Freedom  of 
teaching  does  not  mean  that  an  instruc- 
tor may  offer  any  course  which  he 
deems  wise  without  securing  the  con- 
sent of  his  colleagues.  It  means  rather 
the  absence  of  constraint  by  non-aca- 
demic forces. 

The  need  of  obtaining  the  consent 
of  the  faculty  will  serve  as  a  check  on 
individual  eccentricities.  Due  regard 
for  the  opinion  of  the  scientific  world 
will  prevent  most  scholars  from  hazard- 
ing sensational  theories  unless  the  evi- 
dence appears  thoroughly  convincing. 
No  sensible  man  is  content  to  incur  the 
condemnation  of  his  contemporaries 
unless  he  feels  assured  of  a  favorable 
verdict  by  posterity.  A  bizarre  theory 
will  be  advanced  only  by  a  madman,  a 
fool,  or  a  genius.  The  real  task  is  to 
distinguish  between  these  three  classes. 
The  tests  of  mental  disorder  are  now 
sufficiently  reliable  to  separate  the  vic- 
tim of  delusion  from  the  man  of  strange 
ideas.  The  psychiatrist  can  be  trusted 
to  pick  out  the  mentally  unbalanced. 

But  who  is  to  judge  whether  the 
fantastic  theories  advanced  by  a  man 
of  genius  are  ridiculous  heresies  or  per- 
tinacious facts?  Are  the  politician, 
the  clergyman,  and  the  philanthropist 
better  fitted  to  decide  than  the  scho- 
lar? Is  a  group  of  laymen  better  quali- 
fied to  formulate  a  philosophical  pro- 
gramme than  a  group  of  philosophers? 
Shall  we  deem  the  same  body  of  ama- 
teurs more  expert  in  economic  theory 
than  the  combined  wisdom  of  econo- 
mists? In  determining  the  professional 
standing  of  a  scholar  and  the  sound- 
ness of  his  teachings,  surely  the  profes- 
sion itself  should  be  the  court  of  last 
appeal.  The  scholar  is  by  profession  a 
searcher  after  truth.  It  is  highly  im- 
probable that  the  entire  body  of  spe- 
cialists will  be  hopelessly  misled  by 


692 


ACADEMIC  FREEDOM 


false  doctrine,  and  biased  by  unsound 
judgment.  The  lay  mind,  on  the  con- 
trary, when  it  is  called  to  pass  upon 
the  value  of  new  hypotheses  is  more 
than  likely  to  condemn  true  and  false 
alike. 

A  trustee  at  one  of  our  leading  uni- 
versities, I  am  told,  recently  expressed 
a  fear  lest  psychologists  might  venture 
to  attack  certain  innate  and  funda- 
mental truths,  such  as  moral  judgment 
and  rational  intuition.  Few  of  my  col- 
leagues would  be  foolish  enough  to  en- 
ter into  a  contest  with  the  eternal  veri- 
ties. At  the  same  time  no  scholar  can 
have  much  reverence  for  '  eternal  veri- 
ties '  which  are  incapable  of  standing 
some  pretty  hard  knocks.  The  real 
test  of  an  eternal  truth  is  its  ability  to 
withstand  assault  and  siege. 


in 

One  of  the  most  notable  conflicts  be- 
tween a  scholar's  expert  judgment  and 
the  opinion  of  the  laity  occurred  three 
centuries  ago.  About  1610,  Galileo,  a 
professor  at  the  University  of  Padua, 
began  publicly  to  teach  the  heliocentric 
theory  of  the  universe,  advanced  near- 
ly seventy  years  before  by  Copernicus 
as  a  tentative  hypothesis.  For  teach- 
ing this  view,  Galileo  was  severely  cen- 
sured; he  was  compelled  to  retract  the 
theory  and  enjoined  from  promulgat- 
ing it.  Now  if  the  untrained  public 
ever  had  an  indisputable  right  to  inter- 
fere with  academic  teaching,  it  was  in 
this  very  case.  If  ever  a  theory  ad- 
vanced by  eminent  scholars  deserved 
condemnation  by  the  world  at  large,  it 
was  the  Copernican  system. 

Consider  this  hypothesis  with  a 
mind  unbiased  by  modern  education. 
The  conception  is  clearly  and  demon- 
strably  false.  To  suppose  that  the  solid 
earth,  the  firm  basis  of  all  things,  is  fly- 
ing through  space  without  support,  con- 
tradicts our  most  obvious  perceptions. 


It  is  opposed  to  every  intuition  of  com- 
mon sense  and  reason.  And  further- 
more, to  say  that  the  sun  does  not  re- 
volve round  the  earth,  rising  and  set- 
ing  day  by  day,  contradicts  the  plain 
statements  of  Scripture.  From  what- 
ever angle  we  view  it,  this  revolution- 
ary hypothesis  outraged  the  popular 
sentiment  of  the  time.  As  President 
Butler  of  Columbia  has  recently  said, 
*A  university  teacher  owes  a  decent 
respect  to  the  opinions  of  mankind. 
Men  who  feel  that  their  personal  con- 
victions require  them  to  treat  the  ma- 
ture opinion  of  the  civilized  world 
without  respect  or  with  active  con- 
tempt, may  well  be  given  an  opportu- 
nity to  do  so  from  private  station,  and 
without  the  added  influence  and  pres- 
tige of  a  university's  name.' 

Owing  to  the  limitations  of  mental 
medicine  at  that  time,  Galileo  and  his 
forerunners  escaped  incarceration  in  a 
lunatic  asylum.  But  the  irreconcilabil- 
ity of  the  heliocentric  view  with  Scrip- 
ture could  scarcely  be  ignored  by  the 
Church  authorities.  Copernicus — who 
propounded  the  theory  in  1543  —  and 
his  immediate  disciples  were  fortunate 
enough  to  remain  unmolested.  The  no- 
tion of  academic  freedom  existed  even 
then  in  Germany.  Moreover,  many 
theologians,  Luther  among  the  rest, 
regarded  the  theory  as  too  absurd  for 
serious  consideration. 

In  Italy  the  church  assumed  the 
right  to  control  academic  inquiry  and 
instruction.  Galileo  was  summoned  be- 
fore an  ecclesiastical  court  and  tried. 
His  teachings  were  condemned,  and  in 
1616  he  was  strictly  enjoined  to  silence. 
In  1630  the  strength  of  his  convictions 
compelled  him  to  undertake  a  defense 
of  the  doctrine.  He  was  again  brought 
to  trial  in  1633,  found  guilty,  constrain- 
ed to  abjure  his  dangerous  heresy,  and 
sentenced  to  daily  penance. 

Surely  no  doctrine  ever  seemed  more 
worthy  of  repression.  The  Copernican 


ACADEMIC  FREEDOM 


693 


theory  flies  squarely  in  the  face  of  ev- 
eryday facts.  And  yet  time  has  justified 
it,  even  to  the  popular  mind.  With 
such  an  example  confronting  him,  how 
can  the  layman  ever  presume  to  con- 
demn the  carefully  framed  views  of  a 
trained  scholar? 

A  similar  conflict  between  expert  and 
untrained  judgment  arose  during  the 
early  days  of  Darwin's  biological  the- 
ory. Darwin  himself  was  not  a  candi- 
date for  academic  preferment,  and  the 
controversies  into  which  he  was  drawn 
need  not  concern  us.  But  many  of  his 
followers,  especially  in  America,  were 
confronted  with  a  choice  between  in- 
tellectual dishonesty  and  the  sacrifice 
of  their  career. 

When  James  McCosh  was  called 
from  Scotland  to  the  presidency  of 
Princeton  in  1868,  theologians  in  this 
country  counted  upon  his  staunch  or- 
thodoxy to  assist  in  stamping  out  the 
baleful  doctrine.  But  McCosh  was  too 
thorough  a  scholar  to  admit  that  scien- 
tific theory  could  be  refuted  by  mere 
citation  of  Scripture.  His  influence  was 
exerted  in  behalf  of  the  new  hypothesis 
with  telling  effect  in  orthodox  circles. 

Yet  despite  the  declaration  of  many 
noted  scholars  and  some  theologians  in 
favor  of  Darwinism  there  were  numer- 
ous cases  of  its  suppression  during  the 
seventies.  These  are  given  with  some 
detail  in  Andrew  D.  White's  Warfare 
of  Science  and  Theology.  Even  as  late 
as  1884,  James  Woodrow,  professor  of 
natural  science  in  a  Presbyterian  sem- 
inary at  Columbia,  South  Carolina,  was 
compelled  to  resign  his  chair  for  his  ad- 
vocacy of  the  theory  of  evolution.  At 
present  the  biologists  appear  to  have 
won  the  right  to  teach  the  truth  as 
they  understand  it. 

Interference  with  freedom  of  inquiry 
and  instruction  in  recent  years  has 
been  largely  confined  to  the  depart- 
ments of  philosophy,  psychology,  and 
economics,  particularly  the  last.  Phil- 


osophic theory  and  psychological  prin- 
ciples occasionally  come  into  conflict 
with  traditional  ecclesiastical  interpre- 
tations. Only  last  year,  for  example, 
Dr.  John  M.  Mecklin,  professor  of 
philosophy  and  psychology  at  Lafay- 
ette College,  resigned  under  pressure 
on  account  of  alleged  lack  of  harmony 
between  his  teachings  and  the  tradi- 
tions of  his  institution.  Fortunately  he 
had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  a  posi- 
tion elsewhere. 

This  summer  the  head  of  the  psycho- 
logical department  at  a  state  university, 
a  psychologist  in  good  standing,  was 
dismissed  on  indefinite  charges,  his  pe- 
tition for  a  faculty  committee  of  inquiry 
being  denied.  At  one  of  the  state  nor- 
mal schools  an  assistant  professor  of 
psychology  of  several  years'  standing 
was  dismissed  without  warning  after  a 
brief  hearing  before  the  board. 

The  researches  of  economists  and  so- 
ciologists often  conflict  with  the  inter- 
ests of  political  leaders  and  organized 
wealth.  In  1895  Professor  Bemis  of 
Chicago,  and  in  1900  Professor  Ross 
of  Stanford,  were  retired  from  their 
chairs  in  economics.  Friends  of  the  men 
claimed,  in  each  case,  that  pressure  had 
been  exerted  by  patrons  of  the  institu- 
tion on  account  of  certain  economic 
doctrines  which  they  taught.  This  the 
university  authorities  denied.  In  nei- 
ther instance  was  the  truth  ever  brought 
out.  No  academic  body  existed  with 
authority  to  investigate  the  facts,  and 
inquiries  by  scholars  unconnected  with 
the  institutions  in  question  were  re- 
garded as  an  unwarranted  interference. 

In  1911  Professor  Banks  was  dis- 
missed from  the  University  of  Florida, 
following  the  publication  of  an  article 
in  The  Independent,  in  which  he  stated 
his  conviction  that  teachers  and  others 
in  positions  of  influence  made  a  griev- 
ous mistake  in  the  generation  prior  to 
the  Civil  War  in  not  paving  the  way 
for  a  gradual  removal  of  slavery  with- 


694 


ACADEMIC  FREEDOM 


out  the  loss  of  so  many  lives  and  the 
consequent  pension  burden. 

Early  in  1913  the  professor  of  eco- 
nomics and  social  science  at  Wesleyan, 
Dr.  Willard  C.  Fisher,  was  summarily 
suspended  after  some  casual  remarks  in 
a  public  lecture  regarding  the  obser- 
vation of  the  Sabbath.  Last  autumn 
Dr.  J.  L.  Lewinsohn,  professor  of  law 
at  the  University  of  North  Dakota, 
resigned  under  pressure,  the  authori- 
ties having  disapproved  of  his  active 
participation  in  the  political  campaign. 
He  claims  to  have  been  censured  by 
the  dean  for  attending  a  conference  of 
leaders  of  the  Progressive  party. 

During  the  past  winter  it  was  charged 
in  the  press  that  Dr.  King  and  Dr. 
Nearing,  two  economists  in  the  Whar- 
ton  School  of  Finance  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Pennsylvania,  had  been  denied 
deserved  promotion  on  account  of  some 
statistical  inquiries  relating  to  local 
and  state  enterprises. 

In  March  Professor  A.  E.  Morse  re- 
linquished the  chair  of  political  science 
at  Marietta  College,  Ohio.  He  claims 
to  have  been  '  practically  forced  to  re- 
sign for  political  reasons/  This  the 
authorities  deny.  No  judicial  body  has 
thus  far  determined  whether  freedom 
of  teaching  was  infringed  in  this  in- 
stance. But  the  attitude  of  the  college 
toward  the  principle  of  academic  free- 
dom is  announced  in  an  official  bulle- 
tin dealing  with  the  case.  It  reminds 
the  faculty  that  '  it  is  the  sacred  duty 
of  the  trustees  to  administer  the  affairs 
of  the  institution  according  to  their 
own  judgment  and  the  dictates  of  their 
own  conscience.'  At  the  close  of  the 
session  two  members  of  the  faculty, 
friends  of  Dr.  Morse,  were  offered  the 
choice  of  resignation  or  dismissal.  No 
charges  were  formulated  in  the  resolu- 
tion which  summarily  cancelled  their 
professional  license.  Both  men  were 
professors  of  several  years'  standing 
and  heads  of  departments. 


IV 

Few  scholars  will  deny  that  the  good 
name  of  a  university  or  college  some- 
times demands  the  exercise  of  execu- 
tive authority  toward  teachers  as  well 
as  toward  students.  But  there  is  a 
growing  sentiment  that  members  of  the 
profession  should  be  amenable  to  aca- 
demic courts  in  all  matters  affecting 
academic  standing.  At  present  the 
responsibility  for  action  in  matters  of 
discipline  usually  devolves  upon  the 
president  or  chancellor.  Generally  this 
official  is  both  judge  and  jury.  From 
his  decision  there  seems  to  be  no  effect- 
ive appeal.  Occasionally  the  board 
pronounces  the  verdict  and  the  presi- 
dent acts  as  executioner.  A  very  excep- 
tional instance  occurred  last  March, 
when  President  Bowman,  of  the  State 
University  of  Iowa,  offered  his  resigna- 
tion on  the  ground  that  the  Board  had 
dismissed  a  member  of  the  Faculty 
without  consulting  the  president,  and 
without  giving  the  accused  member  a 
hearing. 

In  most  American  institutions  of 
learning  the  faculty  has  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  the  dismissal  of  its 
members,  and  often  the  first  intimation 
of  the  resignation  or  suspension  of  a 
colleague  is  received  through  the  public 
press.  One  may  assent  to  the  justice 
of  the  dismissal  while  resenting  the 
manner  in  which  it  was  brought  about. 
In  one  of  the  cases  already  mentioned 
a  colleague  of  the  man  dismissed  told 
me  that  he  considered  the  action  per- 
fectly just,  but  the  manner  absolutely 
unjustifiable.  At  a  leading  eastern 
university,  where  several  members  of 
the  faculty  have  been  removed  by 
executive  action  within  the  past  few 
years,  one  member  has  stated  private- 
ly that  in  his  judgment  the  president's 
policy  is  right,  although  the  mode  of 
procedure  has  been  somewhat  despotic. 
Some  of  his  colleagues  dissent  from 


ACADEMIC  FREEDOM 


695 


this  view,  believing  the  dismissals  to 
have  been  wholly  unjust.  In  the  ab- 
sence of  impartial  investigation  and 
report,  the  outsider  is  at  a  loss  which 
statement  to  accept. 

If  criticism  were  confined  to  the  radi- 
cals and  agitators  in  our  profession  it 
would  carry  little  weight.  There  are 
firebrands  in  the  academic  world  as 
well  as  mossbacks,  and  the  utterances 
of  both  may  be  discounted.  But  sane 
and  solid  men  have  joined  in  the  criti- 
cism. Such  expression  of  disapproval 
by  reputable  scholars,  whether  within 
or  without  the  institution  concerned, 
has  never,  so  far  as  I  know,  secured  a 
retrial  for  the  accused,  or  restored  him 
to  his  position.  In  one  instance,  to  my 
personal  knowledge,  an  eminent  schol- 
ar deprecated  any  action  in  behalf  of  a 
certain  professor  who  had  lost  his  place, 
on  the  ground  that  college  authorities 
always  look  with  suspicion  upon  a  man 
who  makes  a  fuss.  He  feared  that  a 
protest  might  seriously  injure  his  col- 
league's future. 

A  few  institutions  recognize  the  pro- 
priety of  seeking  expert  testimony  in 
matters  affecting  a  scholar's  profession- 
al standing.  For  some  time  it  has  been 
the  practice  at  Yale  to  consult  the 
faculty  in  questions  of  call  and  pro- 
motion. More  recently  at  Princeton 
the  trustees  voluntarily  declared  in 
favor  of  department  recommendation, 
and  voted  to  confer  on  academic  ques- 
tions with  a  committee  elected  by  the 
faculty.  At  Cornell,  President  Schur- 
man  has  suggested  that  one  third  of 
the  board  consist  of  faculty  represent- 
atives, on  the  ground  that  the  faculty 
is  essentially  the  university.  These  are 
all  steps  in  the  right  direction;  but  they 
are  exceptions  to  general  practice  and 
there  are  certain  situations  which  they 
do  not  meet.  In  institutions  where  one 
man  constitutes  a  whole  department 
it  would  be  difficult  to  convince  any 
board  that  his  judgment  was  unbiased 


in  matters  pertaining  to  his  own  status. 
Moreover,  in  questions  of  call  and  pro- 
motion the  average  board  is  prone  to 
consider  the  situation  largely  from  a 
local  standpoint,  taking  no  account  of 
the  broad  university  sentiment  in  the 
country  at  large.  It  fails  to  get  the  true 
perspective.  One  can  scarcely  blame  its 
members  for  this.  Laymen  cannot  be 
expected  to  entertain  a  higher  regard 
for  the  scholastic  vocation  than  is  en- 
tertained by  scholars  themselves. 


The  sense  of  professional  responsi- 
bility has  been  slow  to  awake  in  schol- 
ars. It  is  only  within  the  past  year  that 
any  active  attempt  has  been  made  to 
safeguard  their  professional  rights.  The 
spirit  of  the  time  is  shown  in  the  fact 
that  three  independent  steps  have  been 
taken  almost  simultaneously.  Two  of 
these  affect  particular  branches  of 
learning.  The  third  aims  at  a  general 
organization  of  scholars  similar  to  the 
medical  and  bar  associations. 

The  first  active  step  was  taken  in 
connection  with  the  forced  resignation 
of  the  professor  of  philosophy  and  psy- 
chology at  Lafayette.  Dr.  Mecklin's 
colleagues  at  other  institutions  were 
not  satisfied  that  he  had  received  fair 
treatment.  They  could  not  ascertain 
that  definite  charges  had  been  formu- 
lated against  him,  or  that  testimony 
had  been  called  for  in  his  behalf.  The 
American  Philosophical  Association 
and  the  American  Psychological  As- 
sociation, to  both  of  which  Professor 
Mecklin  belonged,  appointed  a  joint 
committee  to  investigate  the  case. 

This  committee  felt  bound  to  respect 
the  definite  restrictions  upon  freedom 
of  teaching  which  were  implied  in  the 
denominational  character  of  the  col- 
lege. But  they  soon  found  that  the 
charter  of  Lafayette  expressly  declar- 
ed against  any  theological  limitations 


696 


ACADEMIC  FREEDOM 


whatsoever.  Furthermore,  the  accused 
insisted  that  his  teachings  were  in  per- 
fect harmony  with  the  tenets  of  his  de- 
nomination. He  is  a  Presbyterian  min- 
ister in  good  standing,  and  it  appeared 
that  his  orthodoxy  had  never  been 
called  in  question  by  his  own  ecclesias- 
tical authorities. 

The  committee  found  that  while  no 
definite  charges  had  ever  been  formu- 
lated against  Dr.  Mecklin,  he  had  been 
given  the  very  indefinite  task  of  ex- 
plaining his  opinions  and  teachings  to 
the  president.  The  president  himself 
refused  to  aid  the  committee  in  its  en- 
deavor to  clear  up  the  situation.  He 
held  that  he  could  not  with  propriety 
discuss  with  outsiders  questions  affect- 
ing the  college  and  its  members,  even 
though  the  professional  standing  of  a 
colleague  was  at  stake.  To  this  position 
the  committee  replied  in  no  uncertain 
terms.  The  report  closes  as  follows: — 

4  The  attitude  thus  assumed  does  not 
seem  to  this  committee  one  which  can 
with  propriety  be  maintained  by  the 
officers  of  any  college  or  university  to- 
ward the  inquiries  of  a  representative 
national  organization  of  college  and 
university  teachers  and  other  scholars. 
We  believe  it  to  be  the  right  of  the  gen- 
eral body  of  professors  of  philosophy 
and  psychology  to  know  definitely  the 
conditions  of  the  tenure  of  any  profes- 
sorship in  their  subject;  and  also  their 
right,  and  that  of  the  public  to  which 
colleges  look  for  support,  to  understand 
unequivocally  what  measure  of  free- 
dom of  teaching  is  guaranteed  in  any 
college,  and  to  be  informed  as  to  the 
essential  details  of  any  case  in  which 
credal  restrictions,  other  than  those  to 
which  the  college  officially  stands  com- 
mitted, are  publicly  declared  by  re- 
sponsible persons  to  have  been  imposed. 
No  college  does  well  to  live  unto  itself 
to  such  a  degree  that  it  fails  to  recog- 
nize that  in  all  such  issues  the  univer- 
sity teaching  profession  at  large  has  a 


legitimate  concern.  And  any  college 
hazards  its  claim  upon  the  confidence  of 
the  public  and  the  friendly  regard  of 
the  teaching  profession  by  an  appear- 
ance of  unwillingness  to  make  a  full 
and  frank  statement  of  the  facts  in  all 
matters  of  this  sort.' 

The  report  of  this  committee  was 
read  at  a  joint  meeting  of  the  two  as- 
sociations last  Christmas.  It  was  ap- 
proved by  unanimous  vote,  and  was 
ordered  printed  at  the  expense  of  the 
associations.  Copies  were  sent  to  the 
trustees  of  the  institution  in  question. 
By  a  notable  coincidence  the  president 
of  this  college  offered  his  resignation 
within  two  weeks  after  the  publication 
of  the  report,  and  the  resignation  was 
promptly  accepted. 

A  somewhat  similar  move  has  since 
been  made  in  another  branch  of  learn- 
ing. At  its  meeting  in  Washington  last 
Christmas  the  American  Political  Sci- 
ence Association  appointed  a  commit- 
tee of  three  *  to  examine  and  report  up- 
on the  present  situation  in  American 
educational  institutions  as  to  liberty  of 
thought,  freedom  of  speech,  and  secur- 
ity of  tenure  for  teachers  of  political 
science.'  Similar  committees  were  ap- 
pointed at  the  same  time  by  the  Eco- 
nomics Association  and  the  American 
Sociological  Society,  meeting  in  other 
parts  of  the  country.  The  three  com- 
mittees, acting  jointly,  have  voted  to 
investigate  the  dismissal  of  Professor 
Fisher  from  Wesleyan  University. 


VI 

Far  wider  in  importance  than  these 
acts  of  special  societies  is  the  new  move- 
ment looking  toward  the  formation  of 
a  National  Association  of  College  Pro- 
fessors. This  was  first  broached  in  the 
spring  of  1913  by  a  number  of  promi- 
nent professors  at  Columbia  and  Johns 
Hopkins.  A  canvass  was  made  of  the 
attitude  toward  such  an  association  at 


ACADEMIC  FREEDOM 


697 


ten  leading  universities,  resulting  in  the 
call  for  a  preliminary  meeting.  This 
was  held  last  November  in  Baltimore, 
and  was  attended  by  unofficial  repre- 
sentatives of  Harvard,  Yale,  Prince- 
ton, Columbia,  Cornell,  Wisconsin, 
Clark,  and  Hopkins. 

After  considerable  discussion  it  was 
decided  that  membership  in  the  new  as- 
sociation should  be  based  on  a  scholar's 
professional  standing  without  reference 
to  the  particular  institution  with  which 
he  chanced  to  be  connected.  The  chair- 
man of  the  meeting  was  authorized 
to  appoint  a  committee  of  twenty-five, 
representing  the  various  departments 
of  learning,  whose  duty  should  be  to  ar- 
range a  plan  of  organization  and  draw 
up  a  constitution.  The  committee  has 
since  been  announced.  It  includes  men 
of  national  reputation  drawn  from  ev- 
ery field  of  learning.  Professor  Dewey 
of  Columbia  was  selected  as  chairman. 

The  character  of  the  men  who  are 
promoting  this  movement  indicates 
somewhat  the  manner  in  which  it  will 
proceed.  It  will  not  be  a  grievance  so- 
ciety or  a  trade  union  of  the  economic 
type.  The  men  composing  the  com- 
mittee are  too  well  balanced  to  accept 
any  such  programme.  Their  ideals  are 
too  high,  their  interests  too  scholarly. 
Throughout  the  discussion  they  have 
had  constantly  in  mind  the  pattern  of 
the  medical  and  bar  associations.  The 
chief  purpose  of  the  Association  of  Col- 
lege Professors  will  be  to  elevate  the 
standards  of  the  teaching  profession, 
by  promoting  self-respect,  initiative, 
and  responsibility. 

This  aim  can  be  furthered  in  many 
ways,  as  appeared  from  the  suggestions 
received  during  the  preliminary  can- 
vass of  the  universities  and  at  the  meet- 
ing of  delegates.  For  example,  there  is 
room  for  considerable  improvement  in 
the  method  of  filling  chairs.  It  is  fair 
to  assume  that  presidents  and  boards 
wish  to  secure  the  best  man  available 


for  any  given  position.  At  present  the 
method  of  selection  is  rather  crude. 
There  is  no  systematic  way  of  ascertain- 
ing what  candidates  are  available.  A 
chance  word  sometimes  turns  the  scale. 
A  recommendation  from  those  who  are 
not  qualified  to  judge  of  a  candidate's 
professional  attainments  may  carry 
the  day. 

It  would  of  course  be  a  gigantic  task 
for  any  committee  to  acquaint  itself 
with  the  qualifications  and  status  of 
every  man  in  all  our  higher  institutions. 
But  the  establishment  of  some  central 
bureau  would  aid  the  selection  consid- 
erably. It  would  lessen  the  number  of 
able  men  remaining  year  after  year 
without  promotion  or  betterment.  It 
might  also  lessen  the  number  of  un- 
worthy men  who  are  advanced  through 
favoritism.  Such  cases  are  rare.  But 
there  have  been  instances  of  men  ad- 
vanced rapidly,  not  on  account  of  real 
merit  but  through  the  influence  of  some 
trustee  or  patron. 

The  dismissal  of  professors  is  another 
problem,  and  one  of  great  delicacy, 
which  the  new  Association  must  face. 
It  has  been  asked  to  endorse  unequivo- 
cally the  principle  that  no  searcher  af- 
ter truth  should  be  dismissed  from  an 
institution  of  higher  learning  without 
trial  by  his  peers,  and  that  no  professor 
should  be  compelled  to  resign  merely 
because  his  views  conflict  with  public 
opinion.  Whether  such  a  principle  be 
formulated  or  not,  the  Association  will 
be  called  upon  to  define  its  attitude  in 
particular  cases,  where  political,  eco- 
nomic, or  theological  grounds  underlie 
the  popular  criticism.  Friction  in  many 
instances  will  be  avoided  if  an  authori- 
tative committee  of  scholars  declares 
that  certain  criticized  views  are  per- 
fectly debatable;  such  a  declaration  will 
be  the  more  effective  if  the  teachings 
in  question  do  not  coincide  with  the 
theories  held  by  members  of  the  com- 
mittee. 


698 


ACADEMIC  FREEDOM 


The  mode  of  selecting  the  college  ex- 
ecutive may  possibly  receive  attention 
by  the  Association.  I  do  not  believe, 
with  Professor  Cattell,  that  the  presi- 
dency should  be  made  a  purely  honor- 
ary office,  the  incumbent  changing  year 
by  year  and  receiving  no  additional 
compensation  for  his  executive  serv- 
ices. The  executive  head  of  an  insti- 
tution of  learning  occupies  a  position 
of  peculiar  responsibility  and  deserves 
special  remuneration.  A  man  of  tact 
and  executive  ability  should  not  be 
compelled  to  relinquish  the  presidency 
at  the  end  of  a  year's  service.  At  the 
same  time  it  seems  obvious  that  the 
man  who  controls  academic  policy 
should  be  directly  responsible  to  the 
academic  body.  It  would  appear  al- 
most axiomatic  that  the  college  presi- 
dent or  university  rector  should  be 
chosen  by  the  faculty,  or  by  some  se- 
lected group  of  scholars  in  which  the 
faculty  of  the  institution  in  question  is 
adequately  represented.  The  function 
of  the  president  is  to  voice  the  senti- 
ment of  the  faculty  in  directing  the 
academic  policy,  rather  than  to  dictate 
that  policy. 

The  trustees  are  the  legal  guardians 
of  an  institution's  endowment  and 
finances.  The  academic  body  cannot 
share  these  duties,  and  the  new  Asso- 
ciation can  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
economic  side.  Professor  Lovejoy  of 
Johns  Hopkins  believes  that  the  trus- 
tees *  should  not  only  raise  and  safe- 
guard the  funds  required  for  the  educa- 
tional purposes  of  the  institution,  but 
should  also  have  the  ultimate  power  of 
decision,  though  not  the  sole  voice,  in 
determining  the  general  scope  of  the  in- 
stitution's work;  should  decide,  for  ex- 
ample, when  new  schools  are  to  be  es- 
tablished. For  a  question  of  this  kind 
is  largely  a  question  whether,  in  a  given 
community,  a  specific  need,  and  also  a 
possibility  of  support,  exists  for  a  speci- 
fied extension  of  educational  activity. 


And  such  questions  are  as  much  the 
concern  of  the  lay  public  as  of  the  pro- 
fessor. .  .  . 

'They  should  have  power,  if  gross 
extravagance  or  notorious  educational 
inefficiency  appears  in  any  department, 
to  withhold  appropriations  from  that 
department  until  they  receive  guaran- 
tees from  the  president  and  faculty 
that  conditions  will  be  set  right.  They 
should  have  a  veto  in  the  determina- 
tion of  the  general  range  of  salaries  — 
since  professors  no  more  than  other 
men  ought  to  fix  wholly  for  themselves 
the  remuneration  of  their  own  type  of 
service  —  but  should  have  no  voice  in 
determining  individual  salaries.  And 
they  should  have  a  veto  upon  the  elec- 
tion of  a  president.  .  .  . 

'But  beyond  these  limits  a  univer- 
sity should  be  a  self-governing  republic 
of  scholars.  The  professors  should  elect 
their  own  president,  with  the  consent 
and  advice  of  the  trustees;  they  should, 
through  the  president  and  an  elective 
council,  make  all  appointments,  pro- 
motions, changes  in  salaries,  and  the 
like.  From  them  all  academic  honors 
should  proceed.  Their  control  over  ed- 
ucational policies  should  extend  to  such 
matters  as  the  acceptance  or  rejection 
of  gifts  and  bequests;  and  they  should 
have  coordinate  powers  with  the  trus- 
tees in  the  fixation  of  tuition-fees  and 
other  charges.' 

The  functions  of  this  new  Associa- 
tion of  scholars  should  by  no  means  be 
confined  to  the  relation  between  fac- 
ulty and  corporation.  Indeed  its  most 
promising  work  seems  to  be  in  other 
fields.  The  adjustment  of  relations  be- 
tween professor  and  student,  between 
the  scholar  and  the  world  at  large,  and 
between  scholar  and  scholar,  comes  dis- 
tinctly within  its  province. 

The  medical  association  prescribes 
strict  rules  concerning  the  relation  of 
physician  to  patient,  and  of  specialist 
to  general  practitioner.  The  physician 


ACADEMIC  FREEDOM 


699 


is  expected  to  answer  an  emergency 
call,  even  when  no  remuneration  is  as- 
sured. The  medical  association  has 
declared  very  definitely  that  a  physi- 
cian must  not  patent  any  prescription; 
all  new  formulas  which  he  discovers 
are  the  property  of  the  profession.  But 
he  is  allowed  to  copyright  his  books, 
and  he  may  be  retained  in  legal  cases  as 
a  professional  expert. 

No  such  definite  regulations  exist  in 
the  scholastic  profession.  There  are  in- 
stances where  a  laboratory  has  claimed 
the  ownership  of  apparatus  devised  by 
one  of  its  students  and  the  latter  has 
protested.  Some  investigators  patent 
their  laboratory  devices;  others  offer 
them  freely  to  the  profession.  Such 
points  of  etiquette  should  be  definitely 
settled  in  a  carefully  formulated  code. 
Definite  rulings  should  prescribe  to 
what  extent  a  professor  may  be  ex- 
pected or  given  opportunity  to  deliver 
popular  lectures,  and  how  far  research 
and  literary  activities  may  properly 
share  his  time  with  classroom  work. 
It  might  also  be  determined  to  what 
extent  one  is  bound  to  supply  a  col- 
league's place  temporarily  in  cases  of 
illness,  and  whether  a  professor  in  good 
standing  should  accept  a  chair  from 
which  a  colleague  has  been  removed 
without  trial. 

The  Association  might  discuss  as 
matters  of  general  policy  what  sabbat- 
ical leave  should  be  accorded  to  the 
different  grades,  and  whether  advance- 
ment in  grade  and  salary  should  ever 
depend  on  mere  length  of  service  apart 
from  proved  efficiency.  It  should  cer- 
tainly devise  some  equitable  arrange- 
ment which  would  obviate  the  neces- 
sity of  making  undignified  pleas  for 
advancement  in  one's  own  behalf. 

No  less  important  is  the  protection 
of  the  junior  members  of  the  staff  from 
undue  exactions  by  their  superiors.  The 


youngest  instructor  may  claim  some 
rights.  He  should  not  be  overburdened 
with  the  task  of  reading  examination 
papers  for  others,  or  perfecting  appar- 
atus for  which  his  senior  receives  the 
entire  credit. 

With  so  many  possibilities  for  action 
confronting  it,  the  new  association  will 
do  well  to  proceed  slowly,  cautiously, 
and  tactfully.  It  may  be  years  before 
the  Association  of  College  Professors 
attains  the  standing  enjoyed  by  the 
medical  or  bar  associations.  But  the 
new  movement  marks  an  important 
advance  in  the  cause  of  academic  free- 
dom and  professional  responsibility. 

The  standing  of  a  university  depends 
above  all  things  on  the  character  of  its 
faculty.  It  needs  not  only  good  teach- 
ers, but  men  of  ideals,  investigators 
unhampered  by  fear  of  material  conse- 
quences in  presenting  the  truth  as  they 
see  it.  To  foster  such  a  group  of  schol- 
ars, the  sense  of  professional  responsi- 
bility must  be  cultivated.  The  group 
spirit  of  any  profession  can  be  aroused 
only  by  the  removal  of  external  con- 
straint and  the  cultivation  of  self-re- 
straint. 

Few  benefactors  to  the  cause  of 
learning  attain  the  self-abnegation 
shown  by  Lord  Gifford  in  the  endow- 
ment of  his  famous  lectureship  in  Nat- 
ural Religion.  The  deed  of  gift,  made 
public  in  1887,  contains  these  memo- 
rable words:  'The  lecturers  appointed 
shall  be  subjected  to  no  test  of  any 
kind,  and  shall  not  be  required  to  take 
an  oath,  or  to  emit  or  subscribe  any  de- 
claration of  belief,  or  to  make  any  pro- 
mise of  any  kind . . .  provided  only  that 
the  patrons  will  use  diligence  to  secure 
that  they  be  sincere  lovers  of  and  ear- 
nest inquirers  after  truth.'  May  the 
time  come  when  all  educational  bene- 
factions shall  rest  on  these  broad  and 
indestructible  foundations. 


MORALITY  AS  AN  ART 


BY   HAVELOCK    ELLIS 


THAT  living  is  an  art,  and  the  mor- 
alist the  critic  of  that  art,  is  a  very 
ancient  belief.  It  was  especially  wide- 
spread among  the  Greeks.  To  the 
Greeks,  indeed,  this  belief  was  so  in- 
grained and  instinctive  that  it  became 
an  implicitly  assumed  attitude  rather 
than  a  definitely  expressed  faith.  It 
was  natural  to  them  to  speak  of  a  vir- 
tuous person  as  we  should  speak  of  a 
beautiful  person.  The  'good'  was  the 
'beautiful';  the  sphere  of  ethics  for  the 
Greeks  was  not  distinguished  from  the 
sphere  of  aesthetics.  They  spoke  of  life 
as  of  a  craft  or  a  fine  art.  Protagoras 
regarded  life  as  the  sum  of  many  crafts, 
and  Socrates,  his  opponent,  still  always 
assumed  that  the  moralist's  position  is 
that  of  a  critic  of  a  craft.  So  influen- 
tial a  moralist  as  Aristotle  remarks,  in 
a  matter-of-fact  way,  in  his  Poetics, 
that  if  we  wish  to  ascertain  whether 
an  act  is,  or  is  not,  morally  right  we 
must  consider  not  merely  the  intrinsic 
quality  of  the  act,  but  the  person  who 
does  it,  the  person  to  whom  it  is  done, 
the  time,  the  means,  the  motive.  Such 
an  attitude  toward  life  puts  out  of  court 
an  appeal  to  any  rigid  moral  laws;  it 
means  that  an  act  must  befit  its  par- 
ticular relationships  at  a  particular  mo- 
ment, and  that  its  moral  value  can, 
therefore,  be  judged  only  by  the  stan- 
dard of  the  spectator's  instinctive  feel- 
ing for  proportion  and  harmony.  That 
is  the  attitude  that  we  adopt  toward  a 
work  of  art,  or  any  beautiful  object  in 
Nature. 

700 


It  is  only  implicitly,  also,  that  we 
ever  detect  this  attitude  among  the 
Romans,  the  pupils  of  the  Greeks.  For 
the  most  part,  the  Romans,  whose  im- 
pulses of  art  were  very  limited,  whose 
practical  mind  craved  precision  and 
definition,  proved  rebellious  to  the  idea 
that  living  is  an  art;  while  the  Hebrews, 
who  were  scarcely  artists  at  all,  never 
even  dreamed  of  such  an  art.  Their 
attitude  is  sufficiently  embodied  in  the 
story  of  Moses  and  that  visit  to  Sinai 
which  resulted  in  the  production  of  the 
table  of  Ten  Commandments  which  we 
may  still  see  inscribed  in  old  churches. 
For  even  our  modern  feeling  about 
morals  is  largely  Jewish,  in  some  meas- 
ure Roman,  and  scarcely  Greek  at  all. 
We  still  accept,  in  theory  at  all  events, 
the  Mosaic  conception  of  morality  as 
a  code  of  rigid  and  inflexible  rules,  ar- 
bitrarily ordained,  and  to  be  blindly 
obeyed. 

The  conception  of  morality  as  an 
art,  which  Christendom  once  disdained, 
seems  now  again  to  be  finding  favor  in 
men's  eyes.  Its  path  has  been  made 
smooth  by  great  thinkers  of  various 
complexion.  Nietzsche  and  Bergson, 
William  James  and  Jules  de  Gaultier, 
to  name  but  a  few,  profoundly  differ- 
ing in  many  fundamental  points,  all 
alike  assert  the  relativity  of  truth  and 
the  inaptitude  of  rigid  maxims  to  serve 
as  guiding  forces  in  life.  They  also 
assert,  for  a  large  part,  implicitly  or 
explicitly,  the  authority  of  art. 

The  nineteenth  century  was  usually 
inspired  by  the  maxims  of  Kant,  and 
lifted  its  hat  reverently  when  it  heard 


MORALITY  AS  AN  ART 


701 


Kant  declaiming  his  famous  sayings 
concerning  the  supremacy  of  an  inflex- 
ible moral  law.  They  are  fine  sayings. 
But  as  guides,  as  motives  to  practical 
action  in  the  world?  The  excellent 
maxims  of  the  valetudinarian  professor 
at  Konigsberg  scarcely  seem  that  to  us 
to-day.  Nor  do  we  any  longer  suppose 
that  we  are  impertinent  in  referring  to 
the  philosopher's  personality.  In  the 
investigation  of  the  solar  spectrum, 
personality  may  count  for  little;  in  the 
investigation  of  moral  laws  it  counts  for 
much.  For  personality  is  the  very  stuff 
of  morals.  The  moral  maxims  of  an  el- 
derly invalid  in  a  provincial  university 
town  have  their  interest.  But  so  have 
those  of  a  Casanova.  And  the  moral 
maxims  of  a  Goethe  may  possibly  have 
more  interest  than  either.  There  is  the 
rigid  categorical  imperative  of  Kant; 
and  there  is  also  that  other  dictum,  less 
rigid  but  more  reminiscent  of  Greece, 
which  some  well-inspired  person  has 
put  into  the  mouth  of  Walt  Whitman: 
*  Whatever  tastes  sweet  to  the  most 
perfect  person,  that  is  finally  right.' 


H 

Fundamentally  considered,  there  are 
two  roads  by  which  we  may  travel  to- 
ward the  moral  ends  of  life:  the  road  of 
Tradition,  which  is  ultimately  that  of 
Instinct,  and  the  road  of  Reason.  It 
is  true  that  the  ingenuity  of  analytic 
investigators  like  Henry  Sidgwick  has 
succeeded  in  enumerating  many  'meth- 
ods of  ethics.'  But,  roughly  speaking, 
there  can  be  only  two  main  roads  of 
life,  and  only  one  has  proved  supremely 
important.  It  was  by  following  the 
path  of  tradition  moulded  by  instinct 
that  man  reached  the  threshold  of  civ- 
ilization; whatever  may  have  been  the 
benefits  he  derived  from  the  guidance 
of  reason  he  never  consciously  allowed 
reason  to  control  his  moral  life.  Tables 
of  commandments  have  ever  been 


'given  by  God';  they  represented,  that 
is  to  say,  obscure  impulses  of  the  soul 
striving  to  respond  to  practical  needs. 
No  one  dreamed  of  commending  them 
by  declaring  that  they  were  reasonable. 

It  is  clear  how  Instinct  and  Tradi- 
tion, thus  working  together,  act  vitally 
and  beneficently  in  moulding  the  moral 
life  of  primitive  peoples.  The  *  divine 
command '  was  always  a  command  con- 
ditioned by  the  special  circumstance 
under  which  the  tribe  lived.  That  is  so 
even  when  the  moral  law  is,  to  our  civ- 
ilized eyes,  *  unnatural.'  The  infanti- 
cide of  Polynesian  islands,  where  the 
means  of  subsistence  and  the  possibili- 
ties of  expansion  were  limited,  was  ob- 
viously a  necessary  measure,  beneficent 
and  humane  in  its  effects.  The  killing 
of  the  aged  among  the  migrant  Eski- 
mos was  equally  a  necessary  and  kindly 
measure,  recognized  as  such  by  the  vic- 
tims themselves,  when  it  was  essential 
that  every  member  of  the  community 
should  be  able  to  help  himself.  Prim- 
itive rules  of  moral  action,  greatly  as 
they  differ  among  themselves,  are  all 
more  or  less  advantageous  and  helpful 
on  the  road  of  primitive  life.  It  is  true 
that  they  allow  very  little,  if  any,  scope 
for  divergent  individual  moral  action. 

That,  indeed,  is  the  rock  on  which  an 
instinctive  traditional  morality  must 
strike  as  civilization  is  approached. 
The  tribe  has  no  longer  the  same  unity. 
Social  differentiation  has  tended  to 
make  the  family  a  unit,  and  psychic 
differentiation  to  make  even  the  separ- 
ate individuals  units.  The  community 
of  interests  of  the  whole  tribe  has  been 
broken  up,  and  therewithal  traditional 
morality  has  lost  alike  its  value  and  its 
power. 

The  development  of  abstract  intelli- 
gence, which  coincides  with  civilization, 
works  in  the  same  direction.  Reason 
is,  indeed,  on  one  side  an  integrating 
force,  for  it  shows  that  the  assumption 
of  traditional  morality  —  the  identity 


702 


MORALITY  AS  AN  ART 


of  the  individual's  interests  with  the 
interests  of  the  community  —  is  sound- 
ly based.  But  it  is  also  a  disintegrat- 
ing force.  For  if  it  reveals  a  general 
unity  in  the  ends  of  living,  it  devises 
infinitely  various  and  perplexingly  dis- 
tracting excuses  for  living.  Before  the 
active  invasion  of  reason,  living  had 
been  an  art,  a  highly  conventionalized 
and  even  hieratic  art,  but  the  motive 
forces  of  living  lay  in  life  itself  and  had 
all  the  binding  sanction  of  instincts; 
the  penalty  of  every  failure  in  living,  it 
was  felt,  would  be  swiftly  and  auto- 
matically experienced.  To  apply  reason 
here  was  to  introduce  a  powerful  sol- 
vent into  morals.  Objectively  it  made 
morality  clearer,  but  subjectively  it  de- 
stroyed the  existing  motives  for  moral- 
ity; it  deprived  man,  to  use  the  fash- 
ionable phraseology  of  the  present  day, 
of  a  vital  illusion. 

Henceforth  morality  in  the  funda- 
mental sense,  the  actual  practices  of 
the  population,  sank  into  the  back- 
ground, divorced  from  the  moral  the- 
ories which  a  variegated  procession  of 
prancing  philosophers  gayly  flaunted 
before  the  world.  Kant,  whose  personal 
moral  problems  were  concerned  with 
the  temptation  to  eat  too  many  sweet- 
meats, and  other  philosophers  of  even 
much  inferior  calibre,  were  regarded  as 
the  law-givers  of  morality,  though  they 
carried  little  enough  weight  with  the 
world  at  large. 

Thus  it  comes  about  that  abstract 
moral  speculations,  culminating  in  rigid 
maxims,  are  necessarily  sterile  and 
vain.  They  move  in  the  sphere  of  rea- 
son, and  that  is  the  sphere  of  compre- 
hension, but  not  of  vital  action.  In 
this  way  there  arises  a  moral  dualism 
in  civilized  man.  Objectively  he  has 
become  like  the  gods  and  able  to  dis- 
tinguish the  ends  of  life;  he  has  eaten 
of  the  fruit  of  the  tree  and  has  know- 
ledge of  good  and  evil.  Subjectively  he 
is  still  not  far  removed  from  the  savage, 


most  frequently  stirred  to  action  by 
a  confused  web  of  emotional  motives, 
among  which  the  interwoven  strands 
of  civilized  reason  are  as  likely  to  pro- 
duce discord  or  paralysis  as  to  furnish 
efficient  guides. 

On  the  one  hand  he  cannot  return 
to  the  primitive  state  in  which  all  the 
motives  for  living  flowed  harmonious- 
ly in  the  same  channel;  he  cannot 
divest  himself  of  his  illuminating  rea- 
son; he  cannot  recede  from  his  hardly 
acquired  personal  individuality.  On 
the  other  hand  he  can  never  expect,  he 
can  never  even  reasonably  hope,  that, 
save  in  a  few  abnormal  persons,  the  cold 
force  of  reason  will  ever  hold  in  leash 
the  massive  forces  of  vital  emotion.  It 
is  clear  that  along  neither  path  separ- 
ately can  the  civilized  man  pursue  his 
way  in  harmonious  balance  with  him- 
self. 

We  begin  to  realize  that  what  we 
need  is  not  a  code  of  beautifully  cut- 
and-dried  maxims  —  whether  eman- 
ating from  sacred  mountains  or  from 
philosophers'  studies  —  but  a  happy 
combination  of  two  different  ways  of 
living.  We  need,  that  is,  a  traditional 
and  instinctive  way  of  living,  based  on 
real  motor  instincts,  which  will  blend 
with  reason  and  the  manifold  needs  of 
personality,  instead  of  being  destroyed 
by  their  solvent  actions,  as  rigid  rules 
inevitably  are.  Our  only  valid  rule  is  a 
creative  impulse  that  is  one  with  the 
illuminative  power  of  intelligence. 


in 

At  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  the  seed-time  of  our  modern 
ideas,  as  it  has  so  often  seemed  to  be, 
the  English  people,  having  at  length 
brought  their  language  to  a  high  degree 
of  clarity  and  precision,  became  much 
interested  in  philosophy,  psychology, 
and  ethics.  Their^interest  was,  indeed, 
often  superficial  and  amateurish,  al- 


MORALITY  AS  AN  ART 


703 


though  they  were  soon  to  produce  some 
of  the  most  notable  figures  in  the  whole 
history  of  thought. 

The  third  Earl  of  Shaftesbury,  one 
of  the  earliest  of  the  group,  himself  il- 
lustrated this  unsystematic  method  of 
thinking.  He  was  an  amateur,  an  aris- 
tocratic amateur,  careless  of  consisten- 
cy, and  not  by  any  means  concerned  to 
erect  a  philosophic  system.  Not  that 
he  was  a  worse  thinker  on  that  account. 
The  world's  greatest  thinkers  have 
often  been  amateurs;  for  high  thinking 
is  the  outcome  of  fine  and  independent 
living,  and  for  that  a  professorial  chair 
offers  no  special  opportunities.  Shaftes- 
bury was,  moreover,  a  man  of  fragile 
physical  constitution,  as  Kant  was; 
but,  unlike  Kant,  he  was  heroically 
seeking  to  live  a  complete  and  harmon- 
ious life.  By  temperament  he  was  a 
Stoic,  and  he  wrote  a  characteristic 
book  of  Exercises,  as  he  proposed  to 
call  his  Philosophical  Regimen,  in 
which  he  consciously  seeks  to  discip- 
line himself  in  fine  thinking  and  right 
living,  plainly  acknowledging  that  he 
is  a  disciple  of  Epictetus  and  Marcus 
Aurelius.  But  Shaftesbury  was  also  a 
man  of  genius,  and  as  such  it  was  his 
good  fortune  to  throw  afresh  into  the 
stream  of  thought  a  fruitful  concep- 
tion, absorbed  indeed  from  Greece,  and 
long  implicit  in  men's  minds,  but  never 
before  made  clearly  recognizable  as  a 
moral  theory  and  an  ethical  temper, 
susceptible  of  being  labeled  by  the  phi- 
losophic historian,  as  it  since  has  been, 
under  the  name,  as  passable  no  doubt 
as  any  other,  of  ^Esthetic  Intuitionism. 

'He  seems,'  wrote  Mandeville,  his 
unfriendly  contemporary,  of  Shaftes- 
bury, *to  require  and  expect  goodness 
in  his  species  as  we  do  a  sweet  taste  in 
grapes  and  China  oranges,  of  which,  if 
any  of  them  are  sour,  we  boldly  pro- 
nounce that  they  are  not  come  to  that 
perfection  their  nature  is  capable  of.' 
In  a  certain  sense  this  was  correct. 


Shaftesbury,  it  has  been  said,  was  the 
father  of  that  new  ethics  which  recog- 
nizes that  Nature  is  not  a  mere  impulse 
of  self-preservation,  as  Hobbes  thought, 
but  also  a  racial  impulse,  having  re- 
gard to  others;  there  are  social  inclina- 
tions in  the  individual,  he  realized,  that 
go  beyond  individual  ends.  Therewith 

*  goodness'  was  seen,  for  the  first  time, 
to  be  as  *  natural'  as  the  sweetness  of 
ripe  fruit.   Shaftesbury  held  that  hu- 
man actions  should  have  a  beauty  of 
symmetry,  proportion,  and  harmony, 
which  should  appeal  to  us,  not  because 
they  accord  with  any  rule  or  maxim 
(although  they  may  possibly  be  sus- 
ceptible of  measurement) ,  but  because 
they  satisfy  our  instinctive  feelings, 
evoking  an  approval  which  is  strictly 
an  sesthetic  judgment  of  moral  action. 

This  instinctive  judgment  was  not, 
as  Shaftesbury  understood  it,  a  guide 
to  action.  He  held,  rightly  enough,  that 
the  impulse  to  action  is  fundamental 
and  primary,  that  fine  action  is  the  out- 
come of  finely  tempered  natures.  It  is 
a  feeling  for  the  just  time  and  measure 
of  human  passion,  and  maxims  are  use- 
less to  him  whose  nature  is  ill-balanced. 

*  Virtue  is  no  other  than  the  love  of 
order  and  beauty  in  society.' 

./Esthetic  appreciation  of  an  act,  and 
even  an  ecstatic  pleasure  in  it,  are  part 
of  our  aesthetic  delight  in  Nature  gen- 
erally, which  includes  Man.  Nature, 
it  is  clear,  plays  a  large  part  in  this 
conception  of  the  moral  life.  To  lack 
balance  in  any  plane  of  moral  conduct 
is  to  be  unnatural. 

'Nature  is  not  mocked,'  said  Shaftes- 
bury. She  is  a  miracle,  for  miracles 
are  not  things  that  are  performed  but 
things  that  are  perceived,  and  to  fail 
here  is  to  fail  in  perception  of  the  div- 
inity of  Nature,  to  do  violence  to  her, 
and  to  court  moral  destruction. 

A  return  to  Nature  is  not  a  return 
to  ignorance  or  savagery,  but  to  the 
first  instinctive  feeling  for  the  beauty 


704 


MORALITY  AS  AN  ART 


of  well-proportioned  affection.  'The 
most  natural  beauty  in  the  world  is 
honesty  and  moral  truth,'  he  asserts,- 
and  he  recurs  again  and  again  to  'the 
beauty  of  honesty.'  'Dulce  et  decorum 
est  was  his  sole  reason,'  he  says  of  the 
classical  pagan,  adding,  'And  this  is 
still  a  good  reason.'  It  seems  natural 
to  him  to  refer  to  the  magistrate  as  an 
artist;  'the  magistrate,  if  he  be  an  art- 
ist,' he  incidentally  says.  We  must  not 
make  morality  depend  on  authority. 
The  true  artist,  in  any  art,  will  never 
act  below  his  character.'  'Let  who  will 
make  it  for  you  as  you  fancy,'  the  art- 
ist declares,  'I  know  it  to  be  wrong. 
Whatever  I  have  made  hitherto  has 
been  true  work.  And  neither  for  your 
sake  or  anybody's  else  shall  I  put  my 
hand  to  any  other.'  'This  is  virtue  1' 
exclaims  Shaftesbury.  'This  disposi- 
tion transferred  to  the  whole  of  life  per- 
fects a  character.  For  there  is  a  work- 
manship and  a  truth  in  actions.' 

Shaftesbury,  it  may  be  repeated,  was 
an  amateur,  not  only  in  philosophy  but 
even  in  the  arts.  He  regarded  litera- 
ture as  one  of  the  schoolmasters  for  fine 
living,  yet  he  was  not  a  fine  artist  in 
writing,  though,  directly  or  indirectly, 
he  helped  to  inspire,  not  only  Pope 
but  Thomson  and  Cowper  and  Words- 
worth. He  was  inevitably  interested  in 
painting,  but  his  tastes  were  merely 
those  of  the  ordinary  connoisseur  of  his 
time.  This  gives  a  certain  superficial- 
ity to  his  general  aesthetic  vision,  though 
it  was  far  from  true,  as  the  theologians 
supposed,  that  he  was  lacking  in  seri- 
ousness. His  chief  immediate  followers, 
like  Hutcheson,  came  out  of  Calvinistic 
Puritanism.  He  was  himself  an  austere 
Stoic  who  adapted  himself  to  the  tone 
of  the  well-bred  world  he  lived  in.  But 
if  an  amateur,  he  was  an  amateur  of 
genius.  He  threw  a  vast  and  fruitful 
conception,  caught  from  the  Poetics  of 
Aristotle,  '  the  Great  Master  of  Arts,' 
and  developed  with  fine  insight,  into 


our  modern  world.  Not  merely  the  so- 
called  Scottish  Philosophers,  but  most 
of  the  great  thinkers  of  the  eighteenth 
and  early  nineteenth  centuries  in  Eng- 
land, France,  and  Germany,  were  in 
some  measure  inspired,  influenced,  or 
anticipated  by  Shaftesbury.  Voltaire 
and  Diderot,  Lessing  and  Herder,  even 
Kant,  helped  to  develop  the  conception 
that  Shaftesbury  first  formulated. 

As  Shaftesbury  stated  the  matter, 
however,  it  was  left  on  the  whole  vague 
and  large.  He  made  no  very  clear  dis- 
tinction between  the  creative  artistic 
impulse  in  life  and  critical  aesthetic  ap- 
preciation. In  the  sphere  of  morals  we 
cannot  always  afford  to  wait  until  our 
activity  is  completed  to  appreciate  its 
beauty  or  its  ugliness.  On  the  back- 
ground of  general  aesthetic  judgment 
we  have  to  concentrate  on  the  forces  of 
creative  artistic  activity,  whose  work  it 
is  painfully  to  mould  the  clay  of  moral 
action,  and  forge  its  iron,  long  before 
the  aesthetic  criterion  can  be  applied 
to  the  final  product.  Shaftesbury,  in- 
deed, would  have  recognized  this,  but  it 
was  not  enough  to  say,  as  he  said,  that 
we  may  prepare  ourselves  for  moral 
action  by  study  in  literature.  One  may 
be  willing  to  regard  living  as  an  art, 
and  yet  be  of  opinion  that  it  is  as  un- 
satisfactory to  learn  the  art  of  living  in 
literature  as  to  learn,  let  us  say,  the 
art  of  music  in  architecture. 

It  was  necessary  to  concentrate  and 
apply  these  large  general  ideas.  To  some 
extent  this  was  done  by  Shaftesbury's 
immediate  successors  and  followers, 
such  as  Hutcheson  and  Arbuckle,  who 
taught  that  man  is,  ethically,  an  artist 
whose  work  is  his  own  life.  They  con- 
centrated attention  on  the  really  crea- 
tive aspects  of  the  artist  in  life,  aesthetic 
appreciation  of  the  finished  product 
being  regarded  as  secondary.  For  all 
art  is,  primarily,  not  a  contemplation 
but  a  doing,  a  creative  action,  and 
morality  is  so  preeminently. 


MORALITY  AS  AN  ART 


705 


With  Schiller,  whose  attitude  was 
not,  however,  based  directly  on  Shaftes- 
bury,  the  aesthetic  conception  of  morals, 
which  in  its  definitely  conscious  form 
had  until  then  been  especially  Eng- 
lish, may  be  said  to  have  entered  the 
main  stream  of  culture.  Schiller  re- 
garded the  identity  of  Duty  and  Inclin- 
ation as  the  ideal  goal  of  human  devel- 
opment, and  looked  on  the  Genius  of 
Beauty  as  the  chief  guide  of  life.  Wil- 
helm  von  Humboldt,  one  of  the  great- 
est spirits  of  that  age,  was  moved  by 
the  same  ideas  throughout  his  life,  al- 
though in  many  respects  he  changed, 
and  even  shortly  before  his  death  wrote 
in  deprecation  of  the  notion  that  con- 
formity to  duty  is  the  final  aim  of  mo- 
rality. Goethe,  who  was  the  intimate 
friend  of  both  Schiller  and  Humboldt, 
largely  shared  the  same  attitude,  and 
through  him  it  had  a  subtle  and  bound- 
less influence.  Kant,  who,  it  has  been 
said,  mistook  Duty  for  a  Prussian  drill- 
sergeant,  still  ruled  the  academic  moral 
world.  But  a  new  vivifying  and  mould- 
ing force  had  entered  the  larger  moral 
world,  and  to-day  we  may  detect  its 
presence  on  every  side. 


IV 

It  has  often  been  brought  against  the 
conception  of  morality  as  an  art  that  it 
lacks  seriousness.  It  seems  to  many 
people  to  involve  an  easy,  self-indul- 
gent, dilettante  way  of  looking  at  life. 
Certainly  it  is  not  the  way  of  the  Old 
Testament.  The  Hebrews  were  no  aes- 
thetic intuit ionists.  They  hated  art, 
for  the  most  part,  and  in  face  of  the 
problems  of  living  they  were  not  in 
the  habit  of  considering  the  lilies  how 
they  grow.  It  was  not  the  beauty  of 
holiness,  but  the  stern  rod  of  a  jeal- 
ous Jehovah,  which  they  craved  for 
their  encouragement  along  the  path  of 
Duty.  And  it  is  the  Hebrew  mode  of 
feeling  which  has  been,  more  or  less 

VOL.114  -NO.  5 


violently  and  imperfectly,  grafted  upon 
our  Christianity. 

It  is  a  mistake,  however,  to  suppose 
that  the  conception  of  life  as  an  art 
makes  no  appeal  to  those  who  look  se- 
riously at  life.  The  very  reverse  is  the 
fact.  This  way  of  looking  at  life  has 
spontaneously  commended  itself  to 
men  of  the  gravest  and  deepest  charac- 
ter, in  all  other  respects  widely  unlike 
each  other.  Shaftesbury  was  tempera- 
mentally a  Stoic  whose  fragile  constitu- 
tion involved  a  perpetual  endeavor  to 
mould  life  to  the  form  of  his  ideal.  And 
if  we  go  back  to  Marcus  Aurelius  we 
find  an  austere  and  heroic  man  whose 
whole  life,  as  we  trace  it  in  his  Medi- 
tations, was  a  splendid  struggle;  a  man 
who  —  even,  it  seems,  unconsciously 
—  had  adopted  the  aesthetic  criterion 
of  moral  goodness  and  the  artistic  con- 
ception of  moral  action.  Dancing  and 
wrestling  express  to  his  eyes  the  activ- 
ity of  the  man  who  is  striving  to  live, 
and  the  goodness  of  moral  actions  in- 
stinctively appears  to  him  as  the  beau- 
ty of  natural  objects;  it  is  to  Marcus 
Aurelius  that  we  owe  that  immortal 
utterance  of  aesthetic  intuitionism, 
'As  though  the  emerald  should  say: 
"Whatever  happens  I  must  be  emer- 
ald.'" 

There  could  be  no  man  more  unlike 
the  Roman  Emperor  and  in  any  more 
remote  field  of  action  than  the  French 
saint  and  philanthropist,  Vincent  de 
Paul.  At  once  a  genuine  Christian  mys- 
tic and  a  very  wise  and  marvelously  ef- 
fective man  of  action,  Vincent  de  Paul 
adopts  precisely  the  same  simile  of  the 
moral  attitude  that  in  the  next  century 
was  to  be  taken  up  by  Shaftesbury. 
'My  daughters/  he  wrote  to  the  Sisters 
of  Charity, '  we  are  each  like  a  block  of 
stone  which  is  to  be  transformed  into 
a  statue.  What  must  the  sculptor  do 
to  carry  out  his  design?  First  of  all  he 
must  take  the  hammer  and  chip  off  all 
that  he  does  not  need.  For  this  purpose 


706 


MORALITY  AS  AN  ART 


he  strikes  the  stone  so  violently  that  if 
you  were  watching  him  you  would  say 
he  intended  to  break  it  to  pieces.  Then, 
when  he  has  got  rid  of  the  rougher 
parts,  he  takes  a  smaller  hammer,  and 
afterwards  a  chisel,  to  begin  the  face 
with  all  the  features.  When  that  has 
taken  form  he  uses  other  and  finer  tools 
to  bring  it  to  that  perfection  he  has  in- 
tended for  his  statue.' 

If  we  desire  to  find  a  spiritual  artist 
as  unlike  as  possible  to  Vincent  de  Paul 
we  may  take  Nietzsche.  Alien  as  any 
man  could  ever  be  to  a  cheap  or  su- 
perficial vision  of  the  moral  life,  and 
far  too  intellectually  keen  to  confuse 
moral  problems  with  purely  aesthetic 
problems,  Nietzsche,  when  faced  by 
the  problem  of  living,  set  himself  — 
almost  as  instinctively  as  Marcus  Au- 
relius  or  Vincent  de  Paul  —  at  the 
standpoint  of  art.  A  man  must  make 
himself  a  work  of  art,  he  again  and 
again  declares,  moulded  into  beauty  by 
suffering,  for  such  art  is  the  highest 
morality,  the  morality  of  the  Creator. 

There  is  a  certain  indefiniteness 
about  the  conception  of  morality  as  an 
artistic  impulse,  to  be  judged  by  an 
esthetic  criterion,  which  is  profound- 
ly repugnant  to  at  least  two  classes  of 
minds  fully  entitled  to  make  their  an- 
tipathy felt.  In  the  first  place  it  makes 
no  appeal  to  the  abstract  reasoner,  in- 
different to  the  manifoldly  concrete 
problems  of  living.  For  the  man  whose 
brain  is  hypertrophied  and  whose  prac- 
tical life  is  shriveled  to  an  insignifi- 
cant routine, — the  man  of  whom  Kant 
is  the  supreme  type,  —  it  is  always 
a  temptation  to  rationalize  morality. 
Such  a  pure  intellectualist,  overlooking 
the  fact  that  human  beings  are  not 
mathematical  figures,  may  even  desire 
to  transform  ethics  into  a  species  of 
geometry.  Thus  we  may  see  in  Spinoza 
a  nobler  and  more  inspiring  figure,  no 
doubt,  but  of  the  same  temperament 
as  Kant.  The  impulses  and  desires  of 


ordinary  men  and  women  are  mani- 
fold, inconstant,  often  conflicting,  and 
sometimes  overwhelming.  But  to  men 
of  the  intellectualist  type  this  consid- 
eration is  almost  negligible;  all  the  pas- 
sions and  affections  of  humanity  seem 
to  them  meek  as  sheep  which  they  may 
shepherd,  and  pen  within  the  flimsiest 
hurdles.  William  Blake,  who  could  cut 
down  to  that  central  core  of  the  world 
where  all  things  are  fused  together, 
knew  better  when  he  said  that  the  only 
golden  rule  of  life  is  *  the  great  and  gol- 
den rule  of  art.'  James  Hinton  was  for- 
ever expatiating  on  the  close  resem- 
blance between  the  methods  of  art,  as 
shown  especially  in  painting,  and  the 
methods  of  moral  action.  Thoreau, 
who  also  belonged  to  this  tribe,  de- 
clared, in  the  same  spirit  as  Blake,  that 
there  is  no  golden  rule  in  morals,  for 
rules  are  only  current  silver;  'it  is  gol- 
den not  to  have  any  rule  at  all.' 

There  is  another  quite  different  type 
of  person  who  shares  this  antipathy  to 
the  indefiniteness  of  aesthetic  morality: 
the  ambitious  moral  reformer.  The 
man  of  this  class  is  usually  by  no  means 
devoid  of  strong  passions;  but  for  the 
most  part  he  possesses  no  great  intel- 
lectual calibre,  and  so  is  unable  to 
estimate  the  force  and  complexity  of 
human  impulses.  The  moral  reformer, 
eager  to  introduce  the  millennium  at 
once  by  the  aid  of  the  newest  mechan- 
ical devices,  is  righteously  indignant 
with  anything  so  vague  as  an  aesthetic 
morality.  He  must  have  definite  rules 
and  regulations,  clear-cut  laws  and  by- 
laws, with  an  arbitrary  list  of  penalties 
attached,  to  be  duly  inflicted  in  this 
world  or  the  next.  The  popular  con- 
ception of  Moses,  descending  from  the 
sacred  mount  with  a  brand-new  table 
of  commandments,  which  he  declares 
have  been  delivered  to  him  by  God, 
though  he  is  ready  to  smash  them  to 
pieces  on  the  slightest  provocation, 
furnishes  the  image  of  the  typical 


MORALITY  AS  AN  ART 


707 


moral  reformer  of  every  age.  It  is, 
however,  only  in  savage  and  barbar- 
ous stages  of  society,  or  among  the  un- 
cultivated classes  of  civilization,  that 
the  men  of  this  type  can  find  their 
faithful  followers. 

In  Pascal  we  have  a  man  of  the  high- 
est genius  who  belonged  to  both  these 
types,  at  once  a  keenly  precise  mathe- 
matician and  an  ardently  theocratic 
moralist.  It  is  not  surprising  that  he 
was  ferociously  opposed  to  all  indefin- 
iteness  in  morals.  The  Jesuits  can 
scarcely  be  regarded  as  the  champions 
of  aesthetic  morality,  and  the  eccentric 
complacencies  of  some  of  their  adepts 
may  arouse  indignation  or  amusement; 
the  exercise  of  the  art-impulse  in  life, 
moreover,  is  scarcely  compatible  with 
the  Jesuits'  passion  for  spiritual  direc- 
tion. Yet  the  casuists  had  grasped  a 
great  vital  principle:  they  realized,  as 
Aristotle  had  realized,  that  the  moral- 
ity of  an  action  depends  on  a  great 
many  circumstances,  and  cannot  be 
crystallized,  once  for  all,  in  a  formula. 
So  it  is,  as  Remy  de  Gourmon  has 
pointed  out,  that  some  of  the  Jesuitic 
propositions  which  Pascal  held  up  for 
scorn  seem  to  us  to-day  self-evidently 
true,  and  the  irony  falls  flat.  So  signi- 
ficant a  fact  enables  us  to  realize  that 
the  instinctive  feelings  of  men,  so  far 
at  any  rate  as  Pascal  may  claim  to  re- 
present them,  have  undergone  a  change, 
and  are  now  on  the  side  of  the  harmo- 
nious flexibility  of  moral  action  rather 
than  on  the  side  of  unflexible  rigidity. 

Yet  there  is  more  to  be  said.  That 
very  indefiniteness  of  the  criterion  of 
moral  action,  falsely  supposed  to  be  a 
disadvantage,  is  really  the  prime  con- 
dition for  effective  moral  action.  The 
academic  philosophers  of  ethics,  had 
they  possessed  virility  enough  to  enter 
the  field  of  real  life,  would  have  real- 
ized -  -  as  we  cannot  expect  the  moral 
reformers  blinded  by  the  smoke  of  their 
own  fanaticism  to  realize  —  that  the 


slavery  to  rigid  formulas  which  they 
preached  was  the  death  of  all  high 
moral  responsibility.  Life  must  always 
be  a  great  adventure,  with  risks  on 
every  hand;  a  clear-sighted  eye,  a 
many-sided  sympathy,  a  fine  daring,  an 
endless  patience,  are  forever  necessary 
to  all  good  living.  With  such  qualities 
alone  may  the  artist  in  life  reach  suc- 
cess; without  them  even  the  most  de- 
voted slave  to  formulas  can  meet  only 
disaster.  No  responsible  moral  being 
may  draw  breath  without  an  open-eyed 
freedom  of  choice,  and  if  the  moral 
world  is  to  be  governed  by  laws,  better 
to  people  it  with  automatic  machines 
than  with  living  men  and  women. 

In  our  human  world  the  precision  of 
mechanism  is  forever  impossible.  The 
indefiniteness  of  morality  is  a  part  of  its 
necessary  imperfection.  There  is  not 
only  room  in  morality  for  the  high  as- 
piration, the  courageous  decision,  the 
tonic  thrill  of  the  muscles  of  the  soul, 
but  we  have  to  admit  also  sacrifice  and 
pain.  The  lesser  good,  our  own  or  that 
of  others,  is  merged  in  a  larger  good, 
and  that  cannot  be  without  some  rend- 
ing of  the  heart.  So  all  moral  action, 
however  in  the  end  it  may  be  justified 
by  its  harmony  and  balance,  is  in  the 
making  cruel  and  in  a  sense  even  im- 
moral. Therein  lies  the  final  justifica- 
tion of  the  aesthetic  conception  of  mo- 
rality. It  opens  wider  perspectives  and 
reveals  loftier  standpoints;  it  shows 
how  the  seeming  loss  is  part  of  an  ul- 
timate gain,  so  restoring  that  harmony 
and  beauty  which  the  unintelligent 
partisans  of  a  hard  and  barren  duty  so 
often  destroy  for  ever.  *  Art,'  as  Paul- 
han  declares,  *  is  often  more  moral  than 
morality  itself.'  Or,  as  Jules  de  Gaul- 
tier  holds,  'Art  is  in  a  certain  sense 
the  only  morality  which  life  admits.' 
In  so  far  as  we  can  infuse  it  with 
the  spirit  and  method  of  art,  we  have 
transformed  morality  into  something 
beyond  morality. 


JAPAN  AND  THE  EUROPEAN  WAR 


BY  KIYOSHI  K.   KAWAKAMI 


THAT  *  peace  is  the  work  of  right- 
eousness' is  a  trite  saying.  Yet  this 
truism  has  seldom  been  observed  in  in- 
ternational dealings.  Japan's  partici- 
pation in  the  European  war  and  her 
campaign  against  the  German  posses- 
sion of  Kiao-chau  is  simply  another 
illustration  of  justice  asserting  itself 
against  the  wrong  enthroned  upon  the 
dais  of  selfishness  at  the  expense  of 
righteousness.  It  is  proof  that  no  two 
nations  can  remain  friendly  without 
mutual  respect  and  consideration. 

In  these  days  when  European  na- 
tions are  battling  against  one  another, 
all  in  the  name  of  God  and  of  the 
Prince  of  Peace,  it  seems  useless  to  say 
that  Japan  is  essentially  a  peace-loving 
people.  Yet  it  is  a  remarkable  fact  that 
while  Europe  was  engaged  in  continu- 
ous internecine  warfare,  Japan  enjoyed 
two  hundred  and  fifty  years  of  Arca- 
dian peace  under  the  Tokugawa  Sho- 
gunate.  To  this  record  not  a  parallel  is 
to  be  found  in  the  history  of  the  world. 

Rejuvenated  by  the  impact  of  for- 
eign cannon-balls,  Japan  had  to  fight 
two  mighty  wars,  —  as  all  young  na- 
tions must  fight  to  protect  themselves 
against  the  encroachments  of  older, 
stronger  neighbors.  Japan's  wars  with 
China  and  with  Russia  were  wars  of 
self-defense.  On  that  subject  the  ver- 
dict of  history  has  already  been  given. 

Japan's  generals  and  admirals  are 
not  to  be  classed  in  the  herd  of  vulgar 
warriors.  Togo  and  Cyama,  Yamagata 
and  Nogi,  are  of  the  school  of  Timoleon, 
of  William  of  Nassau,  and  of  George 
Washington.  They  have  drawn  the 

708 


sword  only  to  give  peace  to  their  coun- 
try, and  restore  her  to  her  place  in  the 
great  assembly  of  the  nations. 

Japan  does  not  glory  in  conquest. 
Even  in  conquered  lands  she  has  not 
built  emblems  of  triumph.  Upon  the 
pinnacle  of  a  shell-rent  hill  at  Port 
Arthur  to-day  stands,  not  a  monu- 
ment of  Japanese  victory,  but  a  monu- 
ment which  the  Mikado's  soldiers  ded- 
icated, while  the  flames  of  war  were 
still  smouldering,  to  the  spirits  of  the 
Tsar's  gallant  fighters  who  defended 
their  fortresses  with  unwavering  cour- 
age against  the  onslaughts  of  the 
Japanese. 

The  world  has  not  yet  forgotten  that 
in  the  Boxer  disturbance  the  Japanese 
soldiers  were  the  most  orderly  and  hu' 
mane  of  all  foreign  troops  brought  to 
China  on  the  occasion.  Your  charming 
writer,  Eliza  Scidmore,  in  her  As  The 
Hague  Ordains,  told  you  how  humane- 
ly Japan  conducted  the  war  against 
Russia. 

Toward  individual  Germans  no 
Japanese  entertains  animosity.  So  far 
from  it,  every  Japanese  loves  and  re- 
spects Germans.  Japan  is  grateful  for 
the  contribution  which  the  Germans 
have  made  to  her  progress  and  civiliza- 
tion. Many  a  Japanese  scholar  has 
made  pilgrimage  to  German  seats  of 
learning,  and  many  a  German  scientist 
and  expert  were  tutors  in  our  schools 
and  factories.  And  yet  Japan  is  con- 
fronting Germany  in  the  arena  of 
battle. 

Japan's  coffers  are  not  overflowing 
with  gold.  The  two  wars  made  her 


JAPAN  AND  THE  EUROPEAN  WAR 


709 


comparatively  poor;  she  must  needs 
devote  all  her  time  and  energy  to  the 
recuperation  of  her  financial  strength. 
She  knows  that  another  war  at  this 
time  must  arrest  the  progress  of  her 
commerce  and  industry  and  add  more 
weight  to  the  burden  which  has  already 
been  taxing  the  strength  of  the  nation. 
Why,  then,  did  Japan  send  an  ultima- 
tum to  Germany? 

Because  Japan's  experiences  with 
Germany  during  the  past  two  decades 
have  convinced  her  that  Germany  is  a 
disturbing  factor  in  the  Far  East  and  a 
menace  to  both  China  and  herself. 

Because  Japan  regards  treaty  obliga- 
tions as  sacred  and  inviolable,  even 
when  the  fulfillment  of  such  obligations 
must  entail  enormous  cost. 

Because  Japan  believes  that  the 
maintenance  of  China's  territorial  in- 
tegrity is  essential  to  her  security  and 
independence. 

Japan's  Experience  with  the  German 
Government 

You  all  know  how  the  Kaiser  treated 
the  Mikado  at  the  end  of  the  Chino- 
Japanese  war,  which  cost  Japan  a  hun- 
dred thousand  lives  and  a  billion  yen; 
few  of  you  are  aware  that  Germany's 
interference  with  the  Chino- Japanese 
peace  terms  was  only  the  first  of  many 
unpleasant  experiences  which  Japan 
has  had  with  Germany. 

The  Germans  to-day  are  anxious  to 
tell  the  public  what  enormous  sums  the 
Berlin  government  has  expended  for 
the  upbuilding  of  Kiao-chau;  but  com- 
pared with  the  sacrifice  Japan  offered 
upon  the  altar  of  Port  Arthur,  German 
expenditure  on  Kiao-chau  sinks  into 
insignificance.  Germany  ousted  Japan 
from  Port  Arthur  because  she  wanted 
to  give  it  to  Russia  so  that  she  might 
take  Kiao-chau  without  Russia's  ob- 
jection. It  was  a  game  of  give-and- 
take  between  the  Tsar  and  the  Kaiser. 
When  the  peace  treaty  was  signed  be- 


tween  Japan  and  China  all  Japan  was 
celebrating;  the  next  day  the  nation 
was  in  mourning  because  of  the  Ger- 
man advice  compelling  Japan  to  quit 
Port  Arthur.  Never  was  Japan's  pride 
so  greatly  outraged  as  on  that  occa- 
sion. An  officer  destroyed  himself  in 
protest  against  the  government's  ac- 
quiescence in  the  German  advice;  sev- 
eral cut  their  fingers,  and  with  their 
own  blood  wrote  memorials  urging  the 
government  not  to  be  bullied  by  the 
Powers. 

The  German  seizure  of  Kiao-chau, 
followed  by  the  Russian  occupation  of 
Port  Arthur,  the  British  occupation  of 
Wei-hai-wei,  and  the  French  occupa- 
tion of  Kwan-chow  Bay,  was  responsi- 
ble for  the  Boxer  disturbance  of  1910. 
When  the  Boxers  besieged  the  lega- 
tions in  Peking,  Japan  immediately 
proposed  to  the  Powers  that  she  be 
permitted  to  rush  her  troops  to  rescue 
the  beleaguered  foreigners.  The  Kaiser 
put  his  foot  upon  the  Japanese  over- 
ture and  insisted  that,  unless  he  was 
satisfied  that  Japan's  action  would  by 
no  means  interfere  with  the  interests  of 
other  nations,  he  could  not  consent  to 
the  proposal. 

The  historic  picture  of  the  Yellow 
Peril  painted  by  the  Kaiser  was  dis- 
agreeable enough  to  the  Japanese,  but 
when  the  Japanese  found  the  Kaiser 
secretly  encouraging  the  Tsar  to  mus- 
ter his  troops  in  Manchuria  in  the  wake 
of  the  Boxer  incident,  they  saw  in  him 
an  imminent  danger  to  their  country. 
About  this  time  the  London  Times 
published  an  article  reporting  the  ex- 
istence of  a  secret  treaty  by  which  the 
Kaiser  was  to  render  the  Tsar  clandes- 
tine assistance  in  the  event  of  a  Russo- 
Japanese  war. 

When  Japan  was  engaged  in  a  life- 
and-death  struggle  in  Manchuria,  Ger- 
man attitude  toward  Russia  was  virtual 
violation  of  neutrality.  The  German 
government,  for  example,  permitted  a 


710 


JAPAN  AND  THE  EUROPEAN   WAR 


German  steamship  company  to  sell  a 
number  of  steamships  to  the  Russian 
navy  and  so  help  Rozhestvenski's  Bal- 
tic squadron  to  secure  coal  en  route  to 
the  Japan  Sea.  What  was  more  sur- 
prising, a  German  prince  who  was  by 
Japan's  special  courtesy  allowed  to  ac- 
company the  army  to  the  front,  was 
found  secretly  reporting  to  his  govern- 
ment the  activities  of  the  Mikado's 
forces  without  permission  of  the  cen- 
soring officers. 

From  such  experiences  the  Japanese 
believe  that  the  presence  on  Chinese 
soil  of  a  German  naval  and  military 
base  is  a  constant  menace  to  their 
country.  Would  that  China  could  be 
far-sighted  enough  to  see  that  her  posi- 
tion can  be  strengthened  only  by  co- 
operating with  Japan. 

England  Asked  Japan  to  Act 

» 

The  assertion  that  Japan  thrust  her- 
self upon  the  war  without  England's 
invitation  is  as  sinister  as  it  is  unwar- 
ranted. Japan  did  not  join  hands  with 
England  without  England's  request. 
When  it  became  evident  that  England 
must  come  to  the  rescue  of  France  and 
Belgium,  the  press  of  Japan,  without 
exception,  hoped  that  Japan  would  not 
be  called  upon  to  aid  her  western  ally. 
But  the  western  ally  did  call  upon 
Japan. 

On  August  3,  that  is,  the  day  before 
England  declared  war  on  Germany, 
the  British  Ambassador  to  Japan  hur- 
ried back  to  Tokio  from  his  summer 
villa  and  immediately  requested  an 
interview  with  Baron  Kato,  Foreign 
Minister.  At  this  conference  the  Brit- 
ish Ambassador  informed  Baron  Kato 
that  his  government  was  compelled  to 
open  hostilities  against  Germany,  and 
that  it  desired  to  ascertain  whether 
Japan  would  aid  England  in  the  event 
of  British  interests  in  the  Far  East 
being  jeopardized  by  German  activ- 
ities. 


Baron  Kato  answered  that  the  ques- 
tion put  to  him  was  such  a  serious 
one  that  he  could  not  answer  it  on  his 
own  account. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day 
Count  Okuma  convened  a  meeting  of 
all  the  Cabinet  members.  Bearing  the 
resolution  of  this  meeting,  Baron  Kato, 
on  August  4,  called  upon  the  British 
Ambassador  and  told  the  latter  that 
Japan  would  not  shirk  the  responsibil- 
ities which  the  alliance  with  England 
put  upon  her  shoulders. 

At  this  time  Japan  did  not  expect  to 
be  called  upon  to  aid  England  for  at 
least  a  few  months.  But  on  August  7 
the  British  Ambassador  suddenly  asked 
for  an  interview  with  Baron  Kato  and 
told  the  Foreign  Minister  that  the  sit- 
uation had  developed  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  oblige  England  to  ask  for  Ja- 
pan's assistance  without  delay.  On  the 
evening  of  that  day  Premier  Okuma 
requested  the  'elder  statesmen'  and 
his  colleagues  to  assemble  at  his  man- 
sion. The  conference  lasted  until  two 
o'clock  the  next  morning.  Before  it 
adjourned  the  policy  of  Japan  was  defi- 
nitely formulated. 

What  caused  Downing  Street  to  in- 
vite Japan's  cooperation  so  soon  is  not 
clearly  known  to  the  outside  world. 
But  the  Japanese  press  is  in  all  proba- 
bility right  when  it  says  that  Japan  and 
England  were  obliged  to  act  prompt- 
ly in  order  to  frustrate  the  German 
scheme  to  transfer  Kiao-chau  to  the 
Chinese  government  before  Germany 
was  compelled  to  surrender  it  at  the 
point  of  the  sword.  Had  Germany  suc- 
ceeded in  carrying  out  this  scheme  she 
would  still  have  enjoyed,  in  virtue  of 
Article  5  of  the  Kiao-chau  Convention 
of  1898,  the  privilege  of  securing  in 
some  future  time  *a  more  suitable  ter- 
ritory '  in  China.  This  was  exactly  the 
condition  which  the  allies  did  not  want 
to  see  established  in  China.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  Germany  were  forced  to 


JAPAN  AND  THE  EUROPEAN  WAR 


711 


abandon  Kiao-chau  by  the  arbitra- 
ment of  the  sword,  China  would  no 
longer  be  under  obligation  to  'cede  to 
Germany  a  more  suitable  place/ 

This  was,  I  think,  what  persuaded 
Japan  and  England  to  act  promptly  in 
the  Far  East.  In  the  meantime  a  Ger- 
man cruiser,  ignoring  the  rights  of  a 
neutral  state,  captured  a  Russian 
steamer  within  Japanese  jurisdiction;  a 
British  gunboat,  chased  by  another 
German  cruiser,  fled  into  a  port  only  a 
hundred  miles  west  of  Tokio;  a  number 
of  British  merchant  vessels  were  either 
captured  or  chased  by  German  war- 
ships; while  a  few  Japanese  ships  were 
also  intercepted  by  German  cruisers. 
These  activities  of  the  German  squad- 
ron were  interpreted  by  Japan  and 
England  as  a  disturbance  to  '  general 
peace '  in  the  Far  East  and  the  '  special 
interests '  of  the  two  countries  in  that 
region. 

Japan's  Wish  for  China's  Territorial 

Integrity 

In  proposing  to  restore  Kiao-chau 
to  China,  Japan  is  not  actuated  by 
altruistic  motives,  but  by  motives  of 
self-interest.  Not  that  she  wants  to 
ingratiate  herself  with  China;  it  is 
simply  that  she  thinks  that  her  inter- 
ests and  safety  can  be  most  effectively 
protected  by  preserving  the  territorial 
integrity  of  China. 

Japan's  strength  lies  in  her  isolated 
position,  widely  separated  from  the 
aggressive  countries  of  the  West.  As 
England  is  trying  to  avoid  the  brunt  of 
German  aggressiveness  by  upholding 
the  independence  and  integrity  of  the 
Netherlands,  so  Japan  is  anxious  to 
maintain  the  territorial  integrity  of 
China,  making  it  a  sort  of  buffer  state. 
This  cherished  aim  of  Japan  has  been 
partly  frustrated  because  of  German 
and  Russian  aggressions  in  China.  To 
protect  her  existence  and  safety  against 
the  designs  of  such  ambitious  powers, 


Japan  was  compelled  to  occupy  Korea 
and  Port  Arthur,  thus  making  her  ter- 
ritory contiguous  to  that  of  Russia. 
To-day  Japan  feels  more  forcibly  than 
ever  the  disadvantage  of  having  such 
an  aggressive  nation  as  Russia  as  her 
neighbor,  and  she  does  not  want  to  see 
another  ambitious  power  establish  it- 
self upon  Chinese  soil. 

This  is  the  reason  that  Japan  does 
not  wish  to  occupy  Kiao-chau  or  any 
other  section  of  China.  The  logic  is 
clear:  should  Japan  occupy  Kiao-chau 
permanently,  other  Powers  would  sure- 
ly follow  Japan's  suit  and  slice  up  for 
themselves  large  portions  of  Chinese 
territory.  Should  this  come  to  pass,  the 
powerful  nations  of  the  West  would 
become  Japan's  immediate  neighbors, 
thus  inevitably  weakening  her  natur- 
ally strong  position.  This  means  a  lar- 
ger army  and  a  more  powerful  navy, 
with  a  proportionately  heavier  burden 
of  taxation. 

No  sane  Japanese  can  fail  to  see  that 
the  game  is  not  worth  the  candle.  It 
is  only  by  maintaining  the  territorial 
integrity  of  China  that  Japan  can  en- 
joy peace  and  devote  her  energies  to  the 
promotion  of  the  arts  of  peace. 

Japan  and  the  United  States 

As  the  historian  Bancroft  says,  the 
'vine  of  liberty'  under  American  aus- 
pices took  deep  root  and  filled  the  land 
and  reached  unto  both  oceans.  West- 
ward the  'fame  of  this  only  daughter 
of  freedom '  crossed  the  Pacific  and  in- 
spired the  islanders  of  Japan. 

To-day  Japan  is  the  one  standard- 
bearer  of  modernism  in  the  whole 
Orient.  '  The  wisdom  which  had  passed 
from  India  to  Greece;  the  jurispru- 
dence of  Rome;  the  mediaeval  munici- 
palities; the  Teutonic  method  of  re- 
presentation; the  political  experience 
of  England;  the  benignant  wisdom  of 
the  expositors  of  the  law  of  nature  and 
of  nations  in  France  and  Holland,  all 


712 


JAPAN  AND  THE  EUROPEAN  WAR 


shed  on  her  their  selectest  influence.' 

But  the  nation  whose  political  and 
social  ideals  exercised  the  most  potent 
influence  upon  Japan  is  the  United 
States.  For  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence which  went  forth  from  the 
historic  hall  of  Philadelphia  found  her 
disciple  in  the  *  child  of  the  world's  old 
age.' 

Geographically  Japan  intervenes  be- 
tween the  great  autocracy  of  Russia 
and  the  grand  republicanism  of  Amer- 
ica. With  the  moral  support,  if  not 
the  material  assistance,  of  the  United 
States,  Japan  hopes  to  stem  the  tide  of 
Russian  autocracy  with  its  militarism, 
its  religious  intolerance,  its  discrimin- 
ating policy  against  foreign  interests  in 
commerce  and  trade. 

Japan  cherishes  no  animosity  toward 
the  Russian,  but  she  realizes  that  her 
greatest  danger  lies  across  the  Japan 
Sea.  It  is  the  irony  of  fate  that,  in  tak- 
ing up  arms  against  Germany,  Japan 
should  appear  to  be  aiding  Russia. 
The  Japanese  would  feel  sorry  if  the , 
Empire  of  the  Kaiser  were  to  be  over- 
run by  the  Tsar's  Cossacks,  because 
Japan  stands  for  liberalism  and  is  op- 
posed to  autocracy  and  militarism. 

This  very  fact  that  the  Japanese 
stand  for  liberalism  persuaded  them  to 
combat  the  militarism  of  Germany  in 
the  Far  East.  No  one  wishes  more  sin- 
cerely than  the  Japanese  that  the  war 
should  terminate  promptly  and  result 
in  the  establishment  of  a  better  under- 
standing between  Japan  and  Germany, 
based  upon  mutual  respect  and  con- 
sideration, each  recognizing  fully  the 
rights  of  the  other;  for  no  two  nations 
can  be  friendly  when  neither  scruples 
to  disregard  the  rights  of  the  other. 
The  dove  of  peace  builds  her  nest  in 
the  haunts  of  righteousness,  and  she 
builds  it  nowhere  else. 

That  Japan's  policy  in  China  is  in 
harmony  with  that  of  the  United 
States  needs  no  explanation.  But  for 


those  uninitiated  in  the  history  of  Far 
Eastern  diplomacy  a  few  words  may 
not  be  amiss. 

Following  upon  the  heels  of  the  war 
against  Russia,  Japan  concluded  with 
England  a  treaty  whose  foremost  aim 
was  the  *  preservation  of  the  common 
interests  of  all  the  Powers  in  China  by 
insuring  the  independence  and  integ- 
rity of  the  Chinese  Empire  and  the 
principle  of  equal  opportunities  for  the 
commerce  and  industry  of  all  nations 
in  China/ 

Again,  in  June,  1907,  Japan  took  the 
initiative  in  exchanging  with  France  a 
memorandum  whose  object  was  the  pre- 
servation of  the  territorial  integrity  of 
China. 

For  the  third  time  Japan,  in  July, 
1907,  succeeded  in  concluding  with 
Russia  a  convention  recognizing  'the 
independence  and  the  territorial  in- 
tegrity of  the  Empire  of  China  and  the 
principle  of  equal  opportunity  in  what- 
ever concerns  the  commerce  and  indus- 
try of  all  nations  in  that  empire,'  and 
engaging  'to  sustain  and  defend  the 
maintenance  of  the  status  quo  and  re- 
spect for  this  principle  by  all  the  pacific 
means  within  their  reach.' 

It  is  plain  to  you  that  the  principles 
embodied  in  all  these  documents  are 
in  perfect  consonance  with  the  tradi- 
tional policy  of  the  United  States  in  the 
Far  East,  as  it  was  enunciated  by  the 
late  illustrious  Secretary  of  State,  Mr. 
John  Hay,  and  as  it  has  been  consist- 
ently followed  by  his  successors. 

The  Commerce  of  the  Pacific 

Japan's  foremost  object  in  joining 
hands  with  England  in  the  present 
world-crisis  is  to  keep  the  Pacific  lanes 
of  trade  free  from  molestation,  as  well 
as  to  remove  the  German  base  of  oper- 
ation in  China,  and  thus  insure  endur- 
ing peace  in  the  Far  East. 

With  the  European  nations  in  the 
grip  of  war,  the  importation  of  Euro- 


JAPAN  AND  THE  EUROPEAN  WAR 


713 


pean  merchandise  to  China  has  virtu- 
ally stopped.  In  this  Japan  sees  a 
golden  opportunity  both  for  America 
and  for  herself. 

China  imports  473,000,000  taels' 
worth  of  goods  every  year.  Of  this  to- 
tal at  least  171,300,000  taels  is  divided 
up  by  Europe.  Can  American  manu- 
facturers fail  to  see  what  a  splendid 
opportunity  is  offered  them?  Japan, 
importing  cotton  and  other  raw  ma- 
terials from  America,  turns  them  into 
finished  merchandise  to  be  shipped  to 
China.  Japan's  merchant  vessels,  ply- 
ing the  seas  sentineled  by  her  cruisers, 
are  at  the  service  of  American  manu- 
facturers to  transport  their  merchan- 
dise to  the  vast  markets  of  China. 

To-day  the  United  States  exports  to 
China  only  36,000,000  taels'  worth  of 
goods.  Compare  this  with  269,200,000 
taels  of  Great  Britain  (including  India 
and  Hongkong)  and  you  can  realize 
what  a  vast  field  lies  before  you  for 
your  commerce.  Japan's  exports  to 
China  amount  to  90,000,000  taels  per 
annum,  much  of  which  is  made  up  of 
merchandise  whose  raw  materials  come 
from  the  United  States. 


Turn  to  Japan,  and  you  find  another 
wide  field  awaiting  your  commercial 
activities.  Europe's  exports  to  Japan 
amount  to  203,000,000  yen  per  annum. 
Tox  this  total  England  contributes  116,- 
146,000  yen.  Add  to  this  135,000,000 
yen  from  British  India  and  881,550  yen 
from  Hongkong,  and  you  see  what  an 
enormous  trade  Great  Britain  is  doing 
in  Japan.  German  exports  to  Japan 
total  61,000,000  yen  per  annum,  and 
those  of  France  and  Belgium  amount 
to  5,400,000  yen  and  9,087,000  yen 
respectively. 

Now  that  the  war  has  stopped  all 
imports  from  Europe,  America  is  in  a 
position  to  monopolize  the  Japanese 
market.  Can  the  merchants  and  man- 
ufacturers of  America  afford  to  let  this 
opportunity  slip? 

The  destiny  of  the  Pacific  is  in  the 
hands  of  the  three  nations — America, 
Great  Britain,  and  Japan.  Guided  by 
England  and  the  United  States,  Japan 
hopes  to  maintain  the  peace  of  the 
Pacific,  and  especially  of  the  Far  East. 
And  the  peace  of  the  Pacific  cannot 
be  maintained  without  preserving  the 
territorial  integrity  of  China. 


THE   CRISIS 


BY   JOHN   JAY    CHAPMAN 


THE  present  war  has  revealed  the 
flimsiness  of  the  world's  superficial 
learning.  It  has  also  laid  bare  the  work- 
ing of  those  deep  forces  that  hold  men 
together.  At  first  we  felt  a  shock,  for 
we  saw  that  a  volcanic  attack  was  be- 
ing made  upon  modern  society.  But 
we  were  visited  almost  at  the  same 
time  by  a  new  sense  of  the  solidarity  of 
mankind.  Two  thirds  of  Europe  were 
welded  into  a  single  country  in  a  night, 
while  America's  mission  as  an  unselfish 
and  just  nation  was  clearly  seen  by  all 
men.  The  state  papers  of  our  country 
have  been  filled,  from  Revolutionary 
times  downward,  with  thoughts  which 
find  an  application  now.  Our  popular 
education,  our  practical  training,  have 
fitted  us  for  this  crisis. 

Mankind  is  witnessing  a  great  bur- 
lesque of  patriotism,  —  a  reductio  ad 
absurdum  of  national  feeling,  —  which 
has  been  maturing  during  forty  years 
in  the  bosom  of  Europe,  and  now  ap- 
pears in  the  form  of  a  national  mad- 
ness. Its  utterances  make  small  appeal 
to  those  untouched  by  the  craze,  yet 
appe^  r  like  divinity  to  the  initiated. 
Even  some  of  our  own  American  pro- 
fessors and  literary  men,  who  have  been 
living  in  contact  with  the  German 
mind,  betray  signs  of  a  sympathetic 
madness,  which  may  be  studied  as  a 
part  of  the  great  phenomenon  now  in 
progress.  On  the  other  hand  it  is  per- 
fectly certain  that  there  exist  in  Ger- 
many numbers  of  persons  whose  intel- 
lects are  untouched  by  the  passions  of 
the  day,  and  whose  voices  will  be  heard 
as  those  passions  begin  to  subside. 

714 


A  vision  of  the  destiny  of  man  has  to- 
day flashed  over  the  world.  It  recalls 
the  religious  awakening  in  Northern 
Europe  that  followed  in  the  footsteps 
of  the  first  Christian  missionaries.  All 
smaller  animosities  are  cast  aside  in 
the  endeavor  to  save  the  essentials  of 
a  common  life.  The  cataclysm  has  pass- 
ed through  each  private  consciousness 
like  the  stroke  of  an  invisible  wand, 
and  the  western  world  has  throbbed, 
and  still  throbs,  like  one  man.  For  a 
period  which  must  last  for  several 
years,  the  greater  part  of  Europe  and 
all  of  America  will  agonize  daily  over 
the  same  thought.  Non-Teutonic  Eu- 
rope and  both  Americas  have  become  a 
vast,  unitary  thinking-machine,  which 
grinds  honestly,  remorselessly,  painful- 
ly, and  with  a  passionate  desire  to  find 
the  truth.  The  progress  of  its  thought 
is  seen  to  be  determinate,  inscrut- 
able, mechanical.  So  many  sides  has 
the  problem  that  all  men  are,  as  it 
were,  equalized  by  the  act  of  grappling 
with  it.  Learned  and  unlearned  are 
equally  at  a  loss,  equally  competent. 
The  philosopher  can  hardly  suggest 
any  idea  on  the  matter  which  his 
coachman  does  not  anticipate  or  his 
gardener  express  in  an  epigram.  Com- 
pelling force  invades  the  sanctuaries  of 
men's  minds  and  no  private  breast  is 
immune.  We  see  as  possibilities  the  re- 
spect of  nations  for  one  another,  the 
subsidence  of  hatreds,  the  lessening  of 
armaments.  Beyond  these  vistas  of 
political  change  the  convulsion  now  in 
progress  seems  to  portend  unfathom- 
able changes  in  men's  tone  of  mind 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


715 


and  in  their  outlook  upon  life.  An  era 
has  closed.  A  page  in  the  history  of 
man  has  been  turned.  Every  individ- 
ual must  stand  still  and  discover  by  the 
outcome  what  relation  he  will  bear  to 
the  new  dispensation. 

One  thing  has  been  made  apparent, 
namely,  that  the  relations  between 
good  and  evil  are  inscrutable.  All  of 
this  new  life  seems  to  have  leaped  into 
being  in  response  to  an  attack  upon 
life;  all  of  this  reason,  in  response  to 
unreason;  all  of  the  new  order,  in  re- 
sponse to  chaos. 


The  inhabitants  of  Europe  are  near 
the  conflagration,  which  they  watch 
while  their  treasure  and  their  children 
are  being  consumed  by  it.  They  have 
less  leisure  for  thought  than  we.  And 
thus  for  the  moment  America  has  be- 
come the  focus  of  such  reflection  as 
humanity  can  afford  time  for.  Moral 
influence  is  indeed  all  that  America 
can  contribute  to  the  situation.  To  see 
clearly  is  our  province.  We  must  strive 
only  for  vision,  feeling  sure  that  this 
will  somehow  qualify  the  vision  of  the 
world. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


IN   THE    CHAIR 

ABOUT  once  in  so  often  a  man  must 
go  to  the  barber  for  what,  with  con- 
temptuous brevity,  is  called  a  haircut. 
He  must  sit  in  a  big  chair,  a  volumi- 
nous bib  (prettily  decorated  with  polka 
dots)  tucked  in  round  his  neck,  and  let 
another  human  being  cut  his  hair  for 
him.  His  head,  with  all  its  internal 
mystery  and  wealth  of  thought,  be- 
comes for  the  time  being  a  mere  poll, 
worth  two  dollars  a  year  to  the  tax- 
assessor:  an  irregularly  shaped  object, 
between  a  summer  squash  and  a  can- 
taloupe, with  too  much  hair  on  it,  as 
very  likely  several  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances have  advised  him.  His  identity 
vanishes. 

As  a  rule  the  less  he  now  says  or 
thinks  about  his  head,  the  better:  he 
has  given  it  to  the  barber,  and  the  barber 
will  do  as  he  pleases  with  it.  It  is  only 
when  the  man  is  little  and  is  brought  in 
by  his  mother,  that  the  job  will  be  done 
according  to  instructions;  and  this  is 


because  the  man's  mother  is  in  a  posi- 
tion to  see  the  back  of  his  head.  Also 
because  the  weakest  woman  under  such 
circumstances  has  strong  convictions. 
When  the  man  is  older  the  barber  will 
sometimes  allow  him  to  see  the  hair- 
cut, cleverly  reflected  in  two  mirrors; 
but  not  one  man  in  a  thousand  —  nay, 
in  ten  thousand  —  would  dare  express 
himself  as  dissatisfied.  After  all,  what 
does  he  know  of  haircuts,  he  who  is  no 
barber?  Women  feel  differently;  and  I 
know  of  one  man,  returning  home  with 
a  new  haircut,  who  was  compeJJed  to 
turn  round  again  and  take  what  his 
wife  called  his  'poor'  head  to  another 
barber  by  whom  the  haircut  was  more 
happily  finished.  But  that  was  excep- 
tional. And  it  happened  to  that  man 
but  once. 

The  very  word  'haircut*  is  objec- 
tionable. It  snips  like  the  scissors.  Yet 
it  describes  the  operation  more  honest- 
ly than  the  substitute  'trim/  a  euphe- 
mism indicating  a  jaunty  habit  of  drop- 
ping in  frequently  at  the  barber's,  and 


716 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


so  keeping  the  hair  perpetually  at  just 
the  length  that  is  most  becoming.  For 
most  men,  although  the  knowledge 
must  be  gathered  by  keen,  patient  ob- 
servation and  never  by  honest  confes- 
sion, there  is  a  period,  lasting  about  a 
week,  when  the  length  of  their  hair  is 
admirable.  But  it  comes  between  hair- 
cuts. The  haircut  itself  is  never  satis- 
factory. If  his  hair  was  too  long  before 
(and  on  this  point  he  has  the  evi- 
dence of  unprejudiced  witnesses),  it  is 
too  short  now.  It  must  grow  steadily 
—  count  on  it  for  that !  —  until  for  a 
brief  period  it  is  'just  right/  sestheti- 
cally  suited  to  the  contour  of  his  face 
and  the  cut  of  his  features,  and  begin- 
ning already  imperceptibly  to  grow  too 
long  again. 

Soon  this  growth  becomes  visible, 
and  the  man  begins  to  worry.  *  I  must 
go  to  the  barber/  he  says  in  a  harassed 
way.  *I  must  get  a  haircut/  But  the 
days  pass.  It  is  always  to-morrow,  and 
to-morrow,  and  to-morrow.  When  he 
goes,  he  goes  suddenly. 

There  is  something  within  us,  prob- 
ably our  immortal  soul,  that  postpones 
a  haircut;  and  yet  in  the  end  our  im- 
mortal souls  have  little  to  do  with  the 
actual  process.  It  is  impossible  to  con- 
ceive of  one  immortal  soul  cutting  an- 
other immortal  soul's  hair.  My  own 
soul,  I  am  sure,  has  never  entered  a 
barber's  shop.  It  stops  and  waits  for 
me  at  the  portal.  Probably  it  converses 
on  subjects  remote  from  our  bodily  con- 
sciousness with  the  immortal  souls  of 
barbers,  patiently  waiting  until  the 
barbers  finish  their  morning's  work  and 
come  out  to  lunch. 

Even  during  the  haircut  our  hair  is 
still  growing,  never  stopping,  never  at 
rest,  never  in  a  hurry:  it  grows  while  we 
sleep,  as  was  proved  by  Rip  Van  Winkle. 
And  yet  perhaps  sometimes  it  is  in  a 
hurry;  perhaps  that  is  why  it  falls  out. 
In  rare  cases  the  contagion  of  speed 
spreads;  the  last  hair  hurries  after  all 


the  others;  the  man  is  emancipated 
from  dependence  on  barbers.  I  know 
a  barber  who  is  in  this  independent 
condition  himself  (for  the  barber  can 
no  more  cut  his  own  hair  than  the  rest 
of  us)  and  yet  sells  his  customers  a  pre- 
paration warranted  to  keep  them  from 
attaining  it,  a  seeming  anomaly  which 
can  be  explained  only  on  the  ground 
that  business  is  business.  To  escape 
the  haircut  one  must  be  quite  without 
hair  that  one  cannot  see  and  reach;  and 
herein  possibly  is  the  reason  for  a  fash- 
ion which  has  often  perplexed  students 
of  the  Norman  Conquest.  The  Norman 
soldiery  wore  no  hair  on  the  backs  of 
their  heads;  and  each  brave  fellow  could 
sit  down  in  front  of  his  polished  shield 
and  cut  his  own  hair  without  much 
trouble.  But  the  scheme  had  a  weak- 
ness. The  back  of  the  head  had  to  be 
shaven,  and  the  fashion  doubtless  went 
out  because,  after  all,  nothing  was 
gained  by  it.  One  simply  turned  over 
on  one's  face  in  the  barber's  chair  in- 
stead of  sitting  up  straight. 

Fortunately  we  begin  having  a  hair- 
cut when  we  are  too  young  to  think, 
and  when  also  the  process  is  sugar- 
coated  by  the  knowledge  that  we  are 
losing  our  curls.  Then  habit  accustoms 
us  to  it.  Yet  it  is  significant  that  men 
of  refinement  seek  the  barber  in  se- 
cluded places,  basements  of  hotels  for 
choice,  where  they  can  be  seen  only  by 
barbers  and  by  other  refined  men  hav- 
ing or  about  to  have  haircuts;  and  that 
men  of  less  refinement  submit  to  the 
operation  where  every  passer-by  can 
stare  in  and  see  them,  bibs  round  their 
necks  and  their  shorn  locks  lying  in 
pathetic  little  heaps  on  the  floor.  There 
is  a  barber's  shop  of  this  kind  in  Boston 
where  one  of  the  barbers,  having  no 
head  to  play  with,  plays  on  a  cornet, 
doubtless  to  the  further  distress  of  his 
immortal  soul  peeping  in  through  the 
window.  But  this  is  unusual  even  in 
the  city  that  is  known  far  and  wide  as 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


717 


the  home  of  the  Boston  Symphony 
Orchestra. 

I  remember  a  barber  —  he  was  the 
only  one  available  in  a  small  town  — 
who  cut  my  left  ear.  The  deed  dis- 
tressed him,  and  he  told  me  a  story.  It 
was  a  pretty  little  cut,  he  said  —  filling 
it  with  alum — and  reminded  him  of  an- 
other gentleman  whose  left  ear  he  had 
nipped  in  identically  the  same  place. 
He  had  done  his  best  with  alum  and 
apology,  as  he  was  now  doing.  Two 
months  later  the  gentleman  came  in 
again.  'And  by  golly!'  said  the  barber, 
with  a  kind  of  wonder  at  his  own  clever- 
ness, 'if  I  did  n't  nip  him  again  in  just 
the  same  place ! ' 

A  man  can  shave  himself.  The  Arm- 
less Wonder  does  it  in  the  "Dime  Mu- 
seum. Byron  did  it,  and  composed 
poetry  during  the  operation,  although, 
as  I  have  recently  seen  scientifically 
explained,  the  facility  of  composition 
was  not  due  to  the  act  of  shaving  but 
to  the  normal  activity  of  the  human 
mind  at  that  time  in  the  morning. 
Here  therefore  a  man  can  refuse  the  of- 
fices of  the  barber.  If  he  wishes  to  make 
one  of  a  half-dozen  apparently  inani- 
mate figures,  their  faces  covered  with 
soap,  and  their  noses  used  as  conven- 
ient handles  to  turn  first  one  cheek  and 
then  the  other  —  that  is  his  own  look- 
out. But  human  ingenuity  has  yet  to 
invent  a  *  safety  barber's  shears.'  It 
has  tried.  A  near  genius  once  made  an 
apparatus  -  -  a  kind  of  helmet  with 
multitudinous  little  scissors  inside  it  — 
which  he  hopefully  believed  would 
solve  the  problem;  but  what  became  of 
him  and  his  invention  I  have  not  heard. 
Perhaps  he  tried  it  himself  and  slunk, 
defeated,  into  a  deeper  obscurity.  Per- 
haps he  committed  suicide,  for  one  can 
easily  imagine  that  a  man  who  thought 
he  had  found  a  way  to  cut  his  own  hair 
and  then  found  that  he  had  n't  would 
be  thrown  into  a  suicidal  depression. 
There  is  the  possibility  that  he  suc- 


ceeded in  cutting  his  own  hair,  and  was 
immediately  'put  away,'  where  nobody 
could  see  him  but  the  hardened  atten- 
dants, by  his  sensitive  family.  The  im- 
portant fact  is  that  the  invention  never 
got  on  the  market.  Until  some  other 
investigator  succeeds  to  more  practical 
purpose,  the  rest  of  us  must  go  periodi- 
cally to  the  barber.  We  must  put  on 
the  bib  — 

Here,  however,  there  is  at  least  an 
opportunity  of  selection.  There  are 
bibs  with  arms,  and  bibs  without  arms. 
And  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  satis- 
faction in  being  able  to  see  our  own 
hands,  carefully  holding  the  newspaper 
or  periodical  wherewith  we  pretend  that 
we  are  still  intelligent  human  beings. 
And  here  again  are  distinctions.  The 
patrons  of  my  own  favored  barber's 
shop  have  arms  to  their  bibs  and  pre- 
tend to  be  deeply  interested  in  the  Illus- 
trated London  News.  The  patrons  of  the 
barber's  shop  where  I  lost  part  of  my 
ear — I  cannot  see  the  place,  but  those 
whom  I  take  into  my  confidence  tell 
me  that  it  has  long  since  grown  again 

—  had  no  sleeves  to  their  bibs,  but 
nevertheless  managed  awkwardly  to 
hold  the  Police  Gazette.  And  this  oppor- 
tunity to  hold  the  Police  Gazette  with- 
out  attracting   attention   becomes   a 
pleasant  feature  of  this  type  of  barber's 
shop:  I,  for  example,  found  it  easier 

—  until  my  ear  was  cut  —  to  forget 
my  position  in  the  examination  of  this 
journal  than  in  the  examination  of  the 
Illustrated  London  News.  The  pictures, 
strictly  speaking,  are  not  so  good,  either 
artistically  or  morally,  but  there  is  a 
tang  about  them,  an  I-do-not-know- 
what.   And  it  is  always  wisest  to  focus 
attention  on  some  such  extraneous  in- 
terest.    Otherwise   you   may   get    to 
looking  in  the  mirror. 

Do  not  do  that. 

For  one  thing,  there  is  the  impulse 
to  cry  out  'Stop!  Stop!  Don't  cut  it 
all  off! 


718 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


'Oh,  barber,  spare  that  hair! 

Leave  some  upon  my  brow! 
For  months  it's  sheltered  me! 
And  I  '11  protect  it  now! 

'Oh,  please!  P-1-e-a-s-e! — '  These 
exclamations  annoy  a  barber,  rouse  a 
demon  of  fury  in  him.  He  reaches  for 
a  machine  called  'clippers.'  Tell  him 
how  to  cut  hair,  will  you !  A  little  more 
and  he  '11  shave  your  head  —  and  not 
only  half-way  either,  like  the  Norman 
soldiery  at  the  time  of  the  Conquest! 
Even  if  you  are  able  to  restrain  this 
impulse,  clenching  your  bib  in  your 
hands  and  perhaps  dropping  or  tearing 
the  Illustrated  London  News,  the  mirror 
gives  you  strange,  morbid  reflections. 
You  recognize  your  face,  but  your  head 
seems  somehow  separate,  balanced  on 
a  kind  of  polka-dotted  mountain  with 
two  hands  holding  the  Illustrated  Lon- 
don News.  You  are  afraid  momentarily 
that  the  barber  will  lift  it  off  and  go 
away  with  it.  Then  is  the  time  to  read 
furiously  the  weekly  contribution  of 
G.  K.  Chesterton.  But  your  mind  re- 
verts to  a  story  you  have  been  read- 
ing about  how  the  Tulululu  Islanders, 
a  savage  but  ingenious  people,  preserve 
the  heads  of  their  enemies  so  that  the 
faces  are  much  smaller  but  otherwise 
quite  recognizable.  You  find  yourself 
looking  keenly  at  the  barber  to  discover 
any  possible  trace  of  Tulululu  ancestry. 
And  what  is  he  going  to  get  now?  A 
krees?  No,  a  paint-brush.  5s  he  going 
to  paint  you?  And  if  so  —  what  color? 
The  question  of  color  becomes  strangely 
important,  as  if  it  made  any  real  dif- 
ference. Green?  Red?  Purple?  Blue? 
No,  he  uses  the  brush  dry,  tickling 
your  forehead,  tickling  your  ears,  tick- 
ling your  nose,  tickling  you  under  the 
chin  and  down  the  back  of  your  neck. 
After  the  serious  business  of  the  hair- 
cut, a  barber  must  have  some  relaxation. 
There  is  one  point  on  which  you  are 
independent:  you  will  not  have  the 
bay  rum;  you  are  a  teetotaller.  You 


say  so  in  a  weak  voice  which  neverthe- 
less has  some  adamantine  quality  that 
impresses  him.  He  humors  you;  or 
perhaps  your  preference  appeals  to  his 
sense  of  business  economy. 

He  takes  off  your  bib. 

From  a  row  of  chairs  a  man  leaps  to 
his  feet,  anxious  to  give  his  head  to  the 
barber.  A  boy  hastily  sweeps  up  the 
hair  that  was  yours  —  already  as  re- 
mote from  you  as  if  it  had  belonged  to 
the  man  who  is  always  waiting,  and 
whose  name  is  Next.  Oh,  it  is  horrible 

—  horrible  — •  horrible! 

WAGGLING 

ONE  of  my  friends  says,  *  Don't  you 
like  to  have  people  make  a  pleasant, 
gentle  hullabalooing  over  you  some- 
times?' 

I  know  what  she  means,  and  I  do 
like  it.  Only  in  my  own  parlance  it  is 
not  hullabalooing,  but  waggling.  A 
hullabaloo  —  even  a  pleasant  gentle 
one  —  implies  boisterous  doings.  But 
you  can  waggle  without  saying  a  word 
or  lifting  a  finger.  You  can  waggle 
with  your  inmost  soul  in  a  perfectly  re- 
spectable and  secret  way,  when  nobody 

—  it  may  be  in  church,  or  in  the  trol- 
ley-car, or  at  a  solemn  Music  —  sus- 
pects you  of  anything  but  a  little  extra 
shine  to  your  eyes  and  twist  to  your 
lips.  Then  again,  you  can  waggle  your 
way   visibly   but   quietly   through   a 
rainy,  dirty,  dumpish  day,  so  that  peo- 
ple will  almost  signal  back,  with  a  kind 
of  borrowed  quirk  of  joy. 

Of  course  a  puppy  is  the  perfect  wag- 
gler.  Our  Airedale,  with  the  sad  brown 
eyes  and  rough  coat  and  comically  piv- 
oted tail,  can  hardly  stir  himself  with- 
out waggling.  He  loves  us  vastly,  and 
he  loves  to  be  full  of  bones  and  fresh 
air  and  implicit  trust  in  all  dogs  and 
men.  Life  is  one  glorious,  simple- 
minded,  adventurous  holiday  for  him. 
He  is  downcast  only  when  all  his  arts 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


719 


fail  to  persuade  us  that  he  should  ac- 
company us  to  church  or  to  a  dinner- 
party. Then  he  cries  and  grieves  and 
quivers;  but  even  his  grief  has  a  naiv- 
ete and  honesty  that  are  akin  to  his  joy. 
We  know  that  when  we  come  back 
and  fumble  at  the  latchkey,  a  happy 
urgent  moaning  and  grunting  will  be 
heard  behind  the  door,  and  Ben  will 
leap  out  at  us,  pawing  the  air,  tossing 
his  ears,  crimping  his  staunch  black- 
saddled  body  into  incredible  patterns, 
skidding  along  the  rug  on  the  side  of 
his  funny  face,  —  in  short,  waggling 
over  us  in  an  abandon  of  love  and  de- 
light fit  to  melt  the  heart  of  the  stoni- 
est puppy-hater  or  cynic-at-large. 

For  the  person  who  cannot  appreci- 
ate the  attitude  of  mind  that  waggles, 
in  animals  or  men,  must  be  either  a  ter- 
rible cynic  or  a  terrible  hypochondriac. 
Such  a  person  would  not  be  moved, 
I  am  afraid,  even  by  the  kind  man- 
ners of  a  Black  Wolf,  with  whom  we 
lately  passed  the  time  of  day  in  a  trav- 
eling Wild-Beast  Show.  Perhaps  the 
Black  Wolf  had  been  reading  Science 
and  Health;  or  perhaps  he  wished  to 
show  us  that  not  all  wolves  like  to  eat 
Little  Red-Riding-Hoods;  or  perhaps 
he  was  simply  bored  by  the  bourgeois 
steam-piano  music  and  generally  low 
tone  (for  a  Wild  Beast  of  parts)  of  the 
show.  At  any  rate,  when  we  stood  be- 
fore his  bars  and  spoke  politely  to  him, 
he  waggled  at  us.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking it:  he  waggled,  head  and  tail,  as 
amiably  as  our  mild  Ben  at  home. 

Surely,  if  a  moth-eaten  Black  Wolf 
in  a  five-foot  cage  can  waggle,  anybody 
can;  and  as  I  have  said,  the  person  who 
can  neither  understand  waggling  nor 
do  it  himself  is  in  evil  case.  Many 
clergymen,  many  poets,  many  social 
investigators  seem  to  have  lost  this 
simple  power.  They  are  too  serious 
with  the  world  and  with  themselves  to 
remember  that  one  of  the  most  easily 
paid  obligations  to  life  is  just  letting 


one's  self  be  pleased  with  the  things 
that  were  put  here  to  please  one  with- 
out sin  or  shame,  no  matter  how  much 
else  there  may  be  to  fret  and  fight 
against  forever.  Now  the  Black  Wolf 
had  very  little  to  give  him  joy.  In- 
stead of  wild  free  spaces  for  running 
and  hunting,  he  had  a  patch  of  dirty 
sawdust,  iron  bars,  stale  odors,  food 
flung  at  intervals,  meaningless  human 
shapes  and  faces:  a  life  so  tame  and 
dull  that  even  a  house-dog  would  pine 
away  under  it.  Yet  that  good  Black 
Wolf  had  not  forgotten  the  lively  uses 
of  his  tail  and  head. 

But  I  did  not  mean  to  write  about 
the  morals  of  waggling.  I  meant  rather 
to  tell  of  its  simple  causes.  There  are 
so  many  things  that  make  one  waggle. 
Of  course,  seeing  the  people  whom  we 
love  and  like  produces  waggling,  or  a 
*  pleasant,  gentle  hullabalooing.'  But 
I  should  be  sorry  enough  if  ever  a 
shining  morning  in  green  April,  —  a 
red  October  wood,  —  a  full  moon  over 
frozen  silvery  lakes,  —  a  good  hearth- 
fire,  —  a  field  of  daisies,  —  a  snatch  of 
old  song,  suddenly  dancing  from  the 
dark  halls  of  memory,  —  and  a  thou- 
sand simpler,  smaller  things,  did  not 
make  me  paw  the  air  and  wag  my  se- 
cret tail.  (For  it  seems  to  me  that  hu- 
man beings  need  self-expressive  tails 
just  as  much  as  dogs  do.) 

Now  our  precious  Katy-in-the-kitch- 
en  waggles  over  a  perfect  souffle,  or  a 
glorious  Easter  bonnet,  or  a  *  murdery ' 
moving-picture  show;  our  newsboy 
over  a  prize  bicycle  or  a  full  muskrat 
trap.  There  must  be  those  who  waggle 
over  a  glass  of  beer;  a  case  won  in  the 
Supreme  Court;  a  post-box  filled  with 
Suffragette  stickum;  a  soul  saved;  a 
rise  in  stocks;  a  seal-skin  coat  smug- 
gled; a  neat  horse-trade. 

I  cannot  sympathize  with  all  these 
causes  for  delight,  but  with  the  state  of 
mind  I  do  sympathize  greatly.  To  be 
too  old,  or  too  sick,  or  too  rich,  or  too 


720 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


poor,  or  too  stupid,  to  waggle  over 
anything  would  be  more  a  death  than 
-death  itself.  And  I. have  a  suspicion 
that  stupidity  is  the  real  root  of  most 
ichronic  heaviness  of  soul.  I  know  old 
people,  and  sick  people,  who  have  al- 
most as  little  to  be  pleased  with  as  the 
Black  Wolf,  and  yet  who  have  never 
forgotten  how  to  twinkle  with  childlike 
joy.  And  surely  it  is  stupidity  that 
dulls  and  paralyzes  the  very  rich.  The 
poor,  for  all  their  handicaps,  can  give 
millionaires  lessons  in  waggling. 

But  there  must  be  no  taint  of  affec- 
tation about  it,  or  everything  is  ruined. 
The  society-waggle  is  as  cheap  and 
poor  a  farce  as  the  society-compliment. 
The  pious  waggle  is  yet  worse.  The 
only  genuine  variety  is  as  swift  and 
spontaneous  as  the  wild  shake  of  a 
horse's  mane  in  the  wind;  as  a  terrier's 
bark  and  leap  and  sidewise  antics  down 
the  road;  as  a  small  girl's  hop-skip-and- 
jump  in  the  sun,  or  a  small  boy's  whis- 
tle and  whoop  as  he  tears  from  the 
.school-door. 


I  wonder  whether  Stevenson  did  not 
have  in  mind  a  more  serious  aspect  of 
this  same  mood  when  he  wrote  the  fa- 
miliar lines,  — 

If  I  have  faltered  more  or  less 
In  my  great  task  of  happiness; 
If  I  have  moved  among  my  race 
And  shown  no  glorious  morning  face; 
If  beams  from  happy  human  eyes 
Have  moved  me  not;  if  morning  skies, 
Books,  and  my  food,  and  summer  rain, 
Knocked  on  my  sullen  heart  in  vain;  — 
Lord,  thy  most  pointed  pleasure  take, 
And  stab  my  spirit  broad  awake. 

Even  Stevenson  called  his  happiness 
a  'great  task';  and  it  was  no  wonder. 
For  him,  and  for  many,  it  must  indeed 
be  a  task. 

But  it  pleases  me  to  feel  that  for 
most  of  us,  our  passing  happiness  is  no 
task:  that  we  are  not  Black  Wolves, 
but  Airedale  puppies.  We  waggle,  not 
for  stern  Duty's  sake,  but  because,  like 
Ben,  curled  here  at  my  feet,  and  hu- 
morous even  in  his  dreams,  the  world 
seems  so  lively  and  amazing  to  us  that 
we  cannot  help  it. 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


DECEMBER,  1914 


THE  HIDDEN  TREASURE  OF  RISHMEY-YEH 


BY  ABRAHAM   MITRIE  RIHBANY 


ELSEWHERE1 1  have  stated  that  my 
father  was  a  stone  mason,  a  contractor 
and  builder,  who  carried  on  a  large 
business.  As  an  apprentice  to  his  trade 
I  enjoyed  such  exceptional  privileges 
that  at  the  age  of  sixteen  I  was  classed 
and  paid  wages  as  a  *  master.' 

From  our  home  town,  Betater,  which 
is  situated  on  the  western  slopes  of 
Mount  Lebanon,  Syria,  in  the  province 
which  bears  the  name  of  that  historic 
mountain,  our  building  enterprises 
radiated  for  many  miles  around.  Not 
being  able  to  give  personal  attention 
to  all  of  the  many  applications  which 
came  to  him,  my  father  often  placed 
me  in  charge  of  less  extensive  under- 
takings, such  as  the  erection  of  ordinary 
dwellings,  which,  in  so  poor  a  country 
as  the  interior  of  Syria,  involved  no 
complicated  architectural  designs.  In 
fact,  in  that  part  of  the  world  we  had 
never  even  heard  of  an  architect  in 

1  See  the  author's  A  Far  Journey,  chapter  v. 
That  autobiography,  as  Atlantic  readers  know, 
is  the  story  of  a  continuous  spiritual  develop- 
ment, and  its  sequence  would  have  been  in- 
terrupted by  the  narration  of  the  romantic  ad- 
venture here  described.  —  THE  EDITORS. 

VOL.  114 -NO.  6 


connection  with  our  trade.  The  stone 
mason  exercised  the  functions  of  ar- 
chitect, builder,  and  inspector. 

So  it  happened,  when  I  was  about 
seventeen  years  old,  that  a  man  named 
Abu-' Azar  (father  of  Lazarus) ,  from  a 
town  called  Rishmey-yeh,  situated  in  a 
deep,  picturesque  valley  not  quite  two 
hours'  journey  on  foot  from  Betater, 
besought]  my  father  to  build  for  him 
a  dwelling  house,  which  was  to  consist 
of  one  lower  and  two  upper  rooms. 
Not  being  able  to  go  to  Rishmey-yeh 
himself,  my  father,  with  the  consent  of 
Abu-' Azar,  assigned  the  task  to  me.  My 
assistant,  another  master  mason  called 
Abu-Nezhim,  was  more  than  double 
my  age,  but  he  had  never  distinguished 
himself  in  his  trade;  and  as  my  father's 
fame  was  wide,  the  work  was  given  in 
charge  to  me. 

It  was  early  autumn  when  my  part- 
ner and  I  arrived  in  Rishmey-yeh, 
wearing  the  commanding  airs  of  enter- 
prise and  wisdom.  With  dignified,  pa- 
triarchal generosity  Abu-' Azar  received 
us  into  his  hospitable  home,  declaring 
to  us  that  he  felt  unworthy  of  the  hon- 
or of  having  us  come  under  his  roof. 
Turning  to  me,  our  host  said,  — 

'I  have  no  doubt  your  respected 


THE  HIDDEN  TREASURE  OF  R1SHMEY-YEH 


father  sent  you  and  your  companion 
to  me  as  his  personal  representatives, 
because  he  believes  you  to  be  wise 
master-builders.  Therefore  I  honor 
you  both,  for  your  father's  sake,  and 
because,  even  from  ancient  times,  it 
has  always  been  considered  seemly  to 
honor  wise  minds  and  skilled  hands. 
You  are  exceedingly  welcome  to  my 
humble  dwelling  and  to  eat  my  bread 
and  salt/ 

A  bounteous  supper  was  put  before 
us,  after  which  Abu-'Azar  acquainted 
us  with  the  plans  for  the  house  he  had 
in  mind. 

*I  want  a  three-room  house,'  he 
said,  —  '  the  two  upper  rooms  to  be 
large  enough  to  accommodate  my  crop 
of  silk  cocoons,  and  to  provide  space 
for  the  yield  of  my  vines  and  fig  trees 
and  a  comfortable  shelter  for  me  and 
my  family.  The  lower  room  I  shall  use 
for  wood,  charcoal  and  like  necessaries, 
leaving  enough  room  for  the  stabling 
of  a  cow,  and  an  enclosure  for  a  brood 
or  two  of  chickens.  Furthermore  I  beg 
you  to  proceed  with  all  speed  to  con- 
struct the  house  before  the  whiter  sea- 
son overtakes  us.' 

To  us,  Abu-'Azar's  instructions  seem- 
ed most  concise  and  explicit,  and  his 
keen  desire  to  have  the  house  built  be- 
fore the  winter  season  set  in,  perfect- 
ly justifiable.  Therefore,  Abu-Nezhim 
and  I  soon  put  our  heads  together, 
hitched  our  mental  faculties  to  Wis- 
dom's star,  and  in  a  very  short  time 
informed  Abu-'Azar  that  such  a  house 
as  he  contemplated  building  should  be 
so  many  cubits  long,  so  many  high  and 
so  many  wide;  the  walls  should  be  one 
cubit  thick,  and  the  foundations,  like 
those  of  the  house  of  the  *  wise  man '  of 
the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  were  to  rest 
on  solid  rock.  The  estimated  cost  was 
also  respectfully  submitted,  and  the 
delightful  result  was  that  Abu-'Azar 
pronounced  our  architectural"  plans 
faultless  and  the  price  most  reasonable, 


and  bade  us  proceed  to  make  the  new 
house  a  tangible  reality. 

We  did  proceed  with  dispatch.  Ear- 
ly on  the  following  morning  our  em- 
ployer conducted  us  to  the  *  parcel  of 
ground '  on  which  the  house  was  to  be 
built.  It  was  at  the  southwest  corner 
of  the  town,  some  distance  from  the 
outermost  fringe  of  houses,  and  just 
below  a  rocky  elevation  on  which  stood 
an  ancient  convent  of  Saint  Elias.  We 
drove  the  stakes  for  the  house  in  a  spot 
where  a  rock  ledge  seemed  nearest  to 
the  surface,  located  our  stone  quarry, 
and  on  the  next  morning  the  actual 
work  began. 

When  a  sufficient  quantity  of  stone 
had  been  secured,  the  men  were  set  to 
digging  the  foundation,  which  proved 
to  be  'near,'  —  that  is,  the  solid  rock 
was  soon  reached;  except  that  at  the 
northeast  corner  the  diggers  discover- 
ed, in  an  area  of  *  permanent'  natural 
rock,  a  round  hole  about  five  feet  in 
diameter,  apparently  cut  by  human 
hands  in  some  bygone  generation. 
Upon  inspecting  the  rather  strange 
opening,  I  ordered  the  men  to  dig  a 
little  deeper,  with  the  expectation  that 
the  rock-bottom  would  soon  be  reached. 
They  therefore  dug  to  the  depth  of 
about  five  feet,  but  no  rock  appeared; 
they  found,  however,  mingled  with  the 
soil,  small  quantities  of  mortar  and 
fragments  of  pottery,  which,  together 
with  the  marks  of  the  ancient  work- 
man's tools  on  the  sides  of  the  opening, 
awakened  in  us  no  little  interest.  But 
in  order  not  to  allow  our  curiosity  to 
impede  our  progress,  my  partner,  Abu- 
Nezhim,  and  I  concluded  to  have  the 
round  hole  filled  up  with  stones  and 
—  that  we  might  secure  a  firm  founda- 
tion for  that  corner  of  the  house  —  to 
bridge  it  over  with  a  small  arch.  The 
men  were  notified  to  this  effect  and  in 
a  short  time  the  interesting  opening 
was  filled  up  to  a  level  with  the  sur- 
rounding rock. 


THE  HIDDEN  TREASURE  OF  RISHMEY-YEH 


723 


But  at  the  close  of  that  day,  after 
our  helpers,  the  'laborers,'  had  gone, 
Abu-'Azar,  Abu-Nezhim,  and  I,  unde- 
signedly  and  by  a  common  irresistible 
impulse,  found  ourselves  standing  to- 
gether around  the  curious  hole,  and 
saying  to  each  other,  *  What  might  this 
thing  be?' 

'It  may  be  that  we  have  stumbled 
upon  a  mekhbaiah'  (hidden  treasure), 
suggested  Abu-Nezhim. 

With  a  restrained  but  deeply  signifi- 
cant smile  Abu-'Azar  remarked,  'I  am 
not  easily  disturbed  by  such  things, 
but  of  a  truth,  masters,  I  have  had 
such  a  suspicion  all  this  afternoon;  cer- 
tainly this  hole  is  a  strange  thing,  inas- 
much as  it  is  the  work  of  the  tool/ 

My  youthful  mind  was  filled  with 
excitement;  I  had  had  that  suspicion 
too,  and  now  that  my  elders  had  so 
expressed  themselves,  my  hope  was 
suddenly  transformed  almost  into  a 
certainty. 

Nor  is  it  strange  that  we  were  all 
strongly  predisposed  to  believe  that 
we  had  stumbled  upon  a  mekhbaiah. 
In  Syria  it  is  universally  believed  that 
hidden  treasures  may  be  found  any- 
where in  the  land,  and  especially  among 
ancient  ruins.  This  belief  rests  on  the 
simple  truth  that  the  tribes  and  clans 
of  Syria,  having  from  time  immemo- 
rial lived  in  a  state  of  warfare,  have 
hidden  their  treasures  in  the  ground, 
especially  on  the  eve  of  battles.  Fur- 
thermore, the  wars  of  the  past  being 
wars  of  extermination,  the  vanquished 
could  not  return  to  reclaim  their  hid- 
den wealth;  therefore  the  ground  is  the 
keeper  of  vast  riches.  The  tales  of  the 
digging  and  finding  of  such  treasures 
fill  the  country.  There  are  thrilling 
tales  of  treasures  in  various  localities. 
Gold  and  other  valuables  are  said  to 
have  been  dug  up  in  sealed  earthen 
jars,  often  by  the  merest  accident,  in 
the  ground,  in  the  walls  of  houses,  un- 
der enchanted  trees,  and  in  sepulchres. 


From  earliest  childhood  the  people's 
minds  are  fed  on  these  tales,  and  they 
grow  up  with  all  their  senses  alert  to 
the  remotest  suggestion  of  such  pos- 
sibilities. 

This  mode  of  thinking  is  clearly  re- 
flected in  that  short  parable  in  the 
thirteenth  chapter  of  St.  Matthew,  in 
which  it  is  said:  'The  kingdom  of 
heaven  is  like  unto  treasure  hid  in 
a  field;  the  which  when  a  man  hath 
found,  he  hideth,  and  for  joy  thereof 
goeth  and  selleth  all  that  he  hath,  and 
buyeth  that  field.'  It  was  most  nat- 
ural therefore  for  us  to  suspect  that 
the  round  hole  might  be  the  doorway 
to  a  vast  treasure  hidden  somewhere  in 
the  heart  of  the  surrounding  rock,  and 
to  decide  to  follow  up  our  enchanting 
clew. 

II 

At  sundown  we  assembled  at  Abu- 
'Azar's  house  to  take  counsel  together. 
Through  mental  germination,  under 
the  spell  of  all  that  we  had  been  taught 
with  regard  to  hidden  treasure,  'the 
will  to  believe'  grew  steadily  stronger; 
therefore  the  chief  problem  which  pre- 
sented itself  to  us  was  how  to  devise 
the  best  and  safest  method  of  finding 
the  precious  pots  of  gold. 

But  this  problem  was  no  simple  one. 
In  the  first  place  the  treasure  might  be 
guarded  by  a  Russed  —  a  dread,  death- 
less spirit  which  knew  neither  slumber 
nor  sleep.  For  was  it  not  told  often  of 
persons  who  presumed  to  possess  them- 
selves of  an  enchanted  treasure,  that 
they  were  smitten  mercilessly  by  the 
Russed  with  incurable  physical  and 
mental  afflictions?  There  was  Yusuf 
Abu-Hatim,  who  had  recently  died, 
and  who  was  still  remembered  by  many 
in  our  community  chiefly  because  of  a 
horrible  deformity  from  which  he  suf- 
fered as  a  result  of  an  encounter  with 
a  spirit  treasure-guard.  For  years  Yu- 
suf's  lower  jaw  had  been  so  twisted 


724 


THE  HIDDEN  TREASURE  OF  RISHMEY-YEH 


that  his  tongue  touched  his  ear  when- 
ever he  attempted  to  speak.  Another 
unfortunate  was  Makhaul  Asaad,  who 
under  similar  circumstances  was  smit- 
ten with  a  perpetual  hunger  which 
made  of  him  a  howling  beast.  Other 
men  suffered  other  punishments  for 
their  intrusion  upon  the  domains  of 
the  mysterious  powers. 

In  the  second  place,  we  had  always 
known  that  the  Turkish  government 
prohibited  secret  digging  for  treas- 
ures, under  severe  penalty.  Such  op- 
erations could  be  safely  carried  on  only 
after  a  government  permit  had  been 
procured;  but  it  was  well-nigh  impos- 
sible to  obtain  these  permits,  and  more- 
over they  stipulated  (according  to  the 
popular  and  in  all  probability  inaccu- 
rate understanding)  that  one  third  of 
the  treasure  should  go  to  the  finder  or 
finders,  one  third  to  the  owner  of  the 
land  in  which  the  treasure  was  found, 
and  one  third  to  the  government.  In 
Turkey,  especially  in  the  days  of  Ab- 
dul-Hamid,  we  were  ruled  not  by  laws 
but  by  men.  What  the  past  had  taught 
us  with  regard  to  such  cases  was  that, 
in  administering  the  'law,'  the  govern- 
ment usually  took  all  that  was  found, 
and  rewarded  the  digger  by  throwing 
him  into  prison  on  the  charge  that  he 
must  have  found  much  more  than  he 
had  made  known  to  the  officials.  It  was 
for  the  serious  consideration  of  these 
and  kindred,  though  less  weighty,  mat- 
ters that  we  assembled  at  Abu-'Azar's 
house  on  that  memorable  evening. 

The  company  included  Abu-'Azar, 
his  wife,  his  daughter-in-law,  his  two 
sons,  Jurjus1  and  Jubbur,  Abu-Nezhim, 
and  myself.  After  the  Oriental  fashion, 
we  all  sat  on  the  floor,  which  was  cov- 
ered with  straw  mats,  cushions,  and 
sheepskins.  The  men  formed  a  semi- 
circle which  terminated  at  either  side 
of  the  maukedah,  —  fireplace,  —  sitting 
'knee  upon  knee.*  The  women,  who 

i  Pronounced  Zhurzhus. 


were  not  supposed  to  take  a  conspic- 
uous part  in  the  deliberations,  sat  at 
one  side,  behind  us.  The  elder  lady, 
like  the  '  virtuous  woman '  in  the  book 
of  Proverbs,  'laid  her  hand  to  the  spin- 
dle' and  spun  thread;  the  younger  lady 
was  making  an  arkiah,  the  white  mus- 
lin skull-cap,  closely  stitched,  which  is 
worn  under  the  tarboosh,  projecting 
slightly  around  the  forehead,  and  is  to 
the  tarboosh  what  the  cuff  is  to  the 
sleeve.  Those  good  women,  however, 
were  not  altogether  detached  mentally 
from  the  subject  in  hand,  for  as  we 
progressed  in  our  serious  deliberations 
they  gave  pious  sighs  and  cast  upward 
looks  which  signified  a  profound  im- 
ploring of  the  higher  powers. 

Of  course,  profound  secrecy  was  the 
first  prerequisite,  and  to  this  all  of  us 
pledged  ourselves  without  the  slight- 
est mental  reservation.  Abu-'Azar,  be- 
ing the  oldest  man  among  us,  as  well 
as  the  owner  of  the  land,  occupied  the 
seat  of  honor.  He  was  a  man  of  dig- 
nified but  stern  appearance,  reserved  in 
speech,  of  a  fiery  temperament  when 
crossed;  and  although  of  a  stubborn 
will  he  was  paradoxically  capable  of 
startlingly  sudden  mental  changes.  On 
this  occasion,  however,  he  was  very 
tractable,  even  amiable,  and  spoke  in 
a  wise  and  happy  manner.  , 

Our  first  decision  was  that  we  would 
not  notify  the  authorities  of  our  inten- 
tions. The  prize  we  were  seeking  seem- 
ed to  us  great  enough  to  justify  our 
running  the  risk  of  being  *  caught  in 
the  act,'  rather  than  expose  ourselves 
voluntarily  to  Turkish  injustice  and 
cruelty.  The  affair  was  wholly  our  own. 
Furthermore,  Abu-Nezhim  and  I  real- 
ized instinctively  that  if  the  authorities 
were  notified,  and,  in  the  event  of  our 
success,  took  one  third  of  the  treasure, 
and  if  Abu-'Azar  took  one  third  as  the 
owner  of  the  land,  and  then  he,  his  wife, 
his  sons,  and  his  daughter-in-law  took 
their  shares,  as  *  diggers,'  of  what  was 


THE  HIDDEN  TREASURE  OF  RISHMEY-YEH 


left,  our  portions  would  be  indeed  very 
small.  Consequently  Abu-Nezhim  and 
I  were  decidedly  opposed  to  the  ruin- 
ous legal  method  of  procedure. 

The  mystery  of  the  Russed  next 
claimed  our  attention.  It  was  barely 
possible  that  the  treasure  we  were  seek- 
ing was  not  *  guarded.'  But  what  if  it 
were?  Which  one  of  us  was  so  fool- 
hardy as  to  presume  to  run  such  an  aw- 
ful risk?  In  due  time  a  great  Mughre- 
by  (magician)  must  be  sought,  to  neu- 
tralize the  mysterious  power  for  us 
before  we  should  venture  to  possess 
ourselves  of  the  discovered  gold.  But 
such  a  necessity  was  as  yet  remote; 
much  work  must  be  done,  and  stronger 
evidences  of  the  existence  of  the  treas- 
ure secured,  before  the  aid  of  a  Mugh- 
reby  was  absolutely  needed.  Russeds 
had  often  been  known  not  to  molest 
treasure-diggers  until  they  presumed 
to  carry  the  gold  away.  Some  spirits 
had  even  been  known  to  give  warning, 
in  rattlesnake  fashion,  thus 'affording 
intruders  an  opportunity  to  escape  be- 
fore the  treasure  was  disturbed.  One 
of  our  townsmen,  who  possessed  a  self- 
augmenting  memory,  often  told  me 
of  a  treasure  in  a  cave  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Mount  Hermon,  —  a  heap  of 
silver  coin,  which  no  man  could  carry 
away  because  of  the  Russed  which  as 
yet  no  magician  had  been  able  to  *  neu- 
tralize.' That  man  asserted  that  he 
himself  visited  the  cave  and  handled 
the  coin;  but  that  when  he  tried  to  car- 
ry some  of  it  away  he  could  not  find 
the  door  of  the  cave,  and  kept  going 
round  in  a  circle  until  he  dropped  the 
precious  burden. 

The  immediate  problem,  then,  was 
how  to  carry  on  the  necessary  opera- 
tions of  digging  without  being  discov- 
ered. The  enchanted  spot  was  some- 
what remote  from  the  more  populous 
section  of  the  town,  but  the  convent  of 
St.  Elias  was  only  a  short  distance 
away,  and  several  monks  labored  in  its 


fields  and  vineyards  daily  from  dawn 
till  dusk.  Just  a  little  way  below  us 
there  was  a  public  fountain,  to  which 
all  day  an  almost  unbroken  line  of 
women  came  to  fill  their  jars.  Besides, 
there  were  our  tenders,  Ahmed  and 
Husein,  the  Druses,  who  dug  the  hole 
for  us,  and  whom  we  certainly  did  not 
wish  to  admit  into  our  confidence.  In 
such  matters  no  Druse  could  be  ex- 
pected to  keep  the  secret  of  a  Christian, 
the  *  enemy  of  his  faith.' 

We  met  the  first  of  these  difficulties 
by  deciding  that,  as  it  was  well  known 
to  the  entire  community  that  we  were 
building  a  house  near  the  convent,  the 
presence  of  laborers  in  the  neighbor- 
hood would  excite  no  suspicion.  As  to 
Ahmed  and  Husein,  some  way  could 
easily  be  found  to  'lay  them  off'  for  a 
day  or  two,  and  they  lived  in  another 
town  far  away.  How  to  dispose  of  the 
ancient  coin  and  jewelry  without  being 
suspected  of  having  found  a  treasure, 
did  not  at  the  time  perplex  us  very  seri- 
ously. In  fact  we  were  averse  to  even 
the  slightest  suggestion  which  tended 
to  dampen  our  ardor  and  weaken  our 
resolution. 

Having  thus  disposed  of  our  prob- 
lems, we  fell  into  poetic  contemplation 
of  the  glorious  future  which  loomed  be- 
fore us.  The  palaces  we  designed  that 
night  for  our  future  dwelling  places,  the 
Arabian  steeds,  Persian  hand-wrought 
arms,  European  carriages,  and  a  mul- 
titude of  other  luxuries,  formed  the  ex- 
tensive programme  of  the  millennial 
period  which  seemed  about  to  dawn 
upon  us;  and  our  imaginings  did  full 
justice  to  the  Oriental  passion  for  idle- 
ness and  luxury.  True,  some  differen- 
ces of  taste  were  manifest  among  us 
with  regard  to  our  future  environment 
and  mode  of  living,  but  they  were  not 
serious  enough  to  precipitate  a  quarrel. 

But  the  most  startling  occurrence 
of  that  never-to-be-forgotten  meeting 
took  place  shortly  before  it  broke  up. 


726 


THE  HIDDEN  TREASURE  OF  RISHMEY-YEH 


While  we  were  designing  our  future 
palaces,  Abu-'Azar  seemed  for  a  few 
minutes  to  fall  into  a  state  of  deep  con- 
templation. His  face  was  illumined  as 
with  a  new  and  significant  vision,  and 
his  eyes  moved  dreamily  from  one  to 
another  of  our  faces.  Presently,  push- 
ing his  turbaned  tarboosh  back  from 
his  forehead,  he  startled  us  with  the 
following  tale:  — 

*Ya  shebab*  (valiant  young  men), 
exclaimed  Abu-'Azar,  'hear,  and  I  will 
speak  to  you!  Many  years  ago,  while 
on  my  way  from  Beyrout,  I  stopped  to 
sustain  my  heart  with  a  morsel  of  food 
at  the  inn  of  Ber-el-Wernar.  While  I 
was  eating,  my  eyes  fell  upon  a  Mugh- 
reby  who  sat  near  the  door  of  the  inn, 
wrapped  in  his  dark  striped  cloak.  So 
mysterious  was  he  that  he  might  have 
but  just  emerged  from  the  cave  of 
Daniel.1  Whenever  I  looked  at  him  I 
saw  his  black  piercing  eyes  fixed  upon 
me,  and  I  feared  that  he  might  bewitch 
me.  But  I  named  the  Holy  Name  and 
thus  strengthened  my  heart  against 
him.  Having  done  with  my  food,  I 
lighted  a  cigarette  and  braved  dan- 
ger by  going  closer  to  the  mysterious 
man.  From  his  manner  I  perceived 
that  he  had  somewhat  to  say  to  me,  so 
I  moved  still  closer  to  him  and  respect- 
fully asked  him,  — 

*  "O  Hajj,  have  you  aught  for  me, 
and  is  it  salaam  and  good  fortune?'3 

'Fastening  his  fire-striking  eyes  more 
intently  upon  me,  the  Mughreby  an- 
swered, — 

"Yes,  wayfarer,  I  have  somewhat  to 
tell  you,  and  it  is  salaam  and  good  for- 

1  The  cave  of  Daniel  (the  prophet),  whose 
walls  were  covered  with  talasim,  —  mystic  in- 
scriptions, —  was  supposed  to  exist  deep  in  the 
heart  of  the  earth,  somewhere  in  north  Africa. 
The  earth  yawned  at  that  spot  only  once  each 
year,  when  seekers  after  the  supreme  art  of  magic 
descended  into  the  cave  and  there  stayed  a  whole 
year  without  food,  emerging  when  the  earth 
yawned  again,  instructed  in  all  the  mysteries  of 
the  diabolical  art.  —  THE  AUTHOR. 


tune,  if  you  prove  yourself  cautious 
and  deserving.  You  are  a  dweller  of 
the  mountain  region;  you  own  a  parcel 
of  land  near  a  shrine.  In  one  of  the  ter- 
race walls  of  that  parcel  of  land  is  a 
high  rock  chipped  by  a  stone-cutter's 
tool.  If  you  would  possess  riches,  meas- 
ure forty  cubits  from  that  rock  east- 
ward and  dig.  I  will  say  no  more  now; 
only  that  you  must  beware  of  the  mys- 
terious powers.  Allah  is  the  wise  and 
bounteous  giver. " 

Abu-'Azar's  revelation  thrilled  our 
souls  to  the  very  centre. 

'And  what  did  you  do  about  it?' 
was  our  eager  question. 

'Nothing/  said  he.  'That  was  short- 
ly after  the  herekah ' 2  (disturbance), 
'  when  the  blood  was  still  hot  and  men's 
minds  were  perplexed.  Later,  the  roll- 
ing on  of  the  years  made  me  forget  the 
matter/ 

Angels!  What  clearer  evidence  did 
we  require  to  prove  to  us  that  Abu- 
'Azar's  parcel  of  ground  contained  a 
treasure? 

The  night  being  cloudy  and  dark, 
no  measurements  could  be  taken  then; 
but  we  watched  for  the  morning.  On 
the  morrow,  at  the  earliest  dawn,  'be- 
fore faces  could  be  recognized/  we  were 
on  the  interesting  spot.  We  found  the 
'  high  rock  chipped  by  a  stone-cutter's 
tool/  and  measured  from  it  'eastward' 
forty  cubits.  The  fortieth  cubit  span- 
ned the  mouth  of  the  round  hole!  Our 
joy  reached  the  point  of  consternation. 
Riches  lay  at  our  feet!  Should  we  not 
proceed  at  once  to  uncover  the  trea- 
sure? But  that  would  not  be  wise.  Our 
helpers  Ahmed  and  Husein  would  soon 
be  with  us,  and  if  they  once  got  wind 
of  our  intentions  they  would  certainly 
betray  us  to  the  dread  authorities.  We 
would  therefore  possess  our  souls  in 
patience  through  that  day,  follow  our 
normal  activities,  and  in  the  meantime 

2  A  brief  civil  war  between  the  Christians  and 
the  Druses,  in  1860. 


THE  HIDDEN  TREASURE  OF  RISHMEY-YEH 


727 


find  a  suitable  excuse  to  dispense  with 
the  services  of  the  Druses  for  the  mor- 
row, when  we  would  proceed  with  the 
digging,  all  by  ourselves. 

Ill 

The  day  seemed  endless  and  full  of 
drudgery.  To  be  toiling  like  slaves 
while  riches  lay  at  our  feet  was  any- 
thing but  pleasant;  but  we  bore  up 
under  our  secret  with  stoical  fortitude. 
Aside  from  a  few  significant  glances  and 
winks  which  we  shot  at  one  another 
during  the  weary  hours,  we  betrayed 
no  signs  which  could  awaken  the  sus- 
picions of  our  alien  fellow  laborers.  But 
what  excuse  could  we  find  for  telling 
them  not  to  come  on  the  morrow? 

Here  Abu-Nezhim,  who  was  a  church 
*  reader '  and  often  assisted  at  the  Mass, 
came  to  the  rescue.  His  suggestion  was 
that  we  tell  Ahmed  and  Husein,  who 
knew  nothing  about  the  Christian  cal- 
endar, that  the  following  day  was  a 
holy  day  on  which  we  Christians  were 
forbidden  to  work,  and  of  which  we 
had  forgotten  to  speak  to  them  earlier 
in  the  week.  Furthermore,  the  follow- 
ing day  being  Friday,  it  would  not  be 
worth  while  for  them  to  come  on  Sat- 
urday; therefore  they  need  not  report 
until  the  following  Monday.  The  two 
Druses,  fearing  the  loss  of  their  job 
altogether  if  they  should  remonstrate, 
accepted  the  situation,  with  what  in- 
ward dissatisfaction  we  did  not  know 
or  care. 

Threatening  weather  gave  us  an 
added  sense  of  security  from  intruders 
on  that  Friday  morning.  As  the  early 
rays  of  the  gray  dawn  began  to  stream 
over  the  heights  of  Lebanon,  our  party 
of  seven,  five  men  and  two  women,  be- 
gan the  work  of  removing  the  stones 
which  the  workmen  had  thrown  into 
the  round  hole  two  days  before.  Need- 
less to  say,  our  hands  moved  with  such 
power  and  swiftness  that  in  an  incred- 


ibly short  time  all  the  stones  were 
thrown  out;  and  the  digging  was  re- 
sumed with  the  greatest  eagerness. 

We  had  not  gone  deeper  than  a  foot 
when  there  appeared  at  the  west  side 
of  the  opening  the  edge  of  a  large  slab 
of  stone  about  five  inches  thick,  stand- 
ing upright,  sealed  around  the  edges 
with  mortar  and  apparently  covering 
the  mouth  of  an  horizontal  excavation. 
When  this  stone  was  partly  uncovered, 
I  took  the  hammer  and  tapped  it  light- 
ly three  times.  The  strokes  produced 
a  hollow  sound  and  a  faint  echo  with- 
in. Our  hearts  beat  violently,  and  our 
faces  turned  pale  with  excitement. 

Abu-'Azar,  who  stood  above  at  the 
mouth  of  the  opening,  with  his  wife 
and  daughter-in-law,  as  sentinels,  re- 
verently lifted  his  turbaned  tarboosh 
from  his  head,  crossed  himself,  turned 
his  face  toward  the  shrine  of  St.  Elias, 
and  in  most  solemn  accents  vowed  that 
if  our  efforts  were  crowned  with  suc- 
cess he  would  place  over  the  image  of 
the  gray-bearded  saint  a  jeweled  crown 
of  pure  gold.  The  two  women  sealed 
the  fervent  vow  by  beating  upon  their 
breasts  and  saying  imploringly,  'Yea, 
Amen!'  which  was  echoed  with  pro- 
found sincerity  by  each  one  of  us. 

St.  Elias  was  accorded  the  first  honor 
simply  because  he  was  the  superhuman 
personage  nearest  to  us  geographically. 
The  Virgin  Mary,  St.  Antonio,  whose 
shrine  crowned  the  rocky  summit 
overlooking  the  fertile  valley  in  which 
the  town  nestled,  and  other  saints  who 
were  deemed  the  mightiest  helpers  of 
men,  were  implored  with  most  persua- 
sive promises  to  take  strong  interest 
in  our  enterprise.  I  now  realize  that 
only  a  gold  mine  of  the  richest  output 
could  have  paid  all  the  vows  we  made 
on  that  occasion. 

After  we  had  dug  to  the  depth  of 
about  three  feet  behind  the  stone  slab, 
Abu-Nezhim  swung  his  hammer  and 
struck  the  stone  several  times  at  about 


728 


THE  HIDDEN  TREASURE  OF  RISHMEY-YEH 


the  centre.  It  broke  and  fell  in  several 
pieces,  revealing  a  large  dark  cave,  lit 
only  by  the  light  which  streamed  into 
it  through  the  opening  we  had  just 
made. 

Instantly  Abu-'Azar  jumped  into 
the  hole,  muttering  what  sounded  like 
pious  words.  The  women,  forgetting 
for  the  moment  the  danger  of  such 
demonstrations,  gave  a  scream.  Jurjus 
and  Jubbur  gave  vent  to  their  pent-up 
feelings  simultaneously  with  a  charac- 
teristic Syrian  expression  in  the  Arabic 
language:  'Igit  wa  Allah  jabha! '  which 
is,  by  literal  interpretation,  'It  has 
come,  and  God  has  brought  it';  and  in 
more  intelligible  English,  *  Fortune  has 
come,  by  the  grace  of  God/  Abu-Nez- 
him  and  I  felt  too  full  for  utterance. 
And  suddenly,  without  knowing  how 
we  got  there,  we  two  found  ourselves 
squeezed  together  in  the  square  open- 
ing on  our  way  to  the  darkness  within. 
No  sooner  did  we  get  inside  than  our 
three  comrades  came  in,  elbowing  one 
another,  the  sons  (forgetting  for  the 
moment  the  proprieties  of  patriarchal 
family  life)  preceding  their  father.  The 
women  remained  outside  and  hurled 
questions  at  us  while  they  implored  us 
to  beware  of  the  Russed. 

Before  us  lay  a  cave  about  forty  feet 
long  and  twenty-five  feet  wide.  The 
soft  chalk-rock  ceiling  had  crumbled 
with  the  flight  of  the  years,  and  had 
come  down  in  heaps  at  various  points. 
The  huge  fig  tree  growing  in  the  soil 
above  sent  its  roots  through  the  seams 
in  the  rock  to  the  cave  below.  But  on 
the  left  as  we  entered,  the  rocky  wall 
of  the  cave  was  of  a  more  solid  sub- 
stance, and,  as  far  as  we  could  see, 
smooth  as  the  palm  of  the  hand. 

The  roughness  of  the  interior  of  the 
cave  and  its  vastness  seemed  for  the 
moment  to  overwhelm  us.  Where  were 
we  to  dig?  What  spot  of  the  large  in- 
terior held  the  treasure?  What  were  we 
to  do  with  the  huge  masses  of  crum- 


bling rock?  Abu-Nezhim  and  I  were 
the  hope  of  the  party  in  dealing  with 
weighty  engineering  problems,  but 
the  difficulties  of  our  situation  were 
practical,  not  technical.  Time,  labor, 
and  the  ability  to  remain  hidden  from 
the  gaze  of  the  outside  world  were  the 
things  most  needful;  but  they  would 
be  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  secure. 
For  how  could  we  hope  to  have  the 
power  to  do  the  amount  of  work  re- 
quired? and  how,  supposing  that  we 
could  do  the  work,  were  we  to  disguise 
such  vast  operations  on  the  pretense 
that  we  were  only  building  a  house? 

However,  it  was  most  natural  for  us 
to  want  to  test  certain  spots,  in  the 
hope  of  at  least  securing  encouraging 
clews.  So  it  was  decided  that  we  should 
proceed  with  the  digging,  very  cau- 
tiously, close  by  the  smooth  rock,  which 
seemed  to  us  to  be  the  sign  left  by  those 
who  buried  the  treasure,  to  guide  them 
back  to  it. 

The  pickaxe  and  shovel  brought  to 
the  surface  pieces  of  mortar,  pottery, 
and  some  ashes.  Favorable  signs,  es- 
pecially the  mortar  and  pottery.  Fur- 
ther digging  multiplied  those  signs,  but 
revealed  no  new  ones.  We  worked 
until  shortly  past  the  noon  hour,  as  we 
saw  by  the  shadows  of  the  trees  and 
the  convent  walls,  when  we  laid  down 
our  tools  and  sat  together  in  a  shel- 
tered spot  to  eat  our  frugal  lunch  and 
take  further  counsel.  After  the  short 
period  of  silence  which  always  charac- 
terizes the  beginning  of  a  meal  with  a 
hungry  company,  desultory  remarks  be- 
gan to  fall  from  our  lips. 

*  Mysterious !  all  is  mysterious ! '  mur- 
mured Abu-'Azar,  as  in  a  trance.  'I 
am  convinced;  there  is  a  treasure  un- 
der my  fig  tree,  but  we  must  be  wise 
in  seeking  it.  The  help  of  magic  must 
besought.  We  need,  first,  to  know  posi- 
tively the  exact  spot  where  the  trea- 
sure is  buried;  and,  second,  the  potion 
to  break  the  spell  of  the  Russed,  I  shall 


THE  FAILURE  OF  THE  CHURCH 


729 


not  allow  any  further  digging  without 
such  means.  Years  ago  the  Mughreby 
warned  me  against  the  "mysterious 
powers,"  and  I  do  not  feel  that  the 
lives  of  my  sons  and  your  lives,  mas- 
ters, should  be  recklessly  exposed  to 
such  awful  danger,  seeing  that  our 
wrestling  is  not  with  flesh  and  blood 
but  with  superhuman  principalities 
and  powers.' 

After  careful  deliberation,  therefore, 
it  was  decided  that  two  of  us  should 
proceed  at  once  to  Beyrout  to  consult 
and  seek  the  aid  of  El-Abdeh  (colored 
woman),  a  Mohammedan  witch  whose 
powers  were  supposed  to  equal  those 
of  the  ancient  witch  of  En-dor  whom 
Saul  sought  in  his  extremity.  The 
fame  of  El-Abdeh  filled  the  land  from 
Aleppo  to  Beyrout  and  the  regions  of 


Judea.  Great  were  the  marvels  she 
accomplished,  from  the  finding  of  a 
lost  bracelet  to  the  unhinging  of  the 
most  august  human  intellect.  Of  a 
truth  she  had  the  power  of  rendering 
any  Russed  harmless,  inasmuch  as  she 
was  a  most  intimate  friend  of  Beelze- 
bub. Associated  with  her  was  a  Mugh- 
reby, who  was  also  deeply  versed  in 
the  diabolical  arts,  and  who,  in  joint 
counsel  with  the  Abdeh,  dealt  with  the 
men  clients. 

To  Beyrout  then,  without  delay! 
Meanwhile  Abu-Nezhim  and  I  decided 
that  it  was  not  at  all  safe  to  build 
the  house  over  a  cave,  that  the  plans 
must  be  altered,  and  that  word  should 
be  sent  to  our  Druse  laborers  bidding 
them  not  to  come  to  us  until  further 
notice. 


(To  be  concluded.) 


THE  FAILURE  OF  THE  CHURCH 


BY  EDWARD  LEWIS 


[A  word  about  the  author  of  this  paper  seems 
essential  to  its  complete  understanding.  Some 
months  ago  we  noticed  a  brief  editorial  in  the 
London  Nation  which  read  as  follows:  — 

*  An  event  of  real  importance  in  the  Churches 
is  the  decision  of  Mr.  Edward  Lewis  to  resign  his 
pastorate  of  the  King's  Weigh  House  Church  at 
Clapham,  on  the  ground  that  he  can  no  longer 
reconcile  his  desire  to  be  a  "  man  of  God  "  with  his 
position  as  a  "  comfortably  conditioned  official" 
of  "organized  religion."  Mr.  Lewis  writes  his 
letter  from  Assisi,  the  home  of  the  greatest  of 
mediaeval  Christians  and  of  the  re-birth  of  Chris- 
tianity as  a  gospel  of  poverty  and  simplicity  of 
living.  In  future  Mr.  Lewis  declares  that  he  will 
resort  to  wayside  preaching.  His  formal  secession 
from  Congregationalism  deprives  it  of  its  most 
gifted  "intellectual,"  and  is  one  of  many  signs  of 


a  new  spirit  of  freedom  sweeping  powerfully 
through  the  world.' 

Believing  that  this  striking  action  of  Mr.  Lewis 
typifies  in  large  measure  that  spirit  of  religious 
revolt  which  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  phe- 
nomena of  our  time,  we  wrote  to  Mr.  Lewis,  who 
sent  us  in  reply  the  following  article.  —  THE 
EDITORS.] 


I  AM  writing  from  England,  and  with 
a  quite  unpardonably  superficial  know- 
ledge of  the  *  Church-Situation*  in 
America.  The  observations,  however, 
which  I  desire  to  make  are  of  so  broad 
and  general  a  character  that  any  force 


730 


THE  FAILURE  OF  THE  CHURCH 


they  have  will  not  be  impaired  by  acci- 
dental local  conditions.  Clinical  exami- 
nations of  the  church-situation  have 
frequently  been  made  of  late  years  by 
various  practitioners;  but  although 
their  reports  have  rarely  failed  to  give 
an  accurate  and  more  or  less  exhaust- 
ive account  of  the  symptoms  of  weak- 
ness and  failure,  they  have  not,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  shown  any  clear  apprehen- 
sion of  the  root-causes  thereof.  The 
suggested  remedies,  therefore,  have 
been  for  the  most  part  in  the  manner  of 
relief  of  acute  localized  symptoms,  and 
have  not  availed,  nor  will  they  ever 
avail,  to  restore  the  prestige  and  power 
of  the  Church  in  modern  society.  On 
the  contrary,  in  spite  of  sometimes  fran- 
tic efforts  to  make  the  Church  attrac- 
tive (a  suggestion  which,  in  itself,  is  a 
serious  criticism),  the  diminution  pro- 
ceeds, not  only  of  the  number  of  adher- 
ents in  all  save  the  Roman  Catholic 
communion,  but  also  of  vital  influence 
in  the  life  of  society.  It  is  scarcely 
an  exaggeration  to  say  that,  in  Eng- 
land at  least,  the  Church  is  in  Queer 
Street. 

The  present  article  is  an  attempt 
to  disclose  the  root-causes  of  this 
failure. 

During  a  recent  visit  to  Italy,  a  Fran- 
ciscan padre  said  to  me  with  admirable 
assurance,  'In  ten  thousand  years  the 
Church  will  be  here  as  it  is  now.'  He 
meant  his  own  communion  in  its  insti- 
tutional form.  The  Theory  of  Evolu- 
tion is,  for  the  Roman  Catholic,  on  the 
Index;  and  probably  his  mind  moves  at 
a  slower  tempo  than  the  rest  of  the  world ; 
so  the  padre  may  be  congratulated  on 
his  enthusiasm,  and  left  to  his  delusion. 
How  far  this  optimistic  vista  is  shared 
by  the  religious  world  as  a  whole  it  is 
not  easy  to  judge;  perhaps  it  is  true 
that  the  majority  of  Christians  regard 
the  Church  as  identical  with  the  King- 
dom of  God,  and  as  having  the  stabil- 
ity of  the  New  Jerusalem  itself. 


Crowns  and  thrones  may  perish. 
Kingdoms  rise  and  wane, 
But  the  Church  of  Jesus 
Constant  will  remain. 

A  very  comforting  doctrine  doubtless, 
but  the  telescope  must  be  at  a  very 
blind  eye  indeed  if  a  churchman  cannot 
see  that  most  of  the  signs  of  the  times 
are  against  him.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
one  of  the  most  conspicuous  of  such 
signs  is  a  widespread  anxiety,  especially 
among  its  more  awakened  and  alive  ad- 
herents, concerning  the  position  and 
influence  of  the  Christian  Church. 

The  Church's  power  as  an  organiza- 
tion is  obviously  on  the  wane.  That 
Roman  Catholicism  is  increasing  its 
numbers  both  in  England  and  in  Amer- 
ica, and  that  Roman  Catholics  attain 
to  the  highest  civic  and  political  offices 
in  these  essentially  Protestant  lands, 
is  no  valid  objection  to  this  state- 
ment. This  numerical  increment  is  to 
be  accounted  for  partly  by  immigra- 
tion, partly,  and  perhaps  chiefly,  by 
the  fact  that  in  times  of  intellectual 
unrest  people  of  less  robust  mind  will 
run  for  a  haven  even  if  they  have  to 
turn  in  their  tracks  to  reach  it,  and  the 
reaction  from  oppressive  and  exhaust- 
ing materialism  will  drive  not  a  few 
to  where  the  great  mysteries  are  still 
frankly  acknowledged  and  reverenced; 
but  no  one  imagines  that  an  institution 
can  thrive  permanently  on  accretions 
of  this  character;  and  there  is  no  sane 
Englishman  who  would  maintain  that 
Roman  Catholicism  is  developing  or- 
ganically with  the  national  life  of  his 
country.  It  is  perfectly  obvious  that 
this  great  Church  which  once  control- 
led the  policies  of  a  continent  has 
practically  no  institutional  influence 
at  what  may  be  called  the  crucial  and 
strategic  points  of  the  modern  Welt 
Politik.  It  may  be  said  to  be  her  age- 
long policy,  —  and  the  recent  official 
banning  of  the  works  of  Bergson  is  an 
expression  of  it,  —  to  have  no  influence 


THE  FAILURE  OF  THE  CHURCH 


731 


on  the  vital  thought-movement  of  the 
world. 

The  Protestant  churches  are  of  lit- 
tle account  in  the  actual  life  of  modern 
society.  In  England,  eighty  per  cent 
of  the  people  are  outside  their  pale. 
In  Germany  there  is  the  Austrittsbe- 
wegung  movement,  in  connection  with 
which,  as  a  writer  in  the  current  num- 
ber of  the  Hibbert  Journal  informs  us, 
since  January  1, 1908,  '  in  Berlin  alone 
31,967  Protestants,  5029  Catholics, 
and  196  Jews  have  notified  their  Aus- 
tritt.9  The  increasing  weakness  of  these 
churches  is  shown  by  their  increasing 
concern  to  attract  the  people;  days 
were  when  the  Church  was  a  'govern- 
ment of  men ';  nowadays  with  all  man- 
ner of  devices  it  angles  and  touts  after 
men. 

The  '  Kikuyu  controversy  '  doubtless 
meant  something  very  important  for 
the  institutional  side  of  the  Anglican 
Church,  but  the  world  at  large  looked 
on  with  either  amusement  or  indif- 
ference or  contempt.  A  cartoon  in 
Punch  in  which  a  couple  of  Negro  na- 
tives were  represented  as  singing  an 
aria,  'Why  do  Christians  rage? '  was  an 
admirable  and  accurate  indication  of 
the  public  attitude  toward  that  pro- 
ceeding. Custom  and  habit  will  always 
have  their  hordes  of  slaves,  but  it  is 
becoming  more  and  more  manifest  that 
the  free  mind,  the  free  life,  the  free 
spirit  of  the  modern  world  are  away 
from,  and  not  with,  the  Church. 

It  is  a  strange  paradox,  —  Religion 
flourishes,  the  organized  Church  de- 
cays. What  is  the  reason  for  it?  What 
is  the  remedy?  It  will  be  time  enough 
to  talk  of  remedy,  when  we  have  dis- 
covered the  true  reasons.  It  is  at  least 
possible  that  we  may  then  be  compelled 
to  the  conclusion  that  there  is  no  rem- 
edy, —  and  this  is  not  quite  so  tragic 
a  statement  as  at  first  sight  it  may 
seem. 

It  may  be  stated,  with  an  assurance 


of  profounder  root  than  that  which 
made  the  Franciscan  priest  swell  with 
pride,  that,  as  an  organization,  the 
Christian  Church  is  necessarily  imper- 
manent; it  must  go  the  way  of  all  other 
institutions;  in  ten  thousand  years,  — 
which  is  really  a  longer  time  than  it 
sounds,  since,  with  the  speeding-up  of 
modern  life  and  the  dramatically  rapid 
developments  in  scientific  and  critical 
thought,  a  day  with  us  'is  as  a  thou- 
sand years/  —  the  Christian  Church 
either  will  not  be  here,  except  perhaps 
fossilized  like  Rossetti's  toad  in  the 
stone,  or  will  be  so  different  in  every 
way  (including  its  name)  as  not  to  be 
recognizable.  The  life  which  creates 
forms  always  destroys  them  in  the  full- 
ness of  time;  the  Church  must  either 
perish,  or  it  must  be  destroyed  by  being 
fulfilled.  It  can  only  persist  by  being 
left,  if  the  paradox  may  be  allowed. 
Whatsoever  of  ancient  Judaism,  for 
example,  vitally  persists  in  the  mod- 
ern world,  is  to  be  found  in  the  Juda- 
istic  elements  of  thought  and  practice 
which  are  embedded  in  the  Christian 
system.  And  history  will  repeat  itself. 
Christianity,  as  we  know  it  to-day, 
must  ultimately  be  dissolved  in  a  new 
religious  synthesis.  One  of  the  first 
articles  of  belief,  for  a  truly  religious 
and  spiritual  man  within  the  Christian 
community,  ought  to  be  that  there  is 
a  'Beyond  Christianity/  The  passage 
into  this  '  Beyond  Christianity '  is  in- 
evitable in  the  natural  course  of  events. 


n 

And  here  I  come  upon  the  first  of  my 
suggested  root-causes.  The  Christian 
Church  does  not  believe  in  a  'Beyond 
Christianity/  It  is  as  much  a  closed 
system  as  ever  Judaism  was.  It  be- 
lieves in  its  own  potential  finality;  it 
believes  in  minor  developments  within 
itself,  but  that  in  essence  it  is  the  final 
word  in  Religion;  there  is  'more  light 


732 


THE  FAILURE  OF  THE  CHURCH 


to  break  forth  from  the  Word,'  but 
there  are  no  other  *  Words.'  It  is  the 
walled  Eternal  City;  within  the  walls 
there  is  sufficient  accommodation,  but 
there  is  no  question  of  the  walls  ever 
being  dissolved.  It  has  no  real  outlook. 
All  that  really  matters  is  within.  It  is 
capable  of  variation,  but  not  of  muta- 
tion. Salvation  is  through  its  sacra- 
ments alone;  it  goes  'out  into  the  high- 
ways and  byways/  but  only  in  order 
to  'compel  them  to  come  in.'  It  talks 
about  evangelizing  the  world,  but  it 
really  means  bringing  the  peoples  of 
other  religions  into  the  Christian  sys- 
tem and  institution.  Its  one  hope  for 
those  who  die  unbelieving  is  that,  in 
some  other  state  of  existence,  they  may 
have  a  further  chance  of  becoming 
Christians.  Heaven  is  the  imaginary 
projection  of  the  final  Christian  com- 
munity; and  the  guaranty  of  a  place 
therein  is  church-membership,  —  in  a 
broad  sense. 

The  first  three  articles  in  the  Hib- 
bert  Journal,  for  July,  1914,  written  by 
different  men  on  different  subjects,  con- 
tain, strangely  enough,  identically  the 
same  question.  In  the  first,  it  is  put  in 
this  way:  'Does  "spiritual  freedom" 
confer  upon  any  one,  lay  or  cleric,  the 
"right"  to  stay  in  the  Church  after  he 
has  ceased  to  accept  its  teachings,  the 
"right"  to  believe  what  he  likes  and 
openly  avow  such  belief  while  remain- 
ing a  member  of  a  religious  community 
which  has  subscribed  to  a  confession  of 
faith?  What  right,  then,  still  adheres 
in  a  Christian  body?  Can  a  Christ- 
ideal,  identified  with  the  true,  the  good, 
and  the  beautiful,  be  substituted  for 
the  historical  person  of  Jesus  Christ 
without  fundamentally  overturning 
Christianity  as  a  spiritual  religion?' 

The  second  writer,  speaking  of  the 
Modernist,  says,  'His  fellow  clergy  sus- 
pect him.  Worse,  he  suspects  himself. 
He  is  forever  asking  himself,  "Ought 
I  to  be  where  I  am?  Can  I  honestly 


go  on  saying  the  creeds,  and  celebrat- 
ing the  sacraments?  Am  I  trying  to 
live  in  two  incompatible  worlds?  May 
it  not  be  a  form  of  hypocrisy,  or  of  cow- 
ardice?". .  .  Yet  he  cannot  reverse  his 
own  natural  development.  .  .  .  He  must 
go  on.  .  .  .  But  he  wonders  whether 
his  attempts  to  reconstruct  his  beliefs 
will  ever  end,  or  can  logically  end,  in 
anything  which  can  properly  be  called 
a  Christian  position.' 

The  third  writer  frankly  entitles  his 
article  'Criminous  Clerks,'  and  goes 
so  far  as  to  propose  a  society  '  to  assist 
those  unfortunate  clergy  who  have 
learnt  too  late  that  their  intellects  can- 
not acquiesce  in  doctrines  to  which 
they  pledged  themselves  as  undevel- 
oped youths.'  Such  a  society  would 
instruct  such  equivocating  clergy  with 
a  view  to  sincere  intellectual  conform- 
ity; or,  if  this  were  impossible,  would 
facilitate  their  removal  from  their  posi- 
tions in  the  institution. 

All  this  is  highly  suggestive.  It  means 
that  within  the  Christian  community 
there  are  not  a  few  men  who  are  non- 
Christians,  in  the  dogmatic,  institu- 
tional sense.  Some  of  them  themselves 
feel  uncomfortable;  of  whom  a  few  go 
voluntarily  out;  those  who  are  respon- 
sible for  the  organization  feel  exceed- 
ingly uncomfortable  because  of  them; 
do  not  know  quite  what  to  do  with 
them;  regard  them  as  elements  of  dis- 
turbance and  disintegration ;  sometimes 
forcibly  turn  them  out,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  late  Father  Tyrrell;  more  often 
attempt  to  stifle  them  by  official  ostra- 
cism and  snubbing;  hoping,  it  may  be, 
that  the  tremendous  suction-power  of 
the  organization  will  eventually  sub- 
merge them  and  their  works.  They  are 
like  unto  ferment;  and  any  ferment  is 
highly  objectionable  and  dangerous  to 
the  institutional  order. 

This  is  prime  evidence  of  the  general 
acceptance  by  Christians  of  the  idea 
of  the  Church  as  something  final  and 


THE  FAILURE  OF  THE  CHURCH 


733 


closed.  It  is  an  old  idea,  at  least  as  old 
as  ancient  Judaism;  and  is  far  more 
deadly  in  its  threat  against  the  exist- 
ence of  the  Church  than  all  the  *  damn- 
able heresies'  put  together.  It  should 
be  clear  to  any  liberated  mind  that  so 
far  as  this  official,  institutional  view  is 
able  to  prevail,  the  Church  is  doomed. 
Clear  on  the  other  hand  it  should  be 
that  it  is  precisely  these  men  who  re- 
tain the  Christian  spirit,  —  *  if  a  man 
have  not  the  spirit  of  Christ,  he  is  none 
of  his/ — but  have  worked  themselves 
free  to  a  large  extent  of  the  dogmas 
and  formularies;  who  have  assimilat- 
ed Truth  which  has  come  to  manifest- 
ation along  other  lines  than  that  of 
the  tradition  wherein  they  were  born; 
it  is  these  who  contain  within  them- 
selves the  promise,  not  so  much  of  the 
re-birth  of  the  Church,  as  of  the  birth 
from  the  womb  of  the  Church  of  that 
other  Something  wherein  that  plasmic 
Substance,  which  created  the  church- 
body,  shall  continue  to  live  and  mani- 
fest at  a  higher  point  in  a  new  body, 
as  the  father  lives  on  in  his  so  differ- 
ent son. 

'Always  emergence.'  Out  of  the  nut, 
the  seed,  —  the  husk  cast  aside;  out  of 
the  chrysalis,  the  butterfly, — the  cere- 
ment left  upon  the  ground  to  be  reab- 
sorbed  into  the  matter-matrix;  out  of 
Semitism,  Hebraism;  out  of  Hebraism, 
Judaism;  out  of  Judaism,  Christianity. 
Why  stop  there?  It  is  not  possible  to 
stop  there,  unless  one  confesses  that 
the  line  of  tradition  has  left  the  main 
channel  of  forward  life  and  been  side- 
tracked into  a  cul-de-sac.  Out  of  Chris- 
tianity, a  Beyond  Christianity.  It  is 
matter  of  common  knowledge  that 
Christianity,  as  it  began  to  take  shape, 
represented  a  synthesis  of  Judaism  and 
Hellenism,  with  less  significant  ingre- 
dients from  other  quarters.  Why  should 
not  modern  Christianity  become  con- 
scious of  itself,  as  opposing,  say,  Bud- 
dhism and  Mohammedanism;  not  as 


a  competitor  seeking  to  drive  them  off 
the  field,  or  as  a  lion  seeking  to  devour 
the  lamb,  but  rather  as  a  lover  seeking 
marriage-union  and  offspring?  Syn- 
thesis, not  conquest?  Something  of 
this  kind  is  believed  in,  and  hoped 
for  —  indeed  must  be  so  visioned  and 
dreamed  of — by  truly  religious  men; 
but  it  is  not  believed  in  by  the  Church. 
The  justification  put  forward  for  that 
interdenominational  communion  at  Ki- 
kuyu  was  that  it  was  necessary  that 
all  branches  of  the  Christian  Church 
in  British  East  Africa  should  be  unit- 
ed against  the  common  threat  of  the 
advancing  tide  of  Mohammedanism  in 
those  regions. 

That  is  the  church-attitude.  It  wants 
to  live,  persist,  and  be  immortal  as  it  is; 
it  does  not  see  that  it  can  live  on  only 
by  dying  to  all  those  outwardnesses 
which  it  imagines  to  be  its  true  self;  it 
does  not  believe  that  it  can  save  itself 
only  by  losing  itself.  It  is  self-bound 
in  the  mirror-lined  prison-house  of  self- 
consciousness.  In  whatever  direction  it 
turns  it  sees  only  itself.  This,  I  submit, 
is  one  of  the  root-causes  of  its  failure. 


in 

The  second  is  not  altogether  unrela- 
ted to  this.  I  will  state  it  bluntly.  In 
its  present  organized  form  the  Church 
is  a  flat  contradiction  of  the  spirit  and 
principles  of  its  Founder. 

This  is  not  a  criticism  of  the  person- 
nel of  the  Church;  I  admit  that  there 
are  saints  in  Caesar's  household;  it  is  an 
affirmation  of  the  necessary  results 
which  follow  upon  the  organization  of 
a  spiritual  movement.  It  is  one  of  the 
revenges  which  Time  has  always  up 
its  sleeve.  No  institution  can  be  per- 
fectly true  to  its  ideal;  but  it  is  the 
peculiar  misfortune  of  the  Church  that, 
since  the  sum  and  substance  of  Chris- 
tian practice  is  proclaimed  as  being 
loyalty  to  the  ideal,  the  mind,  and 


734 


THE  FAILURE  OF  THE  CHURCH 


spirit  of  the  Master,  it  has  come  about 
that  few  institutions  are  as  false  to 
their  professed  ideal  as  is  the  Christian 
Church. 

No  wonder  the  Church  is  beginning 
to  question  the  historicity  and  reality  of 
Jesus!  The  spirit  of  Jesus,  as  a  plumb 
line  convicts  the  wall  which  is  out  of 
truth,  convicts  not  only  the  world,  but 
the  Church  also,  of  sin.  There  are  those 
who  take  a  natural,  and  those  who  take 
a  supernatural,  view  of  Jesus;  but  both 
hold  up  Jesus  as  the  supreme  example 
for  the  practice  of  life;  and,  save  here 
and  there  in  the  conduct  of  an  indi- 
vidual, there  is  no  serious  whole-heart- 
ed attempt  to  follow  Him.  We  do  not 
want  reproductions  of  Him,  as  if  He 
were  the  headline  of  a  copy-book,  but 
Christians  on  the  whole  do  not  even  live 
their  lives  in  his  spirit.  To  a  few  in  the 
Church,  the  doctrines  in  the  Epistles 
are  a  dead  letter;  to  many  more,  the 
doctrines  in  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount 
are  a  dead  letter.  We  cannot  have  it 
both  ways. 

If  we  say  that  the  ethics  of  the  Ser- 
mon on  the  Mount  were  determined 
by  some  eschatological  view,  and  laid 
down  for  a  state  of  things  quite  other 
than  that  under  which  life  in  these 
modern  days  has  to  be  lived;  or  if  we 
say  that  Christianity  has  been  impos- 
ed upon  the  western  world,  and  is  an 
exotic  which  cannot  be  acclimatized; 
then  let  us  frankly  confess  that  Jesus 
is  no  example.  But  if  we  persist  in 
offering  and  in  accepting  Him  as  an  ex- 
ample, let  us  bow  our  heads  to  the  judg- 
ment; for  we  who  *  profess  and  call  our- 
selves Christians'  do  not,  as  a  whole, 
live  our  lives  out  in  his  spirit,  and  we 
apparently  do  not  make  any  arduous 
or  sustained  effort  to  do  so.  Jesus  is  a 
name  to  exorcise  with,  or  a  password  to 
be  whispered  into  the  ear  of  the  official 
at  the  other  side  of  death's  river;  but 
if  faith  in  Jesus  be  self-identification 
with  Him  in  the  spirit  and  practice  of 


life,  its  absence  is  more  conspicuous 
than  its  presence  in  the  Church. 

But  it  is  with  the  institution  rather 
than  with  its  members  that  I  am  more 
particularly  concerned  here.  Bergson 
has  propounded  a  theory  of  the  crea- 
tion of  matter,  according  to  which  mat- 
ter is  held  to  be  a  kind  of  degradation 
from  spirit,  a  falling  back  like  the  de- 
scending drops  frpm  the  fountain-jet. 
When  a  spiritual  movement  begins  to 
materialize  into  form,  credal  or  institu- 
tional, that  form  is  necessarily  in  the 
manner  of  a  degradation  from  the 
primal  spiritual  impulse.  Institution- 
alized religion  is  always  a  degeneration 
from  spiritual  religion.  There  is  al- 
ways a  qualitative  loss  in  Faith  when 
it  comes  to  be  expressed  in  a  creed. 
Authoritative  dogma  and  formulated 
doctrine  are  always  somewhat  at  the 
expense  of  Truth  in  its  pure  integrity. 

In  the  development  of  the  embryo, 
there  comes  a  moment  when  the  germ- 
cells  cease  to  multiply,  and  begin  to 
create  somatic  cells,  which  rapidly  in- 
crease, organize  themselves,  and  form 
the  body  whose  first  purpose  is  the 
protection  of  the  original  plasm;  the 
somatic  cells  are,  in  point  of  vitality, 
a  degradation  or  relaxation  from  the 
germ-cells. 

Jesus  does  not  seem  to  have  antici- 
pated the  formation  of  a  Church;  cer- 
tainly He  was  not  concerned  about  any 
such  thing;  He  defined  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven  as  a  ferment,  not  as  an  order. 
But  the  formation  of  the  church-body 
was  inevitable;  equally  inevitable  was 
it  that  it  should  be  a  degeneration  from 
the  spirit  which  created  it.  This  is  not 
a  peculiarity  of  religious  institutions, 
it  is  true  of  all  institutions;  neither  is  it 
applicable  only  to  organized  Christian- 
ity, but  to  every  other  organized  reli- 
gion. Buddhism  as  it  exists  to-day  in 
Tibet,  let  us  say,  is  a  vastly  different 
thing  from  the  Buddhism  preached  and 
practiced  by  Gautama  and  his  immedi- 


THE  FAILURE  OF  THE  CHURCH 


735 


ate  disciples.  That  which  distinguishes 
the  Christian  religion,  however,  from 
every  other  is  the  supreme  position  it 
gives  to  a  personality  and  a  personal 
ideal  once  actually  incarnated  in  terms 
of  human  life  and  character,  and  the 
central  emphasis  it  places  upon  identi- 
fication with  the  spirit  of  the  Master 
as  the  determinant  of  conduct  in  the 
professed  disciple.  So  much  so  that 
there  is  a  sense  in  which  Christianity 
is  Jesus. 

Now,  it  is  this  which  occasions  the 
severe  criticism  embodied  in  the  title 
of  this  article.  If  it  is  in  the  nature  of 
things  that  an  institution  should  fall 
short  of  the  quality  of  the  life-pulse  or 
movement  which  created  it,  then  one 
could  not  well  say  that  an  institution  is 
a  failure  because  it  is  false  to  its  ideal; 
but  the  Christian  Church  is  held  to  be 
different  from  every  other  institution 
in  that,  so  far  from  being  a  degenera- 
tion from  the  spiritual  impulse  which 
gave  rise  to  it,  it  is  its  development  and 
realization:  the  Church  is  the  King- 
dom of  God  of  which  Jesus  spoke;  the 
Church  is  the  Kingdom,  so  far  as  at 
present  realized  on  earth.  Judged  by 
its  own  claims,  the  Church  is  one  of 
the  most  dramatic  and  complete  fail- 
ures presented  by  history;  for  if  one 
thing  is  more  obvious  than  another  it 
is  that  the  Church  to-day  is  precisely 
that  which  Jesus  opposed  in  Judaism, 
and  died  to  break  through. 

In  a  sense,  the  Church  is  anti-Christ. 
Hear  the  episcopal  communions  telling 
us  that  salvation  is  alone  through  their 
sacraments!  What  has  the  Jesus-spirit 
in  common  with  that?  Listen  to  the 
evangelistic  communions  telling  us 
that  salvation  depends  on  our  accept- 
ance of  one  particular  view  of  Atone- 
ment! What  has  the  Jesus-spirit  to 
do  with  that?  Ordinances,  ceremonies, 
rites,  fast  and  feast,  vestments,  incense, 
flummery  and  mummery,  pose  and  pos- 
ture, ecclesiastical  orders,  tests,  hierar- 


chies, temple-treading,  riches,  digni- 
ties, and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  offi- 
cialdom, —  these  may  be  necessary  to 
the  organization;  they  probably  are, 
—  but  they  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
spirit  of  Jesus. 

This  is  one  of  Nietzsche's  criticisms 
of  Christianity,  and  there  is  no  an- 
swer to  it.  True,  the  criticism  would 
lose  its  force  if  the  Church  would  say, 
*I  am  but  the  temporary  body,  an  ark 
for  the  time  being,  to  protect  the  plasm 
of  spiritual  universal  religion;  I  can 
express  certain  aspects  of  it,  reveal  it 
in  a  particular  way;  but  in  due  time  I 
must  wither  and  decay,  having  passed 
on  the  plasm  to  create  for  itself  a  new 
and  higher  body.'  This,  however,  is 
just  what  the  Church  will  not  admit; 
and  so  that  which  in  any  other  insti- 
tution would  be  regarded  as  a  neces- 
sary defect,  is  judged  by  the  world  in 
respect  of  Christianity  as  being  a  cul- 
pable failure. 

It  is  easy  to  see  how  this  view  of  the 
Church  reacts  upon  the  life-quality  of 
its  members.  The  Cross  is  not  regarded 
as  a  principle  of  life,  but  as  a  mechan- 
ism of  salvation.  Repetition  of  creed 
tends  to  take  the  place  of  vital,  ener- 
getic, venturesome  faith.  Performance 
of  rites,  and  submission  to  sacraments, 
tend  to  become  substitutes  for  personal 
consecration  to  high  ideals  of  living. 
The  fact  of  Churchmanship  is  held 
to  outweigh,  as  it  were  automatically, 
moral  delinquencies.  The  whole  thing 
becomes  honeycombed  with  double- 
mindedness. 


IV 

The  third  root-cause  of  the  Church's 
failure  is  its  despair  of  the  world.  This 
is  one  of  its  fundamental  characteris- 
tics. The  church  is  optimistic,  but  only 
at  the  expense  of  the  world.  It  fixes 
man's  great  and  only  hope  beyond  the 
world.  It  conceived  the  germ  of  this 


736 


THE  FAILURE  OF  THE  CHURCH 


failure  when  it  excluded  paganism.  The 
pagan  joy  was  based  upon  a  belief  in 
life,  in  the  wholesomeness  of  natural 
things,  in  the  essential  goodness  and 
Tightness  of  the  world.  The  Christian 
joy  is  based  on  a  denial  of  natural  life, 
and  on  the  expectation  of  outlasting 
and  ultimately  escaping  this  world. 
The  wholeness  of  the  Christian  life  is 
not  found  by  entering  into  and  possess- 
ing the  things  of  the  world,  vitally, 
strongly,  with  zest  and  mastery,  but 
by  casting  them  off,  and  putting  them 
away.  Christian  discipline  is  a  kind  of 
armed  defiance  against  the  world. 

Christians  habitually  couple  the 
world  and  the  flesh  with  the  devil.  The 
world  is  evil.  It  is  essential  enmity 
against  the  spirit.  It  is  a  place  of  exile. 
It  is  a  temptation-haunted  house  of 
probation.  It  is  the  devil's  acre.  It  is 
a  prison-house.  It  is  something  to  be 
perpetually  struggled  with,  and  we 
shall  be  lucky  to  escape  from  it  in  the 
end  by  the  skin  of  our  teeth.  It  is  a 
siren.  To  enjoy  it  is  the  great  betrayal 
of  the  spiritual  life.  All  natural  things 
are  inherently  bad;  they  lie  under  the 
doom  of  a  heavenly  decree,  and  exist 
only  to  be  annihilated  by  shock  and 
fire.  The  world  is  no  home  for  the  soul; 
at  best  we  are  pilgrims  through  a  desert 
dreary  land ;  at  worst  we  are  trapped  in 
an  enemy's  country  and  there  is  no  dis- 
charge from  the  war. 

Human  nature  is  radically  evil.  The 
flesh  is  the  arch-foe  to  whom  it  is 
fatal  to  give  quarter.  Mortality  is  a 
disease.  Natural  passions  are  sinister. 
Sex  is  a  death-trap.  To  be  thorough- 
ly ashamed  of  one's  self  is  the  first 
step  on  the  way  to  salvation.  It  is 
amazing  what  time  and  energy  is 
spent  in  Christian  pulpits  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  making  people  ashamed  of 
themselves;  it  is  called  convicting  them 
of  sin.  We  must  feel  that  we  are  sin- 
ners, and  go  groveling  in  the  dust  be- 
fore God,  before  we  can  be  saved.  This 


has  the  effect  in  many  cases  of  putting 
a  premium  on  insincerity.  The  worst 
things  are  picked  out  in  the  best  of  men 
in  order  that  there  may  be  some  point 
of  appeal  for  the  Gospel,  since  this  (as 
commonly  preached)  is  directed  spe- 
cifically to  our '  fallen  state.'  A  clergy- 
man not  many  weeks  ago  said  from  the 
pulpit,  'Even  a  saint  sins  every  hour 
he  lives';  which  is  not  only  not  true, 
but  not  even  interesting. 

The  Church  has  run  a  schism 
through  God's  universe.  Its  central 
message  is  that  there  is,  fortunately, 
another  different  world  into  which  en- 
trance will  be  given  at  the  end  of  this 
life  by  the  infinite  grace  of  God,  —  op- 
erating, it  is  mainly  affirmed,  under 
certain  sacramental  and  doctrinal  con- 
ditions. 

The  failure  of  the  Church  is  due  to 
the  natural  working  out  of  this  pro- 
foundly irreligious  principle.  It  is  the 
Church's  sin  against  Life  finding  it 
out. 

For,  quite  clearly,  an  institution 
which  in  despair  of  this  world  preaches 
the  surety  of  another  in  which  there 
will  be  rewards,  compensations,  and 
the  righting  of  an  unequal  balance,  will 
attract  to  itself  for  the  most  part  those 
who,  from  some  cause  or  other,  find 
neither  zest  nor  satisfaction  here  in  this 
world-life.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  say 
that  people  forlorn  and  heavily  op- 
pressed in  the  world  should  not  have 
comfort  ministered  unto  them;  but 
surely  there  is  something  healthier  and 
more  positive  and  more  comforting  to 
be  said  to  them  than  *  Cling  to  the 
Cross.  Only  believe.  The  Way  is  short. 
For  mourning  you  shall  have  laughter; 
for  bitterness,  bliss;  for  the  slum,  hea- 
venly mansions ;  for  harassment,  liberty 
in  a  world  to  come.' 

To  what  type  of  person  is  this  like- 
ly to  appeal;  and  what  type  of  char- 
acter is  it  likely  to  create?  There  al- 
ways have  been?  and  still  are,  great  and 


THE  FAILURE  OF  THE  CHURCH 


737 


heroic  men  and  women  associated  with 
the  Church;  for  the  religious  spirit  is 
no  respecter  of  persons,  and  does  not 
disdain  the  habitations  of  physical  and 
moral  strength  and  beauty;  but  it  will 
scarcely  be  questioned  by  any  one  who 
faces  the  actual  facts  that  the  first  ap- 
peal of  the  Church  is  to  the  weak,  weary, 
diseased,  disappointed.  It  rejoices  more 
to  see  a  man  leaning  on  the  provided 
religious  props,  than  to  see  him  stand- 
ing out  in  the  hazardous  world  on  his 
own  feet.  It  rejoices  more  over  the  sin- 
ner on  his  knees  at  the  penitent  form, 
than  over  the  naturally  strong  man 
who  goes  forth,  like  the  sun,  to  run  his 
course.  It  would  rather  behold  a  man 
bowed  under  the  sense  of  the  awful  sin- 
fulness  of  sin,  beating  upon  his  breast 
and  petitioning  God  for  mercy,  than 
watch  a  man  in  the  splendor  of  defiant 
and  masterful  courage  *  railing  along- 
side the  torrent.* 

For  the  robust,  vigorous,  vital,  self- 
reliant,  venturesome  man,  who  is  laying 
firm  hands  on  life  and  daily  getting  his 
'meat  out  of  the  eater/  the  Church 
has  no  message,  no  pride  in  him,  no 
acclaim  for  him,  no  smiling  'bon  voy- 
age.' Such  a  man  might  attend  the 
services  of  the  Church  for  a  month  of 
Sundays  and  never  hear  a  single  word 
which  would  sweep  across  his  heart- 
strings and  renew  in  him  the  zest  and 
exultation  of  life;  on  the  contrary,  he 
would  be  invited  to  call  himself  a  '  mis- 
erable offender,'  to  sing  anaemic  hymns, 
to  listen  to  a  dreary  impeachment  of 

VOL.  114 -NO.  6 


the  world  and  of  the  natural  human 
heart,  and  to  take  part  in  a  veritable 
orgy  of  life-negation. 

The  Church  stands  in  the  world  as  a 
reducing  agent;  it  mixes  water  with 
the  wine  of  life.  It  is  a  purveyor  of 
consolations,  a  dispenser  of  promised 
compensations,  a  hospital  for  the  in- 
firm, a  nursery  for  those  who  continue 
to  depend  on  apron-strings,  a  waiting- 
room  for  would-be  emigrants  to  a  bet- 
ter land.  Jesus  said  that  He  came  that 
the  world  might  have  more  abundant 
life;  the  Church  offers  to  those  who 
are  faithful  amid  the  hopeless,  rank, 
evil  circumstances  of  mortality  the 
counterbalancing,  hope  of  another  life. 

The  effect  of  this  is  that  the  virile 
and  healthy  men  and  movements  of 
the  modern  world  tend  to  pass  by  the 
Church,  and  to  focus  and  give  expres- 
sion to  themselves  elsewhere. 

When,  therefore,  the  organization 
which  presumes  to  stand  for  the  reli- 
gious function  in  society  has  fallen  into 
open  contradiction  of  its  own  first  prin- 
ciples, announces  its  despair  of  the 
natural  order,  and  has  somehow  passed 
from  the  main  stream  of  the  moving 
life  of  the  world,  it  seems  necessary  in 
the  interests  of  the  social  order  which 
is  and  is  to  be,  which  requires  and  will 
ever  require  for  its  health  and  stability 
a  vital  religious  centre,  that  some  one 

—  and  it  is  sure  to  be  more  than  one 

—  should  answer  anew  the  old  chal- 
lenge, and  go  out  to  'prepare  in  the 
wilderness  a  highway  for  God.' 


GERMANY'S  ABILITY  TO  FINANCE  THE  WAR 


BY   ROLAND   G.  USHER 


IT  will  at  once  be  evident  that  the 
beginning  of  the  war,  its  continuance, 
and  its  successful  conclusion,  involve 
by  no  means  identical  financial  meas- 
ures. The  British  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer  has  laid  emphasis  on  the 
fact  that  the  financial  arrangements 
necessary  to  begin  a  war  are  relatively 
simple  in  nature  and  limited  in  charac- 
ter, and  differ  so  fundamentally  from 
those  necessary  to  prosecute  a  long  and 
exhausting  war  that  he*  confidently 
expects  Germany  and  Austria  to  fail, 
from  their  inability  to  provide  the  last 
hundred  millions  of  'cash.' 

German  statesmen  no  doubt  marvel 
at  the  public  enunciation  of  such  an- 
cient economic  fallacies  by  a  chancellor 
of  the  exchequer,  and  feel  surer  than 
ever  that  the  statesmen  of  their  enemies 
are  in  their  dotage.  They  deny  that  fin- 
ancial operations,  in  the  ordinary  sense 
of  the  woi  d,  have  any  necessary  rela- 
tion to  the  outbreak  of  war,  to  the  pos- 
sibility of  its  indefinite  continuance,  or 
to  its  eventual  prosecution  to  a  success- 
ful issue.  Indeed,  if  a  German  financier 
were  asked  the  everyday  question, 
where  the  money  to  fight  a  long  and 
desperate  war  could  possibly  be  found, 
he  would  look  at  his  questioner  with 
incredulity,  amazed  beyond  words 
that  so  decrepit  and  antiquated  an 
economic  fallacy  could  actually  come 
from  the  lips  of  one  who  spoke  the 
mother-tongue  of  John  Stuart  Mill. 
Patiently  he  would  reply  that  he  was 
not  aware  that  money,  in  the  ordinary 
738 


sense  of  the  word,  had  any  really  es- 
sential relation  to  military  campaigns. 
The  calculations  and  arrangements 
usually  connoted  by  the  words  '  finan- 
cing the  war '  are  to  modern  Germans 
the  product  of  habit  rather  than  of 
reason  or  observation.  The  Germans 
have  not  only  studied  the  premises  of 
political  economy;  they  have  sufficient 
faith  in  their  essential  correctness  to 
put  them  into  practice. 

Money,  a  German  financier  might 
explain,  is  not  in  itself  value  at  all. 
The  specie,  on  which  technically  the 
ordinary  credit  devices  are  supposed  to 
be  based,  has,  it  is  true,  certain  value 
as  bullion,  but  as  money  it  merely  fur- 
nishes a  convenient  medium  by  means 
of  which  the  comparative  value  of  act- 
ual commodities  at  any  given  time  can 
be  expressed.  Money  is  convenient  and 
even  necessary  for  the  individual  who 
wishes  to  dispose  of  his  commodity 
without  the  necessity  of  actually  hunt- 
ing up  another  individual  who  has  for 
exchange  the  commodity  he  wishes  to 
obtain;  but  for  the  state  it  is  no  more 
necessary  than  ten-dollar  bills  are  nec- 
essary to  a  man  seated  at  the  table 
with  his  dinner  before  him.    What  he 
wants  is  not  money,  but  a  knife  and 
fork.  Then,  in  the  hope  that  so  home- 
ly an  illustration  had  made  his  mean- 
ing clear,  the  financier  would  conclude: 
wars  are  not  fought  with  money,  but 
with  commodities  and  with  men.    In 
any  proper  sense  of  the  word,  therefore, 
the  financing  of  the  war  connotes  the 
measures  by  which  the  army  can  be 
put  into  the  field,  and  sustained  and 


GERMANY'S  ABILITY  TO  FINANCE  THE  WAR 


739 


reinforced  by  the  nation  at  home  while 
it  is  winning  the  campaign.  Other  ar- 
rangements are  matters  of  conveni- 
ence, not  of  necessity,  and  to  this  lat- 
ter category  belong  all  those  that  are 
commonly  called  in  time  of  war  finan- 
cial measures. 

To  the  German  the  significant  ques- 
tions are  these:  How  can  the  resources 
of  the  nation  most  quickly  and  ade- 
quately be  brought  into  actual  use? 
How  can  they  most  easily  and  ade- 
quately be  developed  to  produce  the 
necessities  of  war?  How  can  the  eco- 
nomic life  of  the  community  be  most 
easily  and  advantageously  adjusted  to 
the  crisis  so  that  it  may  bear  as  lightly 
as  possible  on  the  individual,  and  inter- 
fere as  little  as  possible  with  ordinary 
business  for  profit?  What  measures  will 
produce  the  best  effect  on  public  opin- 
ion in  Germany  and  best  sustain  the 
morale  of  the  people? 

These  are  questions  of  expediency 
which  really  contain  only  two  alterna- 
tives for  the  financier:  can  results  be 
more  easily  and  rapidly  obtained  by 
indirect  or  by  direct  action?  Indirect 
action  depends  upon  the  use  of  money 
in  the  ordinary  sense,  and  must  fail  with- 
out it;  direct  action  requires  neither 
money  nor  financial  expedients. 

The  commonplaces  of  economic  the- 
ory will  make  clear  to  any  one  that 
money  is  necessary  as  a  nexus  between 
producer  and  consumer  chiefly  because 
they  are  ignorant  of  each  other's  loca- 
tion; because  either  one  may  not  care 
to  accept  in  exchange  for  his  own  com- 
modity what  the  other  is  able  to  sup- 
ply; or  because  they  have  not  equal 
amounts  in  value  to  offer.  No  one  sells 
in  order  to  get  money  for  its  own  sake. 
A  man  is  anxious  to  turn  his  goods  into 
money  because  he  can  easily  exchange 
his  money  for  the  exact  quantities  of  as 
many  other  commodities  as  he  desires. 
Money  is  not  a  necessary  factor  in  the 
exchange  of  a  dozen  eggs  for  a  pound  of 


butter;  the  entire  operation  has  been 
successfully  performed  times  beyond 
number  by  exchanging  the  commodi- 
ties; but  money  is  the  only  method, 
available  for  the  ordinary  individual, 
of  turning  eggs  into  an  automobile. 
The  feat  might  be  performed  without 
money,  but  it  would  involve  so  much 
trouble  that  it  would  surely  be  aban- 
doned before  completion. 

From  the  enormous  size  of  the  mod- 
ern economic  structure  —  where  the 
farmer  in  New  Zealand  depends  upon 
having  his  mutton  eaten  in  London, 
and  the  natives  in  the  South  Seas 
are  clad  in  cotton  cloth  made  in  Lan- 
cashire —  results  an  ignorance  of  the 
whereabouts  of  the  customer  so  dense 
and  so  impenetrable  that  the  individ- 
ual to-day  has  absolutely  no  agency 
except  money  by  means  of  which  to 
effect  the  exchange  necessary  to  satisfy 
the  simplest  needs  of  daily  life.  The 
complexity  of  the  division  of  labor,  the 
interrelation  and  interdependence  of 
the  various  parts  of  the  world,  have 
accentuated  this  difficulty.  The  result 
is  that  all  modern  industry,  and  the 
present  system  of  distribution,  have 
been  consciously  organized  upon  the 
presupposition  of  the  use  of  money, 
and  therefore  cease  to  operate  at  all 
when  money  is  not  available. 

The  real  reason  for  the  collapse  of 
business  is,  however,  that  the  individ- 
ual possesses  literally  no  facilities  what- 
ever for  replacing  the  use  of  money  as 
a  method  of  locating  those  who  wish 
to  buy  what  he  has  to  sell,  or  who  wish 
to  sell  what  he  is  anxious  to  buy.  The 
difficulty  of  providing  a  substitute,  not 
the  inherent  virtues  or  qualities  of 
money  itself,  is  the  real  measure  of  its 
necessity  to  the  community.  It  stands 
for  a  method  of  conveying  information 
about  demand  and  supply,  and  the  in- 
formation is  the  indispensable  thing, 
both  to  the  individual  and  to  the  com- 
munity. 


740 


GERMANY'S  ABILITY  TO  FINANCE  THE  WAR 


ii 

Great  sums  of  ready  money  have 
invariably  been  needed  in  Anglo-Saxon 
countries  in  order  to  begin  a  war,  be- 
cause those  countries  have  invariably 
been  caught  unprepared.  The  govern- 
ment has  lacked  not  only  the  necessary 
materials,  but  the  knowledge  of  their 
whereabouts,  and  has  had  to  find  them 
by  ordinary  business  methods,  which 
meant  buying  them  in  the  open  market 
with  money.  England  and  the  United 
States  have  always  obtained  in  the 
same  way  the  supplies  and  munitions 
needed  to  prosecute  war,  and  have  al- 
ways found  an  abundant  supply  of  sta- 
ble currency  the  indispensable  nexus 
between  the  government  and  its  citi- 
zens by  whom  the  commodities  were 
produced.  Of  course,  it  has  always 
been  possible  to  requisition  commod- 
ities, but  such  a  method  involved  seri- 
ous risks  of  undermining  public  confid- 
ence when  applied  to  anything  beyond 
the  horses  and  carts  which  the  com- 
munity must  continue  to  use  till  war 
had  become  a  reality. 

If  money  is  indispensable,  —  and 
experience  tells  English  and  American 
financiers  that  it  has  always  been  to 
their  statesmen  the  most  difficult  prob- 
lem in  times  of  war,  —  if  England  and 
France  control  the  world's  financial 
structure  and  possess  the  lion's  share 
of  its  specie,  is  it  not  clear  that  Ger- 
many and  Austria  cannot  finance  the 
war  at  all,  and  therefore  must  event- 
ually be  beaten? 

The  German  points  out  at  once  that 
these  suppositions  are  really  based 
upon  the  position  and  experience  of 
individuals,  and  assume  that  the  gov- 
ernment will  voluntarily  accept  the 
disadvantages  which  the  outbreak  of 
the  war  will  place  in  the  way  of  the  use 
of  money  by  individuals,  and  will  allow 
its  own  necessities  to  wait  upon  the 
slow  readjustment  of  the  business 


world  to  the  situation.  The  hastening 
of  this  readjustment,  insist  the  Ger- 
mans, is  what  the  English  and  Ameri- 
cans have  always  called  financing  the 
war. 

Money,  however,  is  for  a  nation  at 
war  an  expedient  infinitely  clumsy  and 
haphazard  when  compared  with  the 
means  placed  at  the  disposal  of  the 
modern  government  by  modern  im- 
provements in  communication.  Only 
for  nations  incapable  of  establishing 
promptly  and  accurately  the  location 
of  the  supplies  which  the  government 
needs,  is  money  of  the  slightest  import- 
ance. Thorough,  careful  inquiry  into 
the  sources  of  supply,  foresight  in  the 
organization  of  the  national  industrial 
fabric,  skill  in  administering  it  and  in 
securing  intelligent  cooperation,  should 
furnish  to  a  nation  a  direct  method  of 
conducting  a  war  as  much  more  effi- 
cient than  money  as  the  money-econ- 
omy itself  was  more  efficient  than  the 
crude  barter  in  the  market-place  which 
preceded  it.  Apparently  Germany  is 
the  only  nation  thoroughly  to  appreci- 
ate the  significance  of  these  postulates 
of  political  economy,  and  to  realize 
their  important  bearing  upon  the  vexed 
question  of  financing  the  war. 

The  true  financing  of  Pan-German- 
ism for  the  actual  conflict,  therefore, 
was  to  German  statesmen  the  adequate 
and  efficient  organization  of  industry. 
First  and  foremost  they  must  be  ready 
to  put  an  army  in  the  field  and  main- 
tain it  there.  In  the  next  place  they 
must  support  the  nation  at  home  and 
prevent  unnecessary  suffering.  They 
must  provide  some  method  of  dispos- 
ing of  the  products  of  domestic  indus- 
try at  home,  and  be  prepared  during 
the  war  to  promote  normal  business  for 
profit  as  against  manufacturing  for 
mere  subsistence.  This  would  involve, 
of  course,  the  distribution  of  German 
products  at  home  and  abroad,  and  the 
purchase  abroad  of  necessities  which 


GERMANY'S  ABILITY  TO  FINANCE  THE  WAR 


741 


they  could  not  make  in  Germany. 
These,  they  saw,  were  all  the  prepara- 
tions necessary  to  begin  the  war,  con- 
tinue it,  win  it,  and  win  it  without 
paying  too  great  a  price  for  it. 

Without  doubt,  such  an  organization 
of  industry,  of  transportation,  of  meth- 
ods of  exchange,  of  banks  and  stock 
exchanges,  would  be  an  infinitely  more 
elaborate  attempt  than  had  ever  been 
made  in  history;  and  if  it  was  to  be 
sufficiently  perfect  to  render  the  gov- 
ernment—  both  at  the  outbreak  of  the 
war  and  during  its  continuance  —  in- 
dependent of  the  ordinary  currency 
troubles  and  financial  readjustments 
which  had  invariably  made  the  actions 
of  Anglo-Saxon  countries  slow  in  time 
of  war,  it  would  have  to  be  begun  long 
before  the  war  was  in  sight,  and  or- 
ganized as  carefully  and  as  thorough- 
ly, with  as  large  a  staff  of  assistants 
and  experts,  as  the  preparation  of  the 
army  itself  demanded.  In  fact,  there 
must  be  two  armies,  one  in  the  field 
doing  the  fighting,  one  at  home  doing 
the  work,  both  of  them  cooperating 
under  the  direction  of  an  intelligent  and 
far-seeing  administrator. 

The  great  difficulty  in  beginning 
wars  in  the  past,  and  the  chief  suffer- 
ing experienced  by  the  great  bulk  of 
the  community,  had  been  due,  as  the 
study  of  history  proved  to  the  Ger- 
man statesmen,  entirely  to  the  financial 
crisis  and  to  the  dislocation  of  indus- 
try consequent  upon  the  calling  of  the 
army  into  the  field  and  the  removal  of 
so  many  men  from  the  factories  and 
counting-houses.  It  was  all  absolute- 
ly needless  suffering.  They  saw  no  rea- 
son whatever  to  doubt  that  intelligent 
prevision  could  successfully  cope  with 
every  immediate  result  of  the  outbreak 
of  war,  and  entirely  obviate  the  usual 
effects  upon  the  community  at  home. 

Under  the  system  of  conscription 
employed  in  Germany,  every  man  liable 
to  military  service,  in  every  class  of  the 


service,  was  definitely  known;  his  loca- 
tion, his  employment,  the  size  of  his 
family,  his  private  resources,  were  all 
elaborately  catalogued.  It  was  merely 
a  matter  of  clerical  work — and  that 
was  merely  a  question  of  time  and 
patience  —  to  establish  with  absolute 
precision  the  effect  upon  industry  of 
calling  to  the  colors  any  class  of  men 
liable  to  service.  Why  be  so  foolish 
as  to  wait  until  the  actual  crisis? 

For  the  most  part,  too,  the  collection 
of  statistics  necessary  to  indicate  the 
men  liable  to  conscription  had  also 
furnished  practically  complete  infor- 
mation about  the  very  much  larger 
number  of  men  unfit  for  service  or  too 
young  or  too  old  to  send  into  the  field. 
Inquiry  would  show  the  number  of 
women  in  industry,  and  the  number 
of  women  unmarried  and  unemployed 
who  would  be  available  in  a  time  of 
crisis.  The  completion  of  the  compila- 
tion would  promptly  show  the  extent 
of  the  loss  of  hands  in  any  industry, 
and  a  further  simple  calculation  would 
show  where  the  men  were  who  were  to 
take  their  places. 

Nor  could  there  be  any  uncertainty 
as  to  the  industries  sure  to  be  closed 
down  by  the  outbreak  of  war,  those 
likely  to  stop,  those  likely  to  continue, 
and  those  which  it  was  imperative 
should  continue.  The  number  of  avail- 
able workingmen,  after  the  army  had 
gone  into  the  field,  could  be  known  as 
definitely  in  advance  as  the  person- 
nel of  the  men  in  the  army;  and  if  the 
War  Department  could  provide  before- 
hand for  the  location  and  equipment  of 
every  private  in  the  German  army, 
and  draw  up  beforehand  detailed  or- 
ders telling  him  what  to  do  and  where 
to  go  when  the  mobilization  was  de- 
clared, entraining  him  at  a  certain 
point,  detraining  him  at  another  point 
with  food  and  munitions  of  war,  it  was 
an  equally  simple  thing  to  provide 
beforehand  for  filling  the  gaps  in  the 


742 


GERMANY'S  ABILITY  TO  FINANCE  THE  WAR 


factories  occasioned  by  the  mobiliza- 
tion, and  for  shifting  the  labor  from  the 
industries  least  essential  to  those  more 
essential. 

Surely  the  waste  of  effort  expend- 
ed at  the  beginning  of  most  wars  by 
the  attempts  of  many  manufacturers 
to  keep  open  until  forced  to  close, 
might  well  be  saved,  and  the  extraordi- 
nary pressure  which  the  war  would 
bring  to  bear  on  some  industries  could 
just  as  well  be  provided  for  in  advance. 

It  was  similarly  easy  to  catalogue 
the  natural  resources  of  the  country,  to 
establish  what  the  country  could  make, 
what  it  could  not,  and  what  raw  mate- 
rials it  did  not  produce  of  which  large 
supplies  would  be  required  to  prose- 
cute the  war.  German  firms  could  be 
created  to  make  the  things  Germany 
would  have  to  have  in  big  quantities 
in  time  of  emergency,  and  the  devel- 
opment of  industries  which  were  not 
necessary  could  be  prevented  from  be- 
coming too  extensive.  Time,  patience, 
an  unlimited  amount  of  clerical  work,  , 
miles  of  records  and  statistics,  com- 
pilations without  end,  —  the  correct- 
ness of  all  of  which  must  constantly 
be  verified, — a  perfectly  possible  task, 
but  one  truly  colossal!  Indeed,  to  the 
observer  there  is  something  more  ex- 
traordinary about  this  cataloguing  and 
arranging  of  nearly  seventy  millions 
of  people,  and  the  attempt  consciously 
to  direct  the  activity  of  every  soul  to- 
ward a  single  purpose  and  a  single  end, 
than  in  all  the  boasted  achievements 
of  German  science  or  in  the  elaborate 
arrangements  for  the  army. 

First  and  foremost,  the  statesmen 
must  act  with  a  full  consciousness  of 
the  fact  that  the  war  would  be  fought 
with  guns  and  powder,  by  human 
beings  who  would  eat  and  would  de- 
mand clothing,  and  not  by  automatons 
fed  upon  money.  Especially  must  they 
remember  that  the  munitions  of  war, 
which  would  be  increasingly  necessary 


as  the  conflict  continued,  were  highly 
complex  products  of  highly  specialized 
machinery,  operated  by  specially  train- 
ed workmen.  Factories  would  have  to 
be  created  in  time  of  peace,  —  facto- 
ries sufficient  in  number,  adequate  in 
equipment  and  in  personnel,  to  turn 
out  with  regularity  in  time  of  war  a 
constant  supply  of  munitions  of  war, 
sufficient  in  volume  to  meet  not  only 
the  demands  already  estimated,  but  as 
large  a  demand  as  unforeseen  factors 
might  make  imperative.  The  factories 
must  be  created  and  maintained  in 
time  of  peace,  not  on  a  peace  basis,  but 
on  a  war  basis.  Their  equipment  and 
the  number  of  hands  must  be  sufficient 
at  any  time  to  begin  manufacturing  for 
an  army  in  the  field. 

Here  is  the  very  simple  basis  of  the 
so-called  armament  scandals  of  which 
the   peace   advocates   have   made  so 
much  capital.    The  armament  firms, 
created   and  subsidized  by  the  gov- 
ernment, have  insisted  that  if  they 
were  to  continue  operations  they  must 
have  enough  work  to  keep  them  from 
bankruptcy  until  such  time  as  the  war 
should  arise.  They  have  also  very  cor- 
rectly represented,  —  and  have  found 
little  opposition  to  their  claim  in  Berlin, 
—  that  to  train  their  men  sufficiently 
well  to  operate  their  factories  on  a  war 
basis  would  require  a  constant  manu- 
facture of  munitions  actually  needed  in 
war.   Men  skilled  in  producing  a  cer- 
tain commodity  dependent  for  its  man- 
ufacture upon  a  high  grade  of  manual 
dexterity  and  a  nicety  of  adjustment, 
must  obtain  their  training  in  actual 
work. 

Not  less  necessary  would  be  an  ade- 
quate supply  of  food.  The  Depart- 
ment of  Agriculture  has  been  so  success- 
ful that  there  can  be  little  doubt  that 
the  productivity  of  land  in  Germany  is 
proportionately  greater  for  the  labor 
and  capital  invested  than  in  any  other 
country  in  the  world,  and  so  far-reach- 


GERMANY'S  ABILITY  TO  FINANCE  THE  WAR 


743 


ing  have  been  its  operations  that  the 
imperial  government  claims  that  over 
ninety  per  cent  of  the  land  in  Ger- 
many is  productive.  The  definiteness 
with  which  the  Germans  have  cata- 
logued the  land,  located  the  areas  on 
which  grain  can  be  grown,  and  com- 
puted the  maximum  product  from 
those  varied  areas,  equals  the  exacti- 
tude with  which  they  have  tabulated 
the  facts  about  the  army.  We  should, 
indeed,  be  guilty  of  stupidity,  if  we 
supposed  that  the  men  directing  the 
destinies  of  Germany  had  omitted  from 
their  elaborate  calculations  provision 
for  so  elemental  a  necessity  as  an  en- 
tirely adequate  supply  of  food.  They 
knew  on  the  first  day  of  August  pre- 
cisely how  much  food  they  had  on 
hand,  and  precisely  where  the  new  sup- 
plies were  coming  from.  Not  improb- 
ably they  could  have  furnished  a  list  of 
the  men  and  women  who  would  sow 
and  reap  the  future  harvests. 

A  third  factor  would  be  necessary: 
occupation  for  those  who  neither  went 
to  the  front  nor  were  utilized  in  the 
industries  and  pursuits  directly  bearing 
upon  the  prosecution  of  the  war.  Ger- 
man industries  must  be  developed  so 
that  the  things  upon  which  Germans 
depended  for  comfort  could  be  sup- 
plied in  Germany.  They  would  have 
no  repetition  of  the  situation  which 
obtained  during  the  Napoleonic  wars, 
when  Germany  insisted  upon  buying 
English  sugar,  English  tobacco,  and 
English  cloth,  in  the  face  of  the  fact 
that  this  benefited  their  enemies.  No 
doubt  the  beet-sugar  industry  has  been 
a  valuable  and  important  factor  in 
German  agriculture,  and  we  need  not 
assume  that  it  was  begun  with  a  war 
in  view  to  see  that  its  development 
solved  one  of  the  important  questions 
which  the  war  would  create.  It  was 
only  necessary  for  the  government  to 
fill  the  gaps  left  by  the  determined 
movement  to  make  Germany  self-suf- 


ficing, in  order  to  put  German  industry 
upon  a  war  basis  in  time  of  peace. 

These  were  the  real  measures  neces- 
sary for  the  financing  of  the  war.  Upon 
their  success  or  failure  the  continuance 
and  outcome  of  the  war  would  surely 
depend.  They  were  in  the  highest 
sense  financial  operations  of  magnitude, 
but  their  success  would  depend  not 
upon  money  but  upon  capital.  Years 
of  effort  in  time  of  peace  would  be  the 
effective  prerequisite  to  the  completion 
of  such  financial  operations.  The  past 
poverty  of  Germany  had  not  permitted 
her  to  accumulate  a  sufficient  amount 
of  capital  for  a  development  of  such 
magnitude,  and  the  war  indemnity 
paid  by  France  was  barely  enough  to 
begin  the  process.  The  capital  had  to 
be  borrowed  from  her  enemies,  from 
England  and  from  France,  the  only 
nations  who  had  it  to  spare.  The  finan- 
cial operations  by  which  this  capital 
was  borrowed  year  after  year  in  London 
and  in  Paris  by  German  companies  and 
German  individuals  were  in  the  truest 
sense  the  operations  by  which  the  war 
was  financed.  Their  success  is  a  by- 
word of  modern  business  circles. 


in 

When  the  actual  moment  came, 
nothing  would  need  to  be  done  beyond 
the  execution  of  the  plans  already  pre- 
pared. The  army  would,  of  course,  go 
to  the  front.  The  positions  vacated 
by  whatever  number  of  men  should 
go  would  immediately  be  filled  by  an 
imperial  employment  bureau  which 
would  centralize  the  efforts  and  in- 
formation of  the  local  bureaus  already 
established. 

The  shifting  of  labor  to  the  war  in- 
dustries and  to  agriculture,  and  to 
the  industries  already  selected  for  the 
employment  of  hands  not  otherwise 
provided  for,  was  executed  with  the 
utmost  success,  without  confusion  and 


744 


GERMANY'S  ABILITY  TO  FINANCE  THE  WAR 


without  delay.  Practically  no  com- 
mercial crisis  of  any  sort  took  place  in 
Germany,  and  the  number  of  the  unem- 
ployed is  officially  stated  to  be  under 
six  per  cent.  Indeed,  if  anything,  there 
are  fewer  men  out  of  work  than  usual. 
The  imperial  government,  also,  has 
undertaken  to  provide  for  the  families 
of  the  men  at  the  front,  and  to  furnish 
subsistence  for  the  women  left  with  a 
family  and  no  income  during  the  war. 

The  Imperial  Bureau  of  Supplies 
promptly  began  the  control,  preserva- 
tion, and  apportionment  of  the  sup- 
plies on  hand,  which  have  thus  far 
proved  entirely  adequate,  and  are 
likely  to  remain  so.  This  bureau  had 
unquestionably  begun  its  operations  as 
soon  as  the  decision  to  fight  was  taken, 
which  was  clearly  some  weeks  before 
the  declaration  of  war,  and  it  was  able 
therefore  to  accumulate  great  quanti- 
ties of  those  commodities  whose  supply 
would  in  any  way  be  likely  to  be  defi- 
cient. Everything  had  been  foreseen, 
and  here  again  the  prevision  was  proved 
accurate  and  the  arrangements  ad- 
mirable. 

A  part  of  this  bureau's  task  was 
the  regulation  of  prices.  If  the  postu- 
lates of  political  economy  mean  any- 
thing, price  is  merely  the  exchange 
value  of  all  commodities  expressed  in 
terms  of  money;  and,  unless  there  ap- 
pears a  serious  deficiency  in  the  sup- 
ply, or  an  unusual  increase  in  the  de- 
mand, so  that  the  two  fail  to  offset  each 
other,  prices  ought  to  remain  the  same. 
Unless,  therefore,  the  war  interfered 
with  the  supply  or  changed  the  de- 
mand, there  was  no  reason  at  all  why 
prices  should  change;  and  inasmuch  as 
the  average  citizen  looks  upon  prices  as 
the  real  indication  of  prosperity,  the 
government  knew  perfectly  well  that 
the  maintenance  of  the  same  level  of 
prices  after  the  war  began  would  have 
a  beneficial  effect  of  the  utmost  im- 
portance upon  public  opinion.  Having 


provided  already,  therefore,  for  the 
maintenance  of  the  supply,  they  had 
no  intention  of  allowing  individual 
greed  to  create  war  prices.  Here  again 
their  dispositions  have  been  completely 
successful.  In  all  large  centres  in  Ger- 
many the  supply  of  necessities  is  ade- 
quate, and  the  prices  practically  iden- 
tical with  those  before  the  war. 

The  problem  of  marketing  the  Ger- 
man produce  which  the  war  itself  does 
not  use,  in  exchange  for  the  things 
which  Germany  cannot  arrange  to 
make  and  which  are,  nevertheless,  im- 
portant, has  offered  a  greater  problem. 
Should  the  war  continue  any  length  of 
time,  the  prosperity  of  Germany,  the 
extent  to  which  the  burden  of  the  war 
could  be  shifted  to  other  shoulders, 
would  obviously  depend  upon  the  ex- 
tent to  which  Germany  could  produce 
more  than  she  consumed,  and  upon 
the  ability  of  German  merchants  to  sell 
this  surplus  at  a  profit.  German  states- 
men have  studied  the  history  of  the  past 
with  great  care,  and  particularly  the 
history  of  the  Napoleonic  wars.  The 
most  striking  feature  in  the  economic 
history  of  that  period  was  the  persist- 
ent and  lucrative  trade  between  the 
belligerents.  After  England  and  France 
had  blockaded  on  paper  the  whole  of 
Europe,  they  proceeded  to  issue  thou- 
sands upon  thousands  of  licenses  to 
break  the  blockade,  and  English  goods, 
particularly  English  colonial  goods, 
commanded  high  prices  throughout 
the  Continent  and  afforded  the  English 
large  profits.  The  cause  of  this  trade 
was  clearly  the  inability  of  the  Conti- 
nent to  procure  these  goods  elsewhere. 

The  Germans  now  see  clearly  that 
Russia  could  very  easily  be  isolated 
commercially  from  every  part  of  the 
world  except  Germany  and  Austria,  by 
the  simple  expedient  of  closing  the  Bal- 
tic and  the  Black  seas.  The  mere  ex- 
istence of  the  German  fleet  would  close 
the  one;  the  Turkish  government  at 


GERMANY'S  ABILITY  TO  FINANCE  THE  WAR 


745 


Constantinople  could  easily  close  the 
other.  Russia  would  then  have  no  out- 
let for  her  agricultural  produce,  and 
would  be  unable  to  buy  English  and 
French  goods  at  all.  She  would  face 
commercial  ruin,  and  the  Germans  cal- 
culate that  before  very  long  a  brisk 
trade  will  be  established  between  Ger- 
many, Austria,  and  Russia,  in  which 
Germany  will  be  able  to  market  her 
surplus  of  manufactured  goods  at  war 
prices,  in  exchange  for  meat  and  grain 
which  may  conceivably  be  very  es- 
sential for  her.  Thus,  the  war  itself 
may  solve  the  last  problem  of  German 
finance. 

IV 

In  all  this,  money  played  no  part. 
Money,  Germans  felt,  —  and  their  ex- 
perience has  thus  far  proved  the  cor- 
rectness of  their  understanding  of  the 
postulates  of  political  economy, — was 
needed  only  as  an  exchange  medium  in 
domestic  and  foreign  trade.  Here,  as 
usual,  the  amount  of  currency  or  spe- 
cie needed  would  be  inconsiderable. 
All  really  large  transactions  could  be 
easily  accomplished  by  mere  book- 
keeping through  the  centralized  chain 
of  German  banks.  Money  would  be 
needed,  in  the  ordinary  sense,  not  to 
begin  or  to  prosecute  the  war,  but  to 
prepare  for  it. 

The  amount  of  supplies  which  they 
felt  they  must  have  on  hand  at  the 
outbreak  of  the  war  was  so  enor- 
mous that  to  collect  it  by  any  direct 
method  such  as  they  proposed  to  em- 
ploy after  the  war  had  begun,  would 
simply  be  an  open  confession  of  their 
intention  to  fight,  which  would  warn 
their  enemies,  unnecessarily,  months 
before  the  time.  They  knew  also  from 
the  experience  of  Agadir  that  any  such 
sum  of  money  as  they  would  need 
could  not  be  borrowed  in  London  or 
Paris  at  all.  They  therefore  devised, 
possibly  with  no  idea  that  it  would  be 


so  soon  needed,  the  recent  war  levy,  a 
direct  tax  upon  property  of  all  sorts, 
amounting  to  two  hundred  and  fifty 
million  dollars,  which  they  explained 
was  necessary  to  render  the  armies 
efficient.  This  was  entirely  true.  With 
it  they  purchased,  in  Germany  and 
abroad,  every  conceivable  sort  of  sup- 
plies necessary  to  put  the  nation  in  a 
position  to  make  war.  When  the  mo- 
ment came  they  would  need  the  actual 
commodities,  and  not  the  money;  and 
at  that  moment  they  would  need  to 
be  thinking  in  the  War  Office  about 
everything  except  *  finance/  More- 
over, as  the  government  already  own- 
ed the  railroads,  the  telegraph,  and 
everything  the  army  could  use,  the 
transportation  of  the  army  and  its 
supplies  to  the  front  involved  the 
sending  of  a  few  orders,  and  not  the 
expenditure  of  money  at  all.  The  gov- 
ernment, as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  par- 
ticularly anxious  to  keep  specie  out  of 
the  people's  hands,  to  prevent  them 
from  hoarding  it. 

Money  in  time  of  war,  as  at  any 
other  time,  therefore,  the  Germans 
concluded,  meant  currency;  and  cur- 
rency meant  some  medium  of  exchange 
which  would  be  accepted  by  the  people 
at  face  value.  So  long  as  the  public 
confidence  in  the  government  was  un- 
shaken, and  ultimate  success  was  be- 
lieved certain,  a  paper  currency  would 
serve  the  purpose  much  better  than 
specie.  The  banking  system,  to  be  sure, 
collected  gold  as  assiduously  as  it  could 
during  the  months  preceding  the  war, 
and  is  supposed  to  have  vastly  increas- 
ed the  German  gold  reserve,  which  was 
to  give  stability  to  the  paper  currency 
and  furnish  a  firm  basis  for  such  inter- 
national exchange  as  they  might  even- 
tually find  necessary.  The  central 
banking  system,  however,  long  since 
highly  organized,  and  accustomed  to 
accept  as  security  a  great  variety  of 
credit  values,  could  absolutely  control 


746 


GERMANY'S  ABILITY  TO  FINANCE  THE  WAR 


all  exchange,  could  accept  as  collateral 
for  loans  whatever  the  individual  had 
to  offer  and  issue  him  paper  credits. 
There  would  be  plenty  of  real  value 
because  there  would  be  plenty  of  work; 
the  government  would  see  to  that. 

The  banks  would  make  loans  to  the 
manufacturer  and  establish  a  check- 
ing account  on  which  they  would  pay 
him  paper,  which  he  in  turn  would  pay 
his  employees,  who  would  pay  it  out 
for  commodities.  The  dealers  would 
pay  it  back  into  the  banks,  where  the 
whole  transaction  would,  as  usual,  be 
canceled.  With  adequate  supervision 
the  system  ought  to  work  as  usual,  and 
so  long  as  there  is  work,  should  guar- 
antee Germany  absolutely  from  panic 
or  suffering. 

The  real  root  of  economic  crises 
seems  to  have  been  a  lack  of  foresight, 
where  ignorance  allowed  individuals 
to  compete  with  each  other,  and  gave 
some  of  them  a  chance  to  take  advan- 
tage of  others'  necessities.  Most  crises 
have  been  due  far  more  to  a  lack  of 
intelligence  than  to  a  real  deficiency  of 
means  in  the  community.  The  new 
bond  issue  is  not  concerned  with  the 
financing  of  the  war  at  all,  but  with  the 
necessary  readjustments  after  the  war 
is  over. 

The  war  might,  conceivably,  if  all 
the  economic  premises  of  Pan-Ger- 
manism proved  themselves  true,  give 
Germans  some  rather  considerable 
financial  advantages,  which  would  go 
far  toward  lightening  the  burden  of  the 
generation  now  alive,  and  toward 
shifting  the  'cost'  of  the  war  to  some 
extent  to  the  shoulders  of  their  ene- 
mies. Of  course  the  war  would  prompt- 
ly suspend  all  ordinary  facilities  for  the 
payment  of  the  interest  on  German 
loans  abroad,  or  of  the  dividends  on 
German  stocks  due  to  foreigners.  Un- 
less the  financial  world  is  very  wrong 
indeed,  the  German  liabilities  to  for- 
eign nations  enormously  exceed  the 


payments  due  from  foreign  nations  to 
them.  The  difference  between  what 
they  owe  and  what  is  owed  them,  the 
war  will  present  to  German  citizens, 
and  this  will  be  literally,  for  the  time 
being,  clear  gain.  Just  so  much  more 
of  the  German  gross  income  would  be 
available  for  use  in  Germany,  and  it 
could  hardly  fail  to  be  a  very  large 
sum;  just  so  much  of  the  produce 
raised  by  Germans,  with  which  these 
debts  would  normally  have  been  paid, 
would  be  available  for  German  con- 
sumption. 

So  much  the  community  might  con- 
sume, and  be  exactly  where  it  would 
have  been  '  financially '  if  the  war  had 
never  broken  out  at  all;  by  so  much 
would  the  war  instantly  impoverish 
Germany's  enemies,  by  whom  these 
commodities  would  normally  have 
been  consumed.  These  financial  hand- 
icaps could  be  increased  very  easily  by 
the  levy  of  contributions  and  ransoms 
from  the  hostile  territory  occupied  by 
the  German  armies.  Every  bushel  of 
wheat  which  could  be  diverted  from 
French  stomachs  into  German  ones 
would  mean  so  much  financial  gain 
for  Germany. 

Gold,  when  it  could  be  got,  has  been 
seized  consistently,  in  the  hope  of  em- 
barrassing domestic  exchange  in  Bel- 
gium and  France,  where  gold  has  been 
almost  as  habitually  used  in  ordinary 
life  as  in  England.  Germany  had 
so  long  been  accustomed  to  paper  cur- 
rency that  the  issue  at  the  outbreak  of 
the  war  of  the  flood  of  new  notes  was 
accepted  almost  as  a  matter  of  course 
by  the  community.  Paper  currency, 
without  elaborate  provision  for  re- 
demption in  specie,  will  not  be  so  accep- 
table in  France  and  Belgium.  It  is 
therefore  good  finance  to  demand  the 
payment  of  ransoms  in  gold.  All  these, 
however,  are  the  mere  incidentals  of 
the  correct  financing  of  the  war,  as 
understood  by  German  statesmen, 


SOME  REMARKS  ON  AMERICAN  AND  ENGLISH  FICTION       747 


As  observers,  we  are  not  yet  in  a 
position  to  pass  upon  the  ultimate 
validity  of  these  measures.  We  can 
only  point  out  that  they  seem  to  con- 
form accurately  to  the  experience  of 
history,  and  to  be  nothing  more  than 
the  literal  application  of  the  simple 
postulates  of  political  economy.  So 


any  evidence  of  what  conditions  in 
Germany  at  present  are,  every  indica- 
tion points  toward  the  overwhelming 
success  of  German  finance,  and  gives 
us  slight  reason  to  suppose  that  the 
predictions  of  the  English  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer  will  be  fulfilled.  If 
Germany  and  Austria  are  beaten  it  will 


far  as  we  can  tell,  if  private  letters  are     not  be  for  lack  of  'cash.' 


SOME  REMARKS   ON   AMERICAN  AND  ENGLISH 

FICTION 

BY  EDWARD   GARNETT 


THE  Editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly 
having  invited  me  to  speak  with  can- 
dor on  the  practice  and  prospects  of 
English  and  American  fiction,1 1  feel 
that  it  is  best  to  direct  my  remarks  to 
a  few  aspects  which  may  possibly  lead 
to  some  discussion  among  American 
novelists  themselves. 

I  speak  here  as  an  English  reviewer 
who  has  been  interested  for  many  years 
in  the  American  attempt  to  evolve,  in 
imaginative  literature,  a  standard  of 
fine  quality,  one  which  in  Mr.  W.  D. 
Howells's  phrase  *  should  be  neither 
shamed  nor  vaunting.'  And  first  it 
may  be  of  profit  to  inquire  whether  the 
artistic  quality  of  English  and  Ameri- 
can fiction  is  higher  than  was  the  case 
fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago.  I  believe 
that  though  the  ordinary  English  novel 

The  author  was  invited  to  speak  his  mind 
with  complete  freedom.  The  reader  must  under- 
stand that  his  critical  estimates  are  entirely  his 
own.  —  THE  EDITORS. 


is  a  mediocre  affair,  truly  representa- 
tive of  our  middle-class  limitations,  our 
dull  but  honest  domesticity,  our  lack 
of  wit  and  insensitiveness  to  form,  our 
dislike  of  bitter  truths,  our  preference 
for  mild  idealism  and  sentimental  so- 
lutions, still  the  typical  English  novel 
to-day  is  less  vulgar,  less  false,  less  mel- 
odramatic in  its  appeal  than  it  was  a 
generation  ago. 

Can  the  same  be  said  of  the  Amer- 
ican novel?  My  opinion  is  here  set 
down  in  the  hope  of  eliciting  the  views 
of  other  critics.  But  it  appears  to  me 
that,  of  late,  a  certain  intensification 
of  the  commercial  ideal  in  America, 
with  the  increasing  'hunt  of  the  dol- 
lar,' is  more  and  more  restricting  the 
field  of  exercise  of  the  finer  and  quieter 
talents  in  fiction,  and  that  the  rivalry 
of  American  publishers  in  flooding  the 
country  with  inferior  brands  of  novels 
must  be  tending  to  depress  the  public 
standard  of  taste.  It  must  be,  indeed, 
that  there  are  fine  and  delicate  talents 
emerging  amid  the  raging  spate  of 


748       SOME  REMARKS  ON  AMERICAN  AND  ENGLISH  FICTION 


'best  sellers';  but  it  is  harder  to  distin- 
guish their  gleam  amid  the  subfusk, 
swollen  cataract  of  stories  made  to 
order. 

In  England,  of  course,  as  in  Amer- 
ica, there  are  bottomless  depths  in  the 
insatiable  appetite  of  the  public  for  an 
art  of  sensational  shocks  and  sentimen- 
tal twaddle,1  but  the  point  is  whether 
the  market  for  the  fine,  conscientious 
piece  of  literary  craftsmanship  is  a  ris- 
ing or  a  falling  one?  Various  straws  of 
tendency  in  the  United  States  point  in 
a  depressing  direction.  Twenty  years 
ago  did  not  Mr.  W.  D.  Howells's  splen- 
did example  in  literature  carry  more 
weight  with  the  intelligent  public  than 
to-day?  It  will  be  rejoined,  perhaps, 
that  there  is  no  living  novelist  of  the 
younger  American  school  who  can  paint 
with  such  subtle  flexibility  of  insight 
and  such  breadth  of  vision  the  portrait 
of  his  generation,  as  did  the  author  of 
Silas  Lapham.  If  so,  the  sign  is  not 
auspicious. 

The  fact  that  the  influence  wielded 
by  your  two  ablest  novelists,  Edith 
Wharton  and  Anne  Douglas  Sedgwick, 
is  so  restricted  in  scope  in  proportion  to 
their  gift,  suggests  that  the  American 
mind  is  hostile  to  the  artist  in  litera- 
ture, whereas  our  English  audience,  at 
worst,  is  apathetic  or  indifferent.  With 
us,  though  the  fight  against  commer- 
cial Philistinism  is  perennial,  the  writ- 

1  To  balance  the  disconcerting  fact  that  Mrs. 
Florence  Barclay's  twaddling  novels  hail  from 
an  English  vicarage,  we  quote  an  American  pub- 
lisher's advertisement:  '"The  Book  of  Thrills," 
Darkness  and  Dawn.  By  George  Allan  England ' ; 
and  so  forth. 

'Also  you  have  a  wonderful  wooing  under  per- 
fectly unheard-of  conditions;  an  ideal  love,  pure, 
tender,  unselfish.  .  .  .  Beatrice's  abduction,  Al- 
lan's fight  with  a  giant  gorilla,  the  air-ship  wreck, 
the  thrilling  defense  against  a  horde  of  half-ani- 
mal savages,  and  the  building  up  of  a  new  world 
and  a  beautiful  idealistic  civilization  on  the  ruins 
of  a  blasted  planet  —  these  but  suggest  the  en- 
tertainment possibilities  of  this  big  romance,'  and 
so  on. 


ers  of  rare  imaginative  gift  do  not 
seem  to  me  so  isolated,  so  hemmed  in, 
and  cut  off  from  assistance  of  culti- 
vated minds  as  in  America. 


II 

Let  us  look  back  along  the  line  some 
twenty  years.  From  an  undated  cut- 
ting from  the  London  Speaker,  which 
must  belong  to  1894,  or  1895  at  latest, 
I  find  that  I  singled  out  Mr.  Hamlin 
Garland,  Miss  Murfree,  Miss  Grace 
King,  Mr.  F.  Hopkinson  Smith,  Miss 
Mary  Wilkins,  and  Miss  Katharine 
Smith  as  the  most  gifted  literary  artists 
in  the  younger  rising  school,  Messrs. 
W.  D.  Howells's,  Henry  James's,  and 
George  W.  Cable's  reputations  having 
been  of  course  long  solidly  established. 

By  some  accident  I  did  not  come 
across  Miss  Sarah  Orne  Jewett's  incom- 
parable short  stories  till  several  years 
later,  when  I  recommended  an  English 
publisher  to  import  an  edition  of  The 
Country  of  the  Pointed  Firs.  But  the 
failure  of  American  criticism  to  recog- 
nize that,  by  virtue  of  thirty  little  mas- 
terpieces in  the  short  story,  Miss  Jew- 
ett  ranks  with  the  leading  European 
masters,  and  its  grudging,  inadequate 
recognition  of  the  most  original  genius 
it  has  produced  in  story-telling,  Mr. 
Stephen  Crane,  showed  me  that  it  had 
not  realized  that  real  talent,  aesthetic 
or  literary,  is  individual  in  its  struc- 
ture, experience,  outlook,  and  growth, 
and  that  it  makes  its  appeal  and  sur- 
vives to  posterity  by  reason  of  its 
peculiar  originality  of  tone  and  vision 
expressed  in  beauty  and  force  of  form, 
of  atmosphere,  and  of  style. 

Every  fresh  native  talent  emerges 
by  virtue  of  its  revelation  of  fresh 
aspects  and  original  points  of  view, 
which  create  fresh  valuations  in  our 
comprehension  of  life  and  human  na- 
ture. Now  this  very  simple  test,  which 
is  indeed  self-evident,  is  the  touchstone 


SOME  REMARKS  ON  AMERICAN  AND  ENGLISH  FICTION        749 


by  which  we  separate  the  genuine  met- 
al of  imaginative  art  from  the  sham  or 
common  alloy  of  the  popular  fabricated 
article.  If  we  apply  it  in  the  cases  of 
Frank  R.  Stockton  and  Joel  Chandler 
Harris  we  perceive  that  the  originality 
of  those  delightful  humorists  entitles 
them  to  seats  not  far  removed  from 
that  of  Mark  Twain.  Again,  when  Mr. 
Frank  Norris  appeared,  his  McTeague 
was  no  literary  echo,  or  iteration  or 
affirmation  of  current  social  ideas  or 
ideals,  whatever  may  have  been  the 
precise  measure  of  his  literary  talent. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  Mr.  Harold 
Frederick's  powerful  novel  Illumina- 
tion. Later,  when  Mr.  Dreiser  came  in 
sight  with  his  Sister  Carrie,  the  present 
writer  had  the  honor  of  recommend- 
ing it  for  English  publication,  while 
that  admirable  piece  of  realism  was 
being  cold-shouldered  and  boycotted 
for  years  by  the  body  of  American 
publishers. 

I  do  not  know  whether  the  late 
O.  Henry's  marvelous  powers  of  lan- 
guage, gayety,  creative  fecundity,  and 
imaginative  power  in  handling  a  situ- 
ation have  yet  received  their  due 
in  America,  but  the  point  I  wish  to 
make  clear  is  that  between  the  writers 
above  enumerated,  namely  between 
Miss  Sarah  Orne  Jewett,  Miss  Murfree, 
Miss  Mary  Wilkins,  Miss  Grace  King, 
Mrs.  Wharton,  Miss  Anne  Douglas 
Sedgwick,  Mr.  Frank  R.  Stockton, 
Mr.  J.  C.  Harris,  Mr.  Hamlin  Garland, 
Mr.  F.  Hopkinson  Smith,  Mr.  Stephen 
Crane,  Mr.  Frank  Norris,  O.  Henry,1 
and  such  clever  popular  favorites  as 
Mr.  Winston  Churchill,  Miss  Mary 
Johnston,  Mr.  Robert  W.  Chambers, 
Mr.  Richard  Harding  Davis,  Mr.  John 
Fox,  Jr.,  Mr.  Owen  Johnson,  it  would 
be  waste  of  time  to  institute  compar- 

1  I  omit  Miss  Katharine  Smith  and  Mr.  Dreis- 
er, for  I  am  not  aware  whether  their  later  work 
fulfilled  the  promise  respectively  of  The  Cy-Bar- 
ker  Ledge  and  Sister  Carrie.  — THE  AUTHOR. 


isons  in  respect  of  artistic  gifts  and 
originality  of  temperament.  The  work 
of  the  first  class  of  writers,  unequal  as 
are  their  achievements  in  point  of  indi- 
vidual genius,  is  of  a  grade  artistically 
far  beyond  the  reach  of  the  second  class 
enumerated. 

In  saying  that  the  work  of  the  latter 
—  represented  by  the  six  authors  I 
have  cited  —  is  obviously  deficient  in 
'temperamental  value/  I  do  not  mean 
that  these  authors  are  indistinguish- 
able one  from  another,  but  that  in 
tone,  in  insight,  in  style,  each  is  little 
more  than  a  popular  sounding-board 
for  the  reverberation  of  current  tones 
and  moods  of  the  mass  of  minds.  Take 
Mr.  R.  H.  Davis's  story,  The  Man  who 
could  not  Lose,  Mr.  R.  W.  Chambers's 
The  Business  of  Life,  Mr.  Owen  John- 
son's The  Salamander,  and  ask  what 
measure  of  creative  originality  informs 
them.  None.  None  at  all,  or  next  to 
none.  These  stories  no  doubt  may 
amuse  or  interest  or  instruct  their  au- 
dience, but  the  first  is  worthless,  the 
second  mediocre,  the  third  meretrici- 
ous as  an  artistic  achievement.  They 
are  destined  for  the  rubbish  heap,  if 
indeed  they  have  not  been  deposited 
there  already.  And  the  works,  all  told, 
of  Mr.  Winston  Churchill,  Miss  Mary 
Johnston,  and  Mr.  John  Fox,  Jr.,  de- 
spite the  amazing  energy  and  industry 
of  their  authors,  kick  the  beam  when 
weighed  against  a  single  little  master- 
piece by  Miss  Sarah  Orne  Jewett  or 
Stephen  Crane.  This  of  course  is  an 
obvious  truth  to  any  critical  intelli- 
gence, but  I  do  not  know  how  far  it  is 
now  accepted  in  America. 

in 

At  this  point  of  the  inquiry  my  read- 
er may  ask,  Do  not  you  possess  in 
England  this  same  class  of  popular 
favorites  whose  novels  and  tales  are 
also  destitute  of  real  creative  original- 


750      SOME  REMARKS  ON  AMERICAN  AND  ENGLISH  FICTION 


ity,  aesthetic  interest,  and  individual 
insight?  We  do.  But  the  work  of  in- 
dustrious talents  such  as  Sir  Gilbert 
Parker,  Mr.  A.  E.  W.  Mason,  Mr.  W.  J. 
Locke,  Mr.  H.  A.  Vachell,  'Richard 
Dehan/  Miss  E.  T.  Fowler,  and  others, 
is  not  ranked  by  any  critic  worth  his 
salt  with  that  of  writers  of  creative 
originality,  like  Messrs.  Joseph  Con- 
rad, H.  G.  Wells,  Rudyard  Kipling, 
Thomas  Hardy,  John  Galsworthy, 
and  Arnold  Bennett. 

1  must  admit  that  the  vast  majority 
of  our  English  audience  is  uncritical 
in  its  taste,  and  that  many  of  our  *  best 
sellers'  are  also  the  most  poverty- 
stricken  and  mediocre  in  point  of  vision, 
form,  atmosphere,  and  style.  But  the 
chief  advantage  we  possess  which  leads 
to  the  fostering  of  literary  talent,  giv- 
ing it  liberty  to  grow  and  a  certain  if 
small  measure  of  favoring  recognition, 
springs,  I  believe,  from  the  fact  that 
the  Englishman  is  so  individual  in  his 
instincts  that  the  unorthodox  novelist 
of  real  talent  will  always  find  some 
backer  to  publish  and  support  him,  and 
reviewers  to  criticize  him  with  insight 
and  fairness,  without  deferring  to  the 
opinion  of  the  majority.  However  dull 
or  mediocre  an  ordinary  English  nov- 
elist may  be,  I  do  not  think  that  he 
deliberately  echoes  the  orthodox  shib- 
boleths, moral  or  social,  of  the  public 
at  large,  or  that  he  makes  a  fetish  of 
'recognized  opinion/  I  cannot  help 
connecting  the  strange  timidity  (I  had 
almost  written  cowardice)  of  the  Amer- 
ican publishers  in  backing  work  of 
original  individuality  with  the  great 
superstition  of  the  good  American  in 
his  present  stage  of  culture,  namely, 
that  he  ought  to  be  thinking  and  feel- 
ing and  reiterating  what  he  imagines 
everybody  round  him  is  thinking  and 
feeling  and  reiterating.  Everybody  is 
busy  copying  everybody  else!  —  an  ab- 
surd state  of  things  which  is  not  only 
destructive  of  true  individuality,  but 


directly  inimical  to  the  creation  of  fine 
art. 

The  dogma  persistently  put  forward 
in  America  under  innumerable  guises, 
that  the  thinker  and  the  literary  art- 
ist must  cater  to  the  tastes,  ideas,  and 
sentiments,  moral  and  emotional,  of 
the  great  majority,  under  pain  of  be- 
ing ignored1  or  ostracized,  was  noted 
by  De  Tocqueville  three  generations 
ago;  but  this  dogma  bred  in  the  Amer- 
ican bone  seems  to  have  been  rein- 
forced by  the  latter-day  tyranny  of 
the  commercial  ideal.  The  commercial 
man  who  says,  'Read  this  book  because 
it  is  the  best  seller/  is  seeking  to  hyp- 
notize the  individual's  judgment  and 
taste.  If  there  be  a  noticeable  dearth 
of  originality  of  feeling  and  outlook  in 
latter-day  American  fiction,  it  must  be 
because  the  individual  is  subjected 
from  the  start  to  the  insistent  pressure 
of  social  ideals  of  conformity  which 
paralyze  or  crush  out  the  finer,  rarer, 
more  sensitive  individual  talents.  I 
do  not  say  that  English  writers  are  not 
vexed  in  a  minor  degree  by  Mrs.  Grun- 
dy's  attempts  to  boycott  or  crush  nov- 
els that  offend  the  taste  of  'the  villa 
public/  but  I  believe  that  our  social 
atmosphere  favors  the  writer  of  true 
individuality;  and  in  proof  of  this 
statement  I  set  down  here  a  list  of  over 
sixty  novelists  of  genuine  original  tal- 
ent, many  of  whom  are  literary  crafts- 
men of  high  artistic  quality;  and  these 
are  in  addition  to  the  six  I  have  al- 
ready named :  — 

George  Moore,  Hilaire  Belloc,  Cun- 
ningharne  Graham,  W.  H.  Hudson, 
D.  H.  Lawrence,  E.  M.  Foster,  William 
De  Morgan,  Leonard  Merrick,  Mau- 
rice Hewlett,  John  Masefield,  Sir  A. 

1  One  is  told,  for  example,  of  the  fate  of  the 
late  Frank  Morris's  rejected  posthumous  novel. 
Vandover,  strongest  of  them  all,  was  not  in  ac- 
cord with  the  spirit  of  the  day  in  literature,  and 
in  the  time  of  rapid  production  it  was  easy  to 
ignore  its  claim.  —  THE  AUTHOR. 


SOME  REMARKS  ON  AMERICAN  AND  ENGLISH  FICTION      751 


Quiller-Couch,  Robert  Hichens,  Ste- 
phen Reynolds,  A.  F.  Wedgwood,  Da- 
vid W.  Bone,  Barry  Pain,  C.  E.  Mon- 
tague, Oliver  Onions,  J.  C.  Snaith, 
James  Stephens,  Frank  Harris,  Neil 
Lyons,  Perceval  Gibbon,  Walter  De  La 
Mare,  Charles  Marriott,  Ford  Hueffer, 
H.  De  Vere  Stacpoole,  Neil  Munro, 
Morley  Roberts,  Vincent  O'Sullivan, 
Marmaduke  Pickthall,  Compton  Mac- 
kenzie, J.  D.  Beresford,  E.  V.  Lucas, 
Frank  Swinnerton,  W.  L.  George,  Ed- 
win Pugh,  Gilbert  Cannan,  Archibald 
Marshall,  Grant  Richards,  Algernon 
Blackwood,  Gerald  O'Donovan,  Shan 
Bullock,  Eden  Phillpotts,  George  Bir- 
mingham, Richard  Pryce,  E.  F.  Ben- 
son, Percy  White,  Temple  Thurston, 
Sir  Conan  Doyle,  James  Prior,  Mrs. 
Mary  E.  Mann,  Miss  May  Sinclair, 
Miss  Ethel  Sidgwick,  Mrs.  Steel,  Mrs. 
Dudeney,  Mrs.  Gertrude  Bone,  Miss 
Macnaughtan,  Miss  Violet  Hunt,  Mrs. 
Ada  Leverson,  Mrs.  C.  Dawson  Scott, 
Miss  Amber  Reeves,  Miss  Silberrad, 
'Lucas  Malet,'  Mrs.  Margaret  Woods, 
and  Miss  Marjorie  Bowen. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  know  how 
far  the  above  list  —  which  could  be 
extended  —  can  be  paralleled  by  a 
similar  list  of  living  American  novelists 
of  artistic  rank.  I  have  counted  up  to 
twenty  myself,  in  addition  to  those 
already  cited;  but  I  cannot  claim  to 
have  explored  or  examined  thoroughly 
the  field  of  American  fiction  for  sev- 
eral years  past,  and  I  must  remind  my 
readers  that  in  touching  on  certain 
aspects  in  the  outlook  /or  fiction  I  am 
hoping  to  elicit  information  and  dis- 
cussion. 

Now  it  may  perhaps  help  the  in- 
quiry if  I  quote  some  passages  from  a 
criticism  of  Mr.  Jack  London's  Burning 
Daylight,  a  criticism  styled  'Made  in 
America/ which  I  contributed  to  a  Lon- 
don newspaper  three  years  back :  — 

*  Why  is  it  that  the  work  of  so  many 
highly  intelligent  American  novelists 


is  so  deficient  in  artistic  quality  when 
we  come  to  compare  it  with  European 
fiction  on  the  same  intellectual  level? 
Writers  of  genius  America  can  of 
course  show  us  ...  but  I  am  speaking 
with  reference  to  scores  of  the  clever 
popular  novelists  whose  artistic  in- 
stincts seem  to  be  affected,  indeed 
largely  stultified,  by  an  insidious  force, 
omnipresent  hi  the  American  social  at- 
mosphere, which  dictates  such  absurd 
observances  as  ;<the  happy  ending." 
While  nearly  every  society  wishes  its 
governing  ideas  to  be  paramount,  and 
is  distrustful  of  the  artist  who  subjects 
them  to  an  unfaltering  analysis,  it  is 
only  in  America 'that  the  commercial 
instinct  seems  to  have  succeeded  in 
erecting  the  mediocrity  of  the  ordinary 
man,  in  matters  artistic,  into  an  imper- 
ative standard  of  tastelessness.  .  .  . 

'  Now,  in  modern  art  what  matters 
perhaps  most  is  the  temperament  of  the 
artist,  that  individual  essence  which 
creates  a  new  spiritual  quality  and  at- 
mosphere out  of  the  life  and  forms  and 
patterns  of  society.  .  .  .  An  essential 
in  creative  art  is  the  artist's  tempera- 
mental absorption  in  his  own  work. 
Art  in  that  respect  is  essentially  aristo- 
cratic, however  democratic  its  appeal 
may  be.  That  is  what  Meredith  meant 
when  he  said,  "Do  not  democratize  lit- 
erature." Beer  or  blankets  or  biscuits 
or  braces  may  be  manufactured  to 
please  the  taste  of  the  average  man,  but 
art  cannot  be  so  dealt  with  under  pen- 
alty of  losing  its  quality  as  art.  The 
business  people  do  not,  of  course,  un- 
derstand this.  They  cry  aloud  for  nov- 
•  els  that  sell  in  hundreds  of  thousands, 
—  those  novels  which  are  "graded," 
cleverly  or  not,  to  a  standard  of 
mediocre  taste.  And  temperamental 
quality,  being  unadaptable  and  self-re- 
garding, is  apt  to  be  a  stumbling-block 
in  the  way  of  those  popular  achieve- 
ments. Americans,  however  charming 
and  intelligent  they  may  be,  always 


752      SOME  REMARKS  ON  AMERICAN  AND  ENGLISH  FICTION 


seem  nervously  anxious  to  appear  or- 
thodox in  their  artistic  tastes  and  ap- 
preciations. And  this  of  course  means 
keeping  to  the  high  road  of  medioc- 
rity, for  genuine  taste  implies  again 
the  expression  of  an  individual  tem- 
perament. .  .  . 

*  Mr.  Jack  London's  Burning  Daylight 
has  more  individuality  than  most  Amer- 
ican novels  —  as  a  work  of  picturesque 
information  on  Yukon  pioneering,  and 
as  a  smashing  criticism  of  American  bus- 
iness ideals,  it  is  indeed  quite  valuable. 
The  story  is  a  "  live  "  book,  as  his  coun- 
trymen say,  broad  in  outlook,  manly 
in  its  standpoint,  and  one  written  with 
literary  skill  and  conviction.  Yet  this 
same  curious  absence  of  temperament 
is  to  be  remarked,  and  the  novel  has 
something  of  the  effect  of  a  composite 
photograph.  Mr.  Jack  London  does 
not  echo  other  writers,  or  conform  to 
the  opinion  of  the  majority,  so  his  case 
is  worth  investigating.  The  hero,  Har- 
nish,  is  an  American  superman.  His 
physical  feats  are  almost  superhuman. 
He  out-runs,  out-walks,  out-distances, 
out-drinks,  out-gambles,  out-fights,  and 
so  forth,  every  other  man  in  the  Yukon 
territory,  including  the  Indian  Kama, 
:'the  pick  of  his  barbaric  race. " 

'And  the  consequence  is  that  one 
does  not  believe  in  Harnish  as  one  be- 
lieves, say,  in  the  existence  of  the  he- 
roes of  the  Icelandic  Sagas.  He  is  a 
monster,  not  a  man.  The  American 
tendency  to  exaggeration  has  in  fact 
annihilated  all  the  finer  lines  and  traits 
of  human  personality.  And,  after  all, 
art  is  a  matter  of  precise  shades  and 
particular  lines.  So  with  Dede  Mason, 
the  heroine  of  the  tale,  Harnish's  "  nine- 
ty-dollar-a-month  stenographer,"  who 
refuses  to  marry  him  when  he  is  a  mil- 
lionaire because  she  dislikes  the  fevered 
life  he  is  leading.  Dede  Mason  is  gen- 
eralized, not  individualized.  She  talks 
not  like  any  girl  in  particular,  but  like 
a  syndicate  of  American  women  as 


reported  by  a  news  agency.  Harnish's 
courtship  and  Dede's  replies  give  one 
the  sensation  of  love-making  by  human 
machinery,  very  smooth-running  and 
effective  in  working,  but  without  indi- 
vidual power  or  charm  or  flavor.  .  .  . 
May  we  not  draw  the  conclusion  that 
it  is  the  pressure  of  "standardized'3 
ideas  in  the  mental  interchange  of 
American  society  that  is  so  destructive 
of  the  finer  shades  of  "  temperamental " 
valuation?' 

I  quote  the  above  criticism  the  more 
readily  since  it  lays  stress  on  the  two 
characteristics  of  popular  latter-day 
American  fiction  which  are  destructive 
of  its  appeal  to  rank  as  fine  art:  that 
is,  (a)  exaggeration,  (6)  the  presenta- 
tion and  glorification  of  *  standardized ' 
morals,  manners,  emotions,  and  of  ste- 
reotyped social  ambitions  and  ethical 
valuations. 

Let  us  take  Mr.  Owen  Johnson's 
The  Salamander  for  an  illustration  of 
charge  (a).  Mr.  Johnson  has  chosen 
a  promising  subject,  for  the  *  salaman- 
der' girl,  Dore,  is  a  significant  pro- 
duct of  her  feverish  and  artificial  New 
York  environment.  But  the  author  ex- 
hausts us  with  a  surfeit  of  flimsy  and 
violent  sensationalism,  he  plays  with 
the  loud  pedal  down,  and  is  continually 
throwing  in  all  kinds  of  flashy  effects. 
He  commences  with  exaggerated  em- 
phasis, and  after  the  first  seventy  pages 
he  can  only  offer  us  a  repetition  of 
the  old  shocks.  The  men  characters — 
Massingale,  Lindaberry,  Sassoon,  and 
Harrigan  Blood  —  are  merely  coarse- 
ly modeled  types,  not  individual  men 
in  any  sense  of  the  word.  The  girl 
characters  are  little  better.  We  soon 
sicken  of  the  erotic  sentimentalities 
that  Massingale  and  Dore  exchange, 
and  all  the  latter  scenes  between  them 
are  vamped  up,  shockingly  surcharged 
with  false  rhetoric  and  theatrical  over- 
emphasis. 

The  above  criticism  of  The  Salaman- 


SOME  REMARKS  ON  AMERICAN  AND  ENGLISH  FICTION       753 


der  may  seem  a  little  harsh,  but  I  make 
it  deliberately,  on  the  ground  that  it 
would  be  absurd  to  style  the  novel  'a 
work  of  art.'  If  we  compare  it,  say, 
with  Mr.  W.  D.  Howells's  recent  novel, 
New  Leaf  Mills,  with  its  classic  bal- 
ance, exquisite  restraint,  and  gracious 
clarity  of  vision,  we  shall  refuse  to  dig- 
nify The  Salamander  with  the  name  of 
'literature.'  The  fact  that  it  sells  one 
hundred  thousand  copies  or  a  quarter 
of  a  million  copies,  or  a  million  copies, 
is  no  mitigation  of  the  fact  that  The 
Salamander  violates  almost  every  can- 
on of  good  art.  It  may  be  added  that 
a  vital  reason  for  the  discouragement 
of  crude,  violent,  and  noisy  art  is  that 
an  audience  which  is  habituated  to  be- 
ing *  thrilled'  will  require  coarser  and 
coarser  stimulants  to  excite  its  jaded 
mental  palate.  Sensational  art  is  art 
in  which  everybody  seems  to  be  talk- 
ing at  the  top  of  his  voice  to  attract 
attention,  till  at  last  the  hubbub  be- 
comes so  deafening  that  the  people 
still  resolved  on  being  heard  begin  to 
howl  and  scream.  So  it  is  with  'best 
sellers '  that  are  '  all  outside  and  no  in- 
side,' and  with  'the  New  Fiction  that 
People  are  Reading';  the  publishers 
and  the  authors  seem  to  be  conspiring 
to  force  the  note  of  exaggeration  till 
the  typical '  best  seller '  works  with  au- 
tomatic prevision  in  producing  scenes 
of  sweet  sentimentalism  or  shock  after 
shock  of  melodramatic  incident.  If  I 
am  in  error  in  thinking  that  twenty 
years  ago  the  American  novel  of  sensa- 
tion was  a  far  soberer  and  more  human 
affair  than  it  is  to-day,  I  should  wel- 
come evidence  on  the  point. 


IV 

As  regards  my  second  criticism,  (6) , 
that  the  modern  American  novelist 
seems  to  delight  in  the  presentation  of 
'standardized'  morals,  manners,  and 
emotions,  and  the  glorification  of  stere- 

VOL.124-NO.  6 


otyped  aspirations  and  ethical  valua- 
tions, I  may  illustrate  it  by  saying  that 
his  unconscious  habit  seems  to  be  to 
swim  with  the  current,  to  swim  not 
across  the  stream,  but  down  it.  He 
would  appear  to  be  carried  along  by 
the  force  of  the  social  stream  at  such  a 
pace  that  his  swimming,  that  is,  his 
work,  does  not  show  any  appreciable 
resistance  to  the  way  that  the  tide  of 
popular  ideas  and  ideals  happens  to  be 
setting.  I  except  of  course  the  work 
of  a  score  or  more  of  novelists,  such 
as  Booth  Tarkington,  Robert  Herrick, 
Owen  Wister,  Miss  Dewing,  and  Neith 
Boyce,  whose  criticism  of  character  is 
accompanied  by  a  criticism  of  soci- 
ety; but  the  weakness  of  the  ordinary 
well-written  American  novel  lies,  if  I 
may  say  so,  in  its  sentimental  and 
ethical  conventionality.  Even  the  nov- 
elists who  set  out  to  create  'fresh 
valuations'  in  social  propaganda  seem 
to  me  to  deal  in  '  stock '  sizes  of  manly 
emotions.  Let  me  illustrate  my  mean- 
ing by  a  quotation  written  a  few  years 
ago  of  Mr.  Winston  Churchill's  Mr. 
Cr ewe's  Career  :  — 

'The  naivete  of  the  author's  artistic 
method  is  shown  in  the  idyllic  contrast 
that  he  draws  between  the  two  men 
who  control  the  fortunes  of  the  North- 
Eastern  Railroad,  —  Mr.  Flint,  the 
President,  and  his  legal  adviser,  the 
Hon.  Hilary  Vane,  and  their  pure  and 
upright  children,  Victoria  Flint  and 
Austen  Vane,  who,  of  course,  fall  in 
love  and  run  counter  to  their  parents' 
crooked  policy. 

'We  do  not  believe  in  the  candid 
innocence  of  the  fascinating  Victoria. 
She  is  a  stock  tradition  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  theatre,  this  pure  and  trusting 
heroine  who,  lapped  in  luxury,  never 
dreams  of  questioning  her  hard  father's 
methods  and  business  code  of  ethics, 
till  the  moment  comes  when,  enlight- 
ened by  her  lover,  she  is  "satisfied  with 
nothing  less  than  the  truth,"  and  her 


754       SOME  REMARKS  ON  AMERICAN  AND  ENGLISH  FICTION 


"  life-long  faith  "  in  him  is  broken  there- 
by. We  fear  that  in  real  life  Victoria 
would  have  been  quite  prepared  to 
speculate  for  the  fall  in  North-Eastern 
securities. 

*  Nor  can  we  accept  the  high-souled 
Austen  Vane  as  a  figure  representa- 
tive in  any  sense.  He  has  the  moral 
tone  of  an  Emerson,  the  brains  of  a 
Lincoln,  and  the  purity  of  a  Sir  Gal- 
ahad. He  is  obviously  constructed 
to  flatter  the  idealism  always  strong 
in  the  great  community  of  hard-head- 
ed business  citizens  of  the  United 
States.  His  career  is  improbable:  after 
a  wild  youth,  he  has  gone  West  and 
shot  his  man,  and  then  returned  to  the 
home  of  his  fathers,  where  by  turns  he 
patronizes,  and  is  filled  with  a  dumb 
sorrow  and  compassion  for  the  erring 
ways  of  the  Hon.  Hilary.  He  takes  up 
and  wins  a  suit  for  a  suffering  farmer 
against  the  tyrannical  North-Eastern 
Railroad,  but  he  is  too  magnanimous 
in  his  filial  affection  to  accept  a  nomi- 
nation for  the  governorship  of  the 
state,  when  all  the  honest  citizens  come 
thronging  round,  entreating  him  to  be 
the  "people's  man." 

'It  is  a  very  touching  conception, 
but  we  may  say  candidly  that  we  dis- 
trust the  bona  fides  of  these  idealized 
figures.  There  is  an  unpleasant  flavor 
of  moral  bunkum,  moreover,  in  some 
of  the  situations,  as  in  the  scene  where 
the  Hon.  Hilary,  bowed  and  broken 
by  his  uneasy  sense  of  a  life  misspent, 
defies  his  old  friend  the  President  of 
the  North-Eastern  Railroad,  and  says, 
"I'm  glad  to  have  found  out  what  my 
life  has  been  worth  before  I  die."  The 
radiant  and  unselfish  Victoria,  who,  by 
the  by,  is  wearing  "a  simple  but  ex- 
quisite gown,  the  creation  of  which 
aroused  the  artist  in  a  celebrated  Pari- 
sian dressmaker^"  with  an  "illuminat- 
ing smile"  pierces  "the  hard  layers  of 
the  Hon.  Hilary's  outer  shell,  and  hears 
the  imprisoned  spirit  crying  with  a 


small,  persistent  voice  —  a  spirit  stifled 
for  many  years  and  starved."  Then 
the  Hon.  Hilary  has  a  stroke.  It  is 
a  little  simple,  this  "triumph  of  the 
right,"  as  is  also  the  ethical  flavoring 
of  the  love-making  between  the  spot- 
less Austen  and  his  bride,  who  has  a 
"fierce  faith  that  it  was  his  destiny  to 
make  the  world  better  and  hers  to  help 
him."  When,  however,  we  leave  the 
sentimental  trimmings  on  one  side, 
and  get  to  the  real  "business  politics," 
we  may  congratulate  Mr.  Winston 
Churchill  on  having  got  his  knife  well 
into  the  corporations/ 

Even  in  novels  of  a  superior  order, 
which  may  be  marked  by  genuine  psy- 
chological insight,  atmospheric  truth, 
and  a  highly  conscientious  exposition 
of  character  and  motive,  we  find  that 
the  didactic  touch  often  robs  the  story 
of  the  qualities  of  flexible  grace  and 
naturalness  which  are  essential  to  fine 
craftsmanship.  A  former  criticism  of 
Mr.  James  Lane  Allen's  The  Bride  of 
the  Mistletoe  may  serve  as  an  illustra- 
tion :  — 

*  Conscientious  is  the  term  that  best 
describes  the  spirit  and  the  workman- 
ship of  The  Bride  of  the  Mistletoe,  as 
of  so  much  of  the  work  of  the  best 
American  novelists.  Perhaps  one  of 
the  drawbacks  of  addressing  a  demo- 
cracy is  that  the  conscientious  writer 
is  led  to  take  his  responsibilities  over- 
seriously,  and  is  careful  to  enunciate 
nothing  that  is  not  sanctioned  by  se- 
vere ethical  standards  or  upheld  by 
common  sense.  This  underlying  cor- 
rectness of  mental  and  moral  tone  is 
apt  to  be  destructive  of  artistic  grace, 
spontaneity,  and  intensity;  and  even 
in  the  most  unstudied  moments  of  Mr. 
Allen's  story  he  never  lets  the  signifi- 
cant detail  speak  for  itself,  but  swathes 
it  with  commentary,  didactic  or  sen- 
timental. When  Maupassant  advises 
the  young  writer  not  to  reason  over- 
much, he  implies  that  the  force  of  the 


SOME  REMARKS  ON  AMERICAN  AND  ENGLISH  FICTION       755 


thing  in  itself  and  of  its  atmosphere, 
which  art  conveys,  is  impaired  by  any 
obtrusive  desire  of  a  writer  to  play 
Providence  to  his  readers.  Mr.  James 
Lane  Allen  is  too  accomplished  a  writer 
to  err  by  gross  didactic  underlining, 
but  a  multitude  of  subtle  touches  be-t 
tray  that  he,  like  his  hero,  is  conscious 
of  a  'task,"  of  a  "message/*  which 
may  **  kindle  in  American  homes  some 
new  light  of  truth,  with  the  eyes  of 
mothers  and  fathers  fixed  upon  it,  and 
innumerable  children  of  the  future  the 
better  for  its  shining.  .  .  ." 

'  We  could  enlarge  on  the  striking  ab- 
sence of  economy  of  line  in  Mr.  Allen's 
method,  on  its  deliberate  impressive- 
ness,  to  which  are  sacrificed  grace,  ease, 
and  the  flash  of  the  unforeseen.  But, 
passing  much  artificiality  in  the  liter- 
ary style,  as  in  the  description  of  a 
brook  which  is  likened  to  "a  band  of 
jewelled  samite,"  or  as  in  the  phrase 
"gray-eyed  querist  of  actuality,"  when 
the  husband  addresses  his  wife,  we 
may  point  out  that  the  story  loses  all 
illusion  of  actuality  in  passages  of  con- 
versation such  as  the  following:  — 

'"Frederick,"  she  said,  "for  many 
years  we  have  been  happy  together, 
so  happy!  Every  tragedy  of  nature 
has  stood  at  a  distance  from  us,  except 
the  loss  of  our  children.  We  have  lived 
on  a  sunny  pinnacle  of  our  years,  lifted 
above  life's  storms.  But,  of  course,  I 
have  realized  that,  sooner  or  later,  our 
lot  must  become  the  common  one:  if 
we  did  not  go  down  to  sorrow,  sorrow 
would  climb  to  us;  and  I  knew  that  on 
the  heights  it  dwells  best.  That  is  why 
I  wish  to  say  to  you  to-night  what  I 
shall :  I  think  fate's  hour  has  struck  for 
me;  I  am  ready  to  bear  it.  Its  sorrow 
has  already  left  the  bow  and  is  on  its 
way;  I  open  my  heart  to  receive  it. 
This  is  as  I  had  always  wished.  I  have 
said  that  if  life  had  any  greatest  trag- 
edy for  me,  I  hoped  it  would  come  when 
I  was  happiest;  thus  I  should  not  know 


it  all.  I  have  never  drunk  half  of  my 
cup  of  happiness,  as  you  know,  and  let 
the  other  half  waste;  I  must  go  equally 
to  the  depth  of  any  suffering.  Worse 
than  the  suffering,  I  think,  would  be 
the  feeling  that  I  had  shirked  some  of 
it,  had  stepped  aside  or  shut  my  eyes, 
or  in  any  manner  shown  myself  a 
cowardly  soul," — and  so  on. 

'It  does  not  need  much  insight  to 
perceive  that  every  sentence  here  of 
Josephine's  speech  is  false  to  nature, 
and  quite  impossible  for  a  woman  in 
her  situation.  The  imagery  and  the 
carefully  balanced  periods  smell  of  the 
lamp,  of  the  highly  literary  endeavor 
of  the  conscientious  writer,  whose 
strength  lies  in  meditation  and  not  in 
catching  or  conveying  to  us  the  move- 
ment and  interchange  of  living  things.' 


It  seems  as  if  even  a  slight  dose  of 
'ethical  intention'  may  be  as  fatal  to 
the  creation  of  a  perfect  illusion  or 
mirage  of  life  in  an  artist's  picture  as 
is  the  bias  of  diffused  sentimentalism. 
American  novelists  in  general  might 
ponder  the  acute  saying  of  Joubert: 
'  In  painting  the  moral  side  of  Nature, 
what  the  artist  has  most  to  beware  of 
is  exaggeration;  while  in  painting  its 
physical  side  what  he  has  to  fear  most  is 
weakness.'  Latter-day  American  story- 
tellers, most  of  them,  seem  to  be  in  a 
conspiracy  to  'make  the  world  better,' 
to  'touch  the  heart,'  to  'make  you 
forget  all  your  troubles,'  to  'exalt  life 
and  love,'  to  be  'a  sunshine-maker.' 
These  intentions  are  so  unfaltering,  and 
the  stress  laid  on  'clean  living'  is  so 
insistent,  that  one  is  forced  to  ask  one's 
self  whether  the  practice  and  theory  of 
living  in  America  are  not  antagonistic? 
whether  the  exaggerated  sentimental 
appeal  may  not  denote  a  thinness  of 
real  emotion,  and  the  persistent  absorp- 
tion with  the  moral  issue  an  uneasy 


756      SOME  REMARKS  ON  AMERICAN  AND  ENGLISH  FICTION 


self-distrust  ?  It  would  be  as  ridiculous 
to  charge  the  great  American  people 
with  being  less  honest  with  themselves 
than  are  those  of  other  nations,  as  it 
would  be  to  doubt  that  in  *  the  land  of 
freedom,'  there  is  less  inner  freedom 
than  elsewhere.  But  the  latter-day 
American  novel  often  leaves  one  with 
an  uneasy  idea  that  the  weight  and 
momentum  of  American  civilization 
are  rolling  out  the  paste  of  human  na- 
ture very  flat,  and  are  stamping  it  with 
machine-made  patterns  of  too  common 
an  order. 

Another  simile  that  obtrudes  itself 
in  reading  many  American  novels  is 
that  of  a  visit  from  kindly  folk  who 
have  come  to  a  gathering  in  Sunday 
clothes  and  with  Sunday  manners.  The 
people's  week-day  spontaneity  is  re- 
placed by  a  cautious  preoccupation 
with  their  deportment,  as  to  how  they 
are  expected  to  behave,  and  every- 
thing that  they  say  is  a  little  forced. 
Even  in  the  admirable  novels  of  Mrs. 
Wharton  and  Anne  Douglas  Sedgwick 
the  conflict  so  often  depicted  beween 
the  idealism  of  the  characters  and  their 
ordinary  earthly  motives  gives  one  an 
odd  feeling  that  both  their  morals 
and  their  manners  are  like  tightly 
cut  clothes  in  which  people  cannot  be 
quite  at  ease.  What  seems  odd  is  that 
this  persistently  active  *  conscience' 
apparently  forces  the  American  novel- 
ist to  dodge  and  evade  any  real  exami- 
nation of  the  cleavage  between  his  so- 
called  *  higher  nature'  and  the  claims 


of  the  senses.  The  blinking  of  facts 
concerning  the  appetite  of  love  was 
marvelous  indeed  in  the  Victorian  nov- 
el; but  the  effect  of  the  conspiracy  of 
silence  in  the  American  novel  concern- 
ing the  sexual  passion  is  seen  in  the 
alarming  featurelessness  of  its  por- 
traits of  women.  But  this  aspect  of  the 
subject  requires  an  essay  to  itself. 

To  bring  my  remarks  to  a  head  I  will 
conclude  by  saying  that,  whereas  the 
limited  horizon  of  modern  English  fic- 
tion, its  lack  of  national  breadth,  its 
tameness  and  lack  of  sympathy  with 
the  democracy,  are  due  to  its  restrict- 
ed middle-class  outlook,  the  American 
novel  fails  by  virtue  of  its  idealistic 
bias  and  psychological  timidity.  The 
novelist  should  put  human  nature  un- 
der the  lens  and  scrutinize  its  motives 
and  conduct  with  the  most  searching 
and  exacting  interest.  His  aesthetic 
pleasure  in  the  rich  spectacle  of  life 
should  be  backed  by  a  remorseless  in- 
stinct for  telling  the  truth.  But  it  is 
impossible  to  combine  these  qualities 
with  the  commercial,  ethical,  and  senti- 
mental ideals  that  seem  to  make  up 
American  *  optimism.'  *  America  is 
strong  in  the  uplift,'  said  a  publisher  of 
'Sunshine-Makers'  and  'Best  Sellers' 
to  the  present  writer,  who,  rejoicing 
at  these  synonymous  terms,  wandered 
back  to  the  shelf  of  his  prized  American 
classics,  Walt  Whitman  and  Poe,  Mr. 
W.  D.  Howells,  Thoreau,  Miss  Sarah 
Orne  Jewett,  O.  Henry,  and  Stephen 
Crane. 


THE  STORK:  A  CHRISTMAS  BALLAD 


[THIS  ballad,  written  probably  in  the  middle  or  latter  years  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  was  found  by  a  reader  of  the  Atlantic,  Mrs.  Mabel  C.  De 
Vona,  in  an  old  house  on  the  edge  of  the  Yorkshire  wolds,  written  on  the 
fly-leaf  of  an  early  edition  of  the  first  prayer-book  of  King  Edward  VI, 
published  in  1549.  On  the  reverse  of  the  fly-leaf  were  several  notations 
referring  to  the  death  and  marriage  of  members  of  the  family.  The  page 
was  unfortunately  in  a  mutilated  condition,  and  in  several  places,  partic- 
ularly the  closing  lines  of  the  fourth  and  last  stanzas,  it  was  necessary  to 
supply  several  of  the  words.  Diligent  inquiry  has  given  us  some  confi- 
dence that  the  ballad  is  here  given  in  print  for  the  first  time.  —  THE 
EDITORS.] 


THE  storke  shee  rose  on  Christmas  eue 

And  sayed  unto  her  broode, 
I  nowe  muste  fare  to  Bethleem, 

To  vieue  the  Sonne  of  God. 

Shee  gaue  to  eche  his  dole  of  mete, 

• 

Shee  stowed  them  fayrlie  in, 
And  farre  shee  flew  and  faste  shee  flew, 
And  came  to  Bethleem. 

Now  where  is  he  of  Dauid's  lynne? 

Shee  askd  at  house  and  halle. 
He  is  not  here,  they  spake  hardlye, 

But  in  the  Maungier  stalle. 

Shee  found  hym  in  the  Maungier  stalle, 
With  that  most  Holye  Mayde; 

The  gentyle  storke  shee  wept  to  see 
The  Lord  so  rudelye  layde. 

Then  from  her  pauntynge  brest  shee  pluckd 
The  fethers  whyte  and  warm; 


758 


THE  GLORY-BOX 

Shee  strawed  them  in  the  Maungier  bed 
To  kepe  the  Lorde  from  harm. 


Now  blessed  bee  the  gentil  storke 
Forevermore,  quothe  Hee, 

For  that  shee  saw  my  sadde  estate 
And  showed  suche  Pytye. 


Full  welkum  shal  shee  ever  bee 

In  hamlet  and  in  halle, 
And  hight  henceforthe  the  Blessed  Byrd 

And  friend  of  babyes  alle. 


THE  GLORY-BOX 


BY   ELIZABETH   ASHE 


IN  Southern  Ohio  a  girl's  wedding 
chest  is  her  Glory-Box.  If,  like  Mabel 
Bennet,  you  are  the  daughter  of  a  suc- 
cessful druggist,  the  box  is  of  cedar- 
wood,  delivered  free  of  charge  by  the 
Dayton  department  stores;  but  if,  like 
Eunice  Day,  you  are  the  daughter  of 
an  unsuccessful  bookkeeper  who  has  left 
a  life  insurance  inadequate  even  when 
supplemented  by  the  salary  you  earn 
teaching  primary  children,  then  the  box 
is  just  a  box,  covered  with  gay  cretonne, 
and  serving  the  purpose  very  nicely. 

When  Eunice  Day's  engagement  be- 
came known,  Mabel,  remembering  the 
scalloped  guest-towels  which  Eunice 
had  given  her  some  months  before, 
brought  over  one  afternoon  an  offering 
wrapped  in  tissue  paper. 


'  I  hope  you  '11  like  this,  Eunice,'  she 
said.  'It's  just  a  sacque,  what  they 
call  a  matinee.  I've  found  them  very 
useful.' 

Mabel  spoke  with  the  slightly  com- 
placent air  of  the  three  months'  bride. 

'Why, it's  ever  so  dear  of  you  to  go 
to  so  much  trouble,'  said  Eunice,  taking 
the  package  into  her  hands.  She  was 
a  tall,  slender  girl,  with  dark  eyes  and 
a  pretty  dignity  of  bearing.  '  I  '11  have 
to  open  it  right  now,  I  guess.  You  are 
n't  in  a  hurry,  are  you?' 

'Oh,  no,  not  especially.  Harry  does 
n't  get  home  until  quarter  past  six,  and 
I've  fixed  the  vegetables.  Just  you  go 
ahead.' 

Eunice  untied  the  white  ribbon. 
'Why,  Mabel,  it's  beautiful,  and  such 
a  delicate  shade  of  pink! ' 

She  held  the  sacque  at  arm's  length. 


THE  GLORY-BOX 


759 


'I'm  glad  you  like  it.  It's  nothing 
wonderful,  of  course.' 

*  It  could  n't  be  more  pretty,  and 
Stephen  loves  pink.  I  wrote  him  the 
other  day  that  I  had  made  a  pink 
kimono  and  I  hoped  he  would  like  it. 
He  wrote  back  that  pink  was  —  was 
the  color  of  dawn  and  apple-blossoms.' 

Mabel  laughed.  *  Stephen  has  a  fun- 
ny way  of  saying  things,  has  n't  he?' 

'Why,  I  don't  know,'  said  Eunice, 
flushing. 

'Oh,  well,'  went  on  Mabel  good- 
naturedly,  'I  do  think  you  look  nice 
in  pink  with  your  dark  hair.  Harry 
always  tells  me  to  stick  to  blue.  It's 
the  color  for  blondes.  Don't  you  want 
to  show  me  your  things?  I  won't  mind 
if  the  ribbons  are  n't  all  run  in  yet.' 

'I'd  like  to  show  them  to  you,  of 
course.  Come  upstairs.  They'll  look 
nicer  though  when  they  are  all  pressed 
out,'  said  Eunice,  laying  the  sacque 
carefully  back  in  its  paper  wrappings. 
She  carried  it  on  outstretched  palms. 

'Do  you  know  when  you're  going 
to  be  married?'  asked  Mabel  as  she 
reached  the  top  of  the  narrow  stairs. 

'We  have. n't  made  plans  yet.  Prob- 
ably Stephen  won't  want  to  for  another 
year.  It  depends  on  so  many  things.' 

'I  suppose  so,'  said  Mabel,  following 
Eunice  into  her  bedroom.  It  was  a 
small  room  but  pretty.  Eunice  had 
recently  put  four  coats  of  white  paint 
on  her  oak  set.  'Lawyers,'  continued 
Mabel  sympathetically,  'have  to  wait 
so  much  longer.  Now  Harry  knew  to 
a  cent  what  salary  he  was  getting  when 
he  proposed  to  me  and  he  knew  what 
his  raise  would  probably  be  for  the 
next  two  years.  The  Wire  Company  is 
a  square  concern.  There 's  your  Glory- 
Box!  It  looks  awfully  nice.  You  made 
it,  didn't  you?' 

'Stephen  made  it  when  he  was  on 
for  his  vacation  last  summer.  We 
happened  to  have  the  cretonne  in  the 
house.  Mother  wanted  me  to  buy  a 


cedar  chest  but  I  thought  this  would 
do.' 

'Oh,  one  does  n't  really  need  a  cedar 
chest,'  said  Mabel  cheerfully,  'and 
they  're  terribly  expensive,  you  know. ' 

'Yes,  I  do  know.'  Eunice's  face  twin- 
kled. 'I'll  lay  this  sacque  on  the  bed 
so  it  won't  get  mussed  while  I  'm  show- 
ing you  the  things.' 

She  raised  the  lid  of  the  Glory-Box 
and  then  glanced  shyly  at  the  other 
girl.  '  You  're  the  first  person  I  've  shown 
them  to.  I  hope  you'll  think  they're 
dainty.  There  isn't  much  lace  on  them, 
but  mother  put  in  a  lot  of  handwork 
—  feather-stitching.' 

'Lace  is  a  bother  to  do  up,'  Mabel 
said  amiably.  'I've  been  almost  dis- 
tracted doing  up  mine.' 

'Your  things  were  beautiful,  though.' 
Eunice  was  laying  piles  of  carefully 
folded  garments  on  the  edge  of  the  box. 

'There,  I've  got  it  now,'  she  said, 
getting  up  from  the  floor.  'This  is  my 
prettiest  set.  I've  kept  it  wrapped  in 
dark  blue  paper.  Mother  said  it  would 
keep  white  longer.' 

'Why,  they  are  sweet,  Eunice!'  Ma- 
bel touched  the  soft  white  stuff  with 
appraising  fingers.  'And  all  made  by 
hand.  My,  what  a  lot  of  work!  Your 
mother  must  have  spent  hours  on  them.' 

'  She  did.  She  said  she  wanted  to  do 
it,  though.  The  other  things  are  plain- 
er.' Eunice  took  them  up  one  by  one 
and  showed  them.  'I  won't  let  you  see 
the  table  linen  to-day.  I  've  done  a  lot 
of  initialing,  but  they  don't  look  really 
well  until  they  have  been  washed.' 

'No,  they  don't.  Anyway  I  have  to 
be  going.  You  certainly  have  nice 
things,  Eunice.  That  kimono  is  awful- 
ly pretty.' 

'I  like  it,'  said  Eunice  simply. 

'Well,  I  can't  stay  another  minute. 
Don't  you  come  down  to  the  door  now. 
You  have  to  put  away  everything.  I  '11 
just  run  along.  Come  and  see  me.  I  've 
got  the  flat  all  settled.' 


760 


THE  GLORY-BOX 


'I  shall  love  to,  Mabel.  Just  a  mo- 
ment! You  must  let  me  go  to  the  door 
with  you.  The  Glory-Box  can  wait.' 
jfe.  Eunice  found  her  mother  standing 
by  the  bed  when  she  came  back.  She 
was  a  meagre-looking  woman  with  a 
thin  mouth.  Her  eyes  had  once  been 
soft  and  dark  like  Eunice's,  but  the 
glow  had  gone  out  of  them,  leaving 
them  a  little  hard. 

'I've  been  looking  at  the  sacque 
Mabel  brought  you.  It's  a  nice  pat- 
tern. That  sort  of  lace  looks  almost 
like  real  val.  What  did  she  say  to  your 
things?' 

'She  said  they  were  sweet,  mother.' 

'Well,  I  suppose  they  are  as  nice  as 
any  one  could  have  without  spending 
money.  You  did  n't  show  her  the  table- 
cloth I  gave  you?' 

'No,  I  thought  I 'd  wait  to  show  the 
linen  until  it  was  all  done  up.' 

Her  mother  fingered  the  lace  on  the 
sacque.  'I  don't  believe  she  has  a 
much  better  tablecloth  than  that  one, 
Eunice.  Do  you  suppose  so?' 

'No,'  answered  Eunice,  'probably 
not.  It's  very  beautiful.'  She  laid 
down  the  garment  she  was  folding  and 
looked  up,  troubled,  into  her  mocher's 
face.  'Oh,  it  seems  so  selfish  for  me  to 
have  it  all.  You've  always  wanted 
nice  fine  linen,  mother.' 

'I've  given  up  wanting,  I  guess.  I 
don't  care  as  long  as  you  have  them. 
You  had  better  lay  tissue  paper  in  that 
sleeve,  Eunice,  the  way  I  showed  you. 
I'll  start  supper  so  that  you  can  put 
these  things  away.  They  won't  look 
like  anything  if  you  leave  them  about.' 

When  her  mother  was  gone,  Eunice 
took  up  the  pink  kimono  and  spread 
it  out  on  the  bed.  She  could  fold  it 
more  carefully  that  way.  She  touched 
it  with  caressing  fingers.  'Dawn  and 
apple-blossoms,'  she  repeated  softly. 
Then  she  smiled,  remembering  Mabel's 
remark:  'Stephen  has  a  funny  way  of 
saying  things.' 


Stephen  was  different  somehow  from 
Harry,  from  any  of  the  men  whom 
her  friends  had  married.  They  were 
nice  young  men,  of  course,  all  of  them. 
One  was  superintendent  of  the  Sun- 
day School,  besides  getting  a  good  sal- 
ary in  the  Cash  Register  Company; 
another  had  gone  to  college,  had  been 
in  Stephen's  class  at  the  Ohio  State 
University  in  fact,  and  was  now  doing 
well  as  part  owner  of  the  garage  on 
Main  Street;  still  another  was  paying- 
teller  in  the  bank  next  to  the  garage; 
he  wore  very  'good-looking'  suits,  usu- 
ally with  a  tiny  line  of  white  at  the 
edge  of  the  waistcoat.  Still  Stephen 
was  different. 

When  he  had  got  his  B.A.  degree  at 
Ohio,  he  decided  that  he  wanted  to  be 
a  lawyer,  and  that  he  would  go  to  one 
of  the  best  schools  in  the  country.  He 
chose  Columbia.  He  had  worked  his 
way  through  college,  but  he  considered 
that  it  would  not  pay  to  work  his  way 
through  Law  School.  He  wanted  the 
time  to  get  something  out  of  New  York. 
His  father  was  unable  to  advance  the 
money,  so  Stephen  went  to  a  friend  of 
his  father's,  a  prosperous  coal-dealer 
in  the  town,  and  asked  that  he  lend 
him  enough  to  put  him  through  eco- 
nomically, but  not,  he  plainly  said, 
too  economically.  He  would  give  the 
coal-dealer  notes,  payable  with  interest 
four  years  after  he  was  admitted  to  the 
bar. 

The  coal-dealer,  taking  into  consid- 
eration the  fact  that  the  young  man 
had  broken  every  record  at  the  univer- 
sity in  scholarship,  and  two  other  facts, 
the  young  man's  forehead  and  mouth, 
lent  him  the  money.  He  said  that  the 
interest  need  not  begin  until  he  was 
admitted. 

Stephen  thanked  him  and  went  to 
Columbia.  One  of  the  professors  there 
took  a  great  fancy  to  him.  He  intro- 
duced him  to  his  sister,  a  maiden  lady 
living  in  Washington  Square,  who,  find- 


THE  GLORY-BOX 


761 


ing  him  very  likable,  introduced  him  to 
other  people  living  in  the  Square. 

Stephen  was  very  happy.  He  wrote 
to  Eunice,  —  he  had  been  engaged  to 
her  since  the  end  of  his  second  year  at 
the  Law  School,  — '  Washington  Square 
is  rather  terrifying  from  the  outside, 
but  once  inside  you  feel  beautifully  at 
home.  I  think  it 's  the  perfect  breeding 
you  find  there.  I've  met  women  more 
intellectual,  greater  perhaps,  than  Pro- 
fessor Lansing's  sister,  but  never  one 
who  gives  such  an  impression  of  com- 
pletion. There  are  no  loose  ends.  You 
will  like  her,  Eunice.' 

In  another  letter  he  said,  *  We  won't 
have  much  money  to  start  with,  of 
course,  but  if  we  put  a  little  dignity  into 
our  kitchenette  apartment,  it  will  be 
a  home  that  people  will  love  to  come 
to.  It's  partly  the  dignity  of  their 
living  that  makes  these  Washington 
Square  people  so  worth  while  to  be 
with.' 

And  last  week  he  had  written,  'You 
won't  find  New  York  lonely.  They 
will  love  you,  dear.  You  belong.  You 
have  not  only  charm  but  the  dignity 
that  belongs.  I  wonder  if  I'm  foolish 
to  care  so  much  for  that  word  dignity. 
Perhaps  it 's  because  I  associate  it  with 
you,  or  perhaps  —  I  love  you  because 
you  have  it.' 

And  Eunice  too  was  happy  and 
proud:  happy  that  Stephen  was  com- 
ing into  his  own,  and  proud  that  he 
should  think  her  equal  to  the  occasion. 
It  would  not  be  an  easy  task,  being 
equal  to  Stephen.  Stephen  was  a  great 
man,  or  would  be  a  great  man.  She 
knew  it  and  Stephen  knew  it.  *  We  are 
going  to  be  great,  you  and  I,'  he  had 
said  more  than  once.  And  yet  one  day 
when  she  had  answered,  'You  and  I, 
Stephen?'  his  eyes,  which  had  been 
alight  with  the  glorious  vision  of  the 
future,  softened,  and  he  had  come  and 
knelt  beside  her  and  had  laid  his  head 
down.  'Oh,  Eunice,'  he  had  whispered, 


'I've  got  brains,  I'm  pretty  sure  to  be 
successful,  but  if  I'm  worth  while,  it 
will  be  because  of  you.  You  are  a  great 
woman,  dear.'  And  Eunice  had  mother- 
ed him  and  had  hoped  —  so  fervently 
that  the  hope  was  a  prayer  —  that  she 
would  really  be  great  enough  to  meet 
his  needs. 

Sometimes  she  doubted.  She  had 
dignity;  Stephen  had  said  so;  but  inside 
she  was  deprecating  and  shy.  People 
like  Mabel  Ashley  made  her  shy,  and 
most  of  the  people  she  knew  were  like 
Mabel.  They  thought  Stephen's  way 
of  saying  and  thinking  things,  '  funny.' 
There  was  only  one  woman  whom  she 
could  talk  with,  a  High-School  teacher 
who  had  come  to  board  next  door.  She 
and  the  High-School  teacher  took  long 
walks  together. 

The  High-School  teacher  had  been  to 
Europe  twice.  She  knew  how  people 
lived  outside  of  this  little  Ohio  town, 
—  outside  of  the  United  States  even. 
She  was  full  of  shrewd  comment. 
Eunice  talked  to  her  about  the  books 
that  she  and  Stephen  were  reading, 
and  sometimes  about  Stephen  himself. 
Several  times  the  High-School  teacher 
had  said,  'He  is  splendid,  Eunice/ 

Eunice  thought  about  her  this  after- 
noon as  she  put  the  last  things  away 
in  the  Glory-Box.  She  hoped  that,  if 
the  Washington  Square  people  were 
like  this  teacher,  she  would  get  along. 
And  there  came  another  encouraging 
thought.  The  people  in  the  Square 
were  sure  of  themselves  of  course,  but 
perhaps  they  were  sure  because  they 
had  things  and  had  always  had  things. 
She  would  one  day  have  the  things  in 
her  Glory-Box,  and  she  would  have 
Stephen.  After  she  was  quite  used  to 
having  them  and  to  having  a  person 
like  Stephen,  she  would  be  sure  of  her- 
self too. 

'  Supper  will  be  ready  in  five  minutes, 
Eunice.' 

'I'm  coming  in  a  moment.' 


762 


THE  GLORY-BOX 


The  room  had  grown  quite  dark.  Eu- 
nice^lighted  two  candles  standing  on  her 
bureau.  They  were  in  common  glass 
candlesticks  which  she  had  bought  at 
the  Ten-Cent  store :  she  had  wanted  to 
have  brass;  but  then,  Stephen  and  she 
were  going  to  have  brass  candlesticks 
in  every  room  of  their  house.  They 
both  loved  candle-light. 

Eunice  smoothed  her  dark  hair.  Then 
she  washed  her  hands  very  carefully. 
Stephen  had  said  once  that  they  were 
not  wonderfully  pretty  hands,  but  that 
they  had  distinction.  He  had  kissed 
them. 

'I  guess  I'm  all  right  now,'  said  Eu- 
nice, glancing  into  the  mirror.  She 
picked  up  a  photograph  of  Stephen 
from  the  bureau  and  laid  her  face 
against  it.  Then  she  blew  out  the  can- 
dles and  went  downstairs. 

II 

Stephen's  letter  that  awaited  her 
when  she  came  home  from  school  the 
next  afternoon  was  a  one-page  scrawl. 

*  My  head  is  ringing  so  with  the  quinine 
I  've  taken  that  I  can't  write  to-night. 
By  to-morrow  I  shall  probably  be  rid 
of  this  beastly  cold.    I  want  to  tell 
you  about  a  book  I've  just  read.   It's 
great  stuff.'   He  added  a  postscript: 

*  Don't  ask  me,  dear,  if  I  wore  my  rub- 
bers day  before  yesterday.  You  know 
I  did  n't.' 

In  Eunice's  eyes  was  a  smile  of 
amused  tenderness  as  she  put  the  letter 
back  in  its  envelope.  If  the  cold  were 

*  beastly,'  perhaps  he  might  remember 
next  time.  She  was  afraid  though  that 
only  married  men  wore  rubbers. 

No  letter  came  the  next  day,  or  the 
next.  'If  I  don't  hear  to-morrow,  I'll 
telegraph.' 

'He's  probably  busy, 'said  her  mo- 
ther. 

'I'm  afraid  he's  sick.' 

Eunice  waited  for  the  postman  on 


Saturday  morning,  but  he  brought  no 
letter.  She  put  on  her  hat  and  coat. 
'I'll  be  back  in  a  half  hour,  mother.' 

As  she  went  down  the  steps  a  boy 
riding  a  bicycle  stopped  at  the  curb. 
He  handed  her  a  telegram.  It  was  from 
Stephen's  landlady.  Stephen  had  died 
that  morning  at  two  o'clock — of  pneu- 
monia. 

Eunice  was  conscious  of  being  very 
collected  and  calm  as  she  went  back 
into  the  house;  quite  wonderfully  calm. 
Her  mother  was  in  the  kitchen.  Eu- 
nice went  to  her  and  told  her  —  very 
gently.  She  had  the  feeling  that  it  was 
her  mother's  sorrow.  Her  mother's  dry, 
hard  sobs  and  bowed  figure  brought 
the  tears  to  her  eyes.  She  laid  her  hand 
on  the  thin  convulsed  shoulders. 
'Mother,  don't  —  don't,  dear,  it's  all 
right,  you  know.'  She  stood  by  her 
chair  until  the  sobs  ceased. 

'  I  'm  going  around  to  —  to  Stephen's, 
mother.  I  '11  not  be  gone  long.' 

Mrs.  Day  followed  her  to  the  steps; 
her  face  was  pitifully  pinched,  almost 
old.  At  the  gate  Eunice  turned  and 
saw  her. 

'Poor  mother!'  She  wanted  to  go 
back  and  kiss  her  but  she  dared  not. 

Stephen's  home  was  on  the  other 
side  of  the  town.  It  was  a  small  frame 
house  painted  light  gray,  with  a  gable 
back  and  front,  and  a  narrow  porch 
running  across  it.  This  morning  the 
shades  in  the  parlor  were  drawn  down. 

Eunice  had  to  wait  some  moments 
before  the  door  was  opened  by  Ste- 
phen's young  sister,  —  a  slip  of  a  thing 
but  a  capable  housekeeper.  Her  eyes 
were  swollen  with  crying.  'She's  so 
little,'  thought  Eunice  and  took  her 
into  her  arms. 

When  the  girl  was  able  to  speak  she 
told  Eunice  that  her  father  had  gone 
to  New  York,  and  that  he  would  bring 
Stephen  home.  Eunice  stayed  an  hour, 
comforting,  talking,  planning.  Then 
she  left  her. 


THE  GLORY-BOX 


763 


'  I  'm  so  quiet.  I  did  n't  know  it  could 
be  like  this/ 

The  March  wind  blew  the  dust  into 
her  face.  The  grit  irritated  her.  She 
wished  there  were  snow  on  the  ground 
and  then  wondered  that  she  should 
care.  That  was  how  it  was  the  next 
two  days;  she  went  on  thinking  and 
acting,  with  every  now  and  then  this 
strange  awareness  of  being  alive. 

But  on  Monday  afternoon  when  they 
came  home  from  the  cemetery,  Eunice 
went  upstairs  to  her  room.  *  I  'm  going 
to  lie  down  awhile,  mother.' 

Her  mother  made  no  answer  as  she 
turned  into  the  kitchen. 

Eunice  lay  down  on  the  bed.  A  pale 
yellow  sunset  gleamed  through  the 
branches  of  the  tree  outside  her  win- 
dow. She  had  seen  the  yellow  streak 
in  the  sky  as  they  had  left  the  ceme- 
tery. She  closed  her  eyes  to  shut  it  out. 
Her  heart  was  no  longer  numb.  It  was 
waking  to  its  misery.  She  lay  very 
still  with  clenched  hands.  She  had 
learned  to  bear  physical  pain  that  way. 
She  thought  perhaps  she  could  bear 
this  if  she  lay  very  still: 

*  I  want  to  tell  you  about  a  book  I ' ve 
just  read.  It's  great  stuff.' 

'Oh,  Stephen,  Stephen,  laddie!' 

The  tears  came,  and  great  sobs  that 
shook  and  twisted  her  rigid  body.  Once 
she  thought  her  mother  came  up  the 
stairs  and  stopped  outside  her  door. 
She  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow.  Her 
mother  must  not  hear.  By  and  by,  — 
she  had  been  quiet  for  an  hour,  —  her 
mother  came  in  with  a  tray. 

'I've  made  you  some  toast  and  tea, 
Eunice.  You  must  keep  up  your 
strength.' 

Her  tone  was  flat  and  emotionless. 
She  set  the  tray  down  by  her  in  the 
darkness.  Then  she  lighted  the  gas. 

Eunice  swallowed  the  tea  obedient- 
ly, she  was  so  very  tired.  As  she  put 
the  cup  down  her  eyes  fell  on  the  cre- 
tonne-covered box  in  the  window. 


'Mother,  my  Glory-Box!  Don't  let 
me  see  it!  Oh,  don't  let  me  see  my 
Glory-Box!' 

Mrs.  Day  came  up  to  the  bed.  'I'll 
take  it  out  to-morrow  while  you  are  at 
school.  I  meant  to  do  that.'  Her  face 
worked  as  she  left  the  room. 

When  the  door  closed,  Eunice  sat 
up  and  pushed  her  tumbled  hair  back 
from  her  face.  She  wanted  to  look  at 
the  Glory-Box.  To-morrow  her  mother 
was  going  to  take  it  away.  She  clasped 
her  hands  tightly  about  her  drawn-up 
knees  and  stared  at  the  box  with  hot, 
miserable  eyes.  Of  course  it  would 
have  to  be  taken  away,  but  she  want- 
ed to  look  at  it  now  because  it  was 
her  Glory -Box  and  because  it  was  Ste- 
phen's. Stephen  had  made  it. 

'That's  a  decent  job  for  just  a  law- 
yer,' he  had  said  when  the  last  nail 
was  driven  in  and  they  were  taking  a 
critical  survey  of  it. 

Stephen  had  laughed  when  she  re- 
gretted that  the  roses  in  the  cretonne 
were  yellow,  because  the  things  to  go 
into  the  box  very  likely  would  be  pink. 
He  had  laughed  and  kissed  her  and  told 
her  she  had  better  get  a  pair  of  pink 
specs,  then  the  roses  would  be  pink 
enough. 

And  Stephen  had  taken  such  an  in- 
terest in  what  she  had  written  about 
the  things  she  was  embroidering  for 
household  use.  When  she  had  reported 
a  whole  dozen  napkins  hemmed  and 
initialed,  he  had  thought  it  would  be 
jolly  to  have  nice  linen.  They  would 
probably  be  short  on  silver  at  first,  but 
good  linen  made  you  feel  respectable. 
He  remembered  his  mother  taking  so 
much  pride  in  what  had  been  left  of 
hers.  For  a  moment  the  words  of  that 
letter  were  so  vividly  recalled  that  she 
forgot  that  Stephen  was  dead.  For  quite 
a  moment  she  was  happy.  Then  she  re- 
membered, but  the  realization  brought 
no  tears,  only  a  spelling  wave  of 
misery. 


764 


THE   GLORY-BOX 


'I  can't  bear  it,  oh,  I  can't.' 

But  even  as  she  moaned  she  knew 
that  she  would  bear  it,  that  she  would 
go  on  living  for  years  and  years  and 
years.  Other  girls  she  had  known  or 
heard  about  —  in  her  own  town  —  had 
gone  on  living :  little  Sadie  Smith  whose 
lover  had  been  killed  three  days  before 
her  wedding,  and  even  Milly  Petersen, 
who  had  been  engaged  for  five  years 
when  the  man  asked  to  be  released 
because  he  wanted  to  marry  the  girl 
who  had  recently  moved  to  Milly's 
street.  These  girls  had  lived;  they  had 
grown  pale  and  faded,  or  hard.  People 
felt  very  sorry  for  them:  they  were 
spoken  of  as  'poor  Milly'  or  'Sadie 
Smith,  poor  child';  but  they  had  lived. 
Eunice  saw  herself  moving  among  her 
little  circle,  brave  and  sad-eyed  like 
these  girls. 

Suddenly  —  she  never  remembered 
just  how  it  came  about  —  suddenly 
her  humor  flashed  a  white  light  over 
the  vision.  This  sad-eyed  Self  seemed 
something  not  to  pity  but  to  scorn.  It 
was  grotesque  standing  in  your  friend's 
parlor  with  clenched  hands,  as  it  were, 
and  compressed  lips,  saying,  'Don't 
mind  me,  please.  I'm  bearing  it.'  If 
one  were  going  to  live  one  must  live 
happily.  Stephen  was  such  a  happy 
person.  He  was  happy  when  he  was 
working  or  playing  or  just  loving.  Even 
hurdy-gurdys  made  him  happy. 

'When  I  hear  one  grinding  away  in 
the  morning,'  he  had  written,  'I  have 
to  kick  a  few  Law  Journals  about  just 
to  keep  in  tune  with  the  darn  thing.' 

It  had  been  a  delightful  surprise  to 
her,  his  overflowing  happiness,  for  Ste- 
phen's face  in  repose  was  very  grave. 
She  herself  only  occasionally  had  his 
joy  in  mere  living,  but  she  had  al- 
ways thought  that  Stephen's  joyful- 
ness  would  prove  infectious.  Suppose, 
now,  without  Stephen  she  should  make 
the  experiment  of  being  happy.  It 
would  be  a  wonderful  experiment  to 


see  — she  spoke  the  words  aloud,  delib- 
erately, to  see  if  she  could  kill  this  ter- 
rible thing,  Sorrow,  and  keep  Stephen 
to  love  and  to  remember. 

Eunice  was  still  staring  at  the  Glory- 
Box,  but  it  was  more  than  her  Glory- 
Box.  It  was  part  of  the  problem  that 
she  was  trying  to  think  out  clearly. 
For  perhaps  sorrow  was  a  problem  that 
you  could  work  out  like  other  problems, 
if  only  you  could  see  it,  not  as  one  solid, 
opaque  mass,  but  as  something  made 
up  of  pieces  that  you  could  deal  with 
one  at  a  time.  The  Glory-Box  was  a 
piece.  She  had  wanted  it  taken  away 
because  it  was  a  thing  so  filled  with 
pain  that  she  could  not  bear  to  have  it 
about.  If  —  Eunice  got  up  in  her  ex- 
citement and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  —  if  the  Glory-Box  could  be- 
come a  box  again,  just  a  box  covered 
with  cretonne,  and  the  things  in  it  be- 
come things,  then  a  great  piece  of  mis- 
ery would  disappear.  Love,  a  girl's 
love,  was  like  —  she  groped  a  moment 
for  words — like  a  vine  that  put  forth 
little  shoots  and  tendrils;  love  even 
went  into  things.  When  Death  tram- 
pled on  the  vine,  the  shoots  and  ten- 
drils were  crushed  with  it.  But  if  you 
cut  them  off,  these  poor  bruised  pieces 
of  the  vine,  the  vine  itself  would  per- 
haps have  a  chance  to  become  strong 
and  beautiful. 

Eunice  played  with  the  idea,  her 
cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes  very  bright. 
She  felt  as  she  did  sometimes  when 
talking  on  paper  with  Stephen. 

She  went  over  to  the  Glory-Box 
and  raised  the  cover.  On  top  lay  the 
matinee  that  Mabel  had  brought  on 
that  day  not  quite  a  week  ago.  She 
unfolded  it  and  touched  it.  'This  is  n't 
—  Stephen,'  she  said  aloud,  quite  firm- 
ly. 'It's  cotton  voile  and  val  lace.  It's 
cotton  voile.' 

She  took  out  garment  after  garment. 
When  she  came  to  the  pink  kimono  her 
eyes  blinded  with  tears.  'It's  a  lovely 


THE  GLORY-BOX 


765 


shade.  Pink  is  pretty  with  dark  hair.' 
Her  quivering  lips  could  scarcely  frame 
the  words.  'It's  not  Stephen.  It's  — 
it's  just  a  kimono.* 

She  put  the  things  back  and  closed 
the  box.  *  I  '11  look  at  the  rest  in  a  day 
or  two.  I'll  keep  looking  at  them. 
Probably  I  shall  never  be  able  to  use 
them,  but  I'll  keep  looking  until  I  get 
accustomed  to  seeing  them.  Mother 
will  get  used  to  seeing  the  Box  here. 
If  she  put  it  in  the  storeroom  she  would 
always  dread  going  in.' 

Mrs.  Day  was  getting  breakfast  the 
next  morning  when  Eunice  came  down. 
She  went  on  mechanically  with  her 
preparation,  avoiding  looking  at  her. 
At  the  table  she  glanced  up.  Eunice's 
face  was  white  and  haggard,  but  her 
eyes,  strangely  big,  were  shining.  Eu- 
nice's mother  watched  her  furtively 
throughout  the  meal.  As  they  left  the 
table  Eunice  put  her  arms  about  her. 

*  Don't   take  the  box  out,  mother. 
It's  better  to  get  used  to  it.  I'm  try- 
ing to  get  used  to  things.    Don't  you 
worry  about  me.  You'll  see.' 

She  kissed  her  and  hurried  to  school. 
In  her  exalted  mood  the  sympathetic 
attentions  of  the  other  teachers  seemed 
almost  surprising.  They  were  dear  and 
kind,  but  why  should  they  be  so  kind? 
She  was  going  to  be  happy.  At  the  end 
of  the  day,  however,  Eunice  let  herself 
softly  into  the  house,  too  wretched  to 
want  to  meet  her  mother.  She  carried 
to  her  room  the  letters  of  condolence 
that  were  on  the  dining-room  table. 
She  read  them  impassively,  even  the 
kindly  one  from  Miss  Lansing,  wonder- 
ing why  they  did  not  touch  her.  'It's 
because  I'm  tired,'  she  concluded,  and 
knelt  down  by  the  Glory-Box,  bowing 
her  head  on  her  outstretched  arms. 

*  Stephen,  dear,'  she  prayed,  'I  can't 
look  at  the  things  to-night.    I'm  too 
tired.' 

But  the  next  day  she  took  them  all 
out.  And  on  a  Saturday  afternoon 


three  weeks  later  she  startled  her  mo- 
ther by  coming  into  her  room  dressed 
in  the  suit  and  hat  that  were  her '  best.' 
Her  mother  laid  down  the  skirt  on 
which  she  was  putting  a  new  braid. 

*  Why,  where  are  you  going,  Eunice?' 
*I  thought  I'd  call  on  Mabel.    I've 

never  been  to  see  her  since  she  started 
housekeeping.  I  promised  to,  long  ago.' 

Mrs.  Day  looked  at  her  keenly,  her 
mouth  tightening.  *  You 're  foolish  to 
go  and  see  all  her  wedding  presents 
about  the  house.  You  won't  be  able 
to  stand  it.' 

*I  shall,  mother.  That's  why  I'm 
going  to  stand  it.  I  shan't  mind  calling 
there  after  I've  been  this  once.  I've 
thought  it  out.' 

*  You  're  a  queer  girl,  Eunice.  I  don't 
understand  you.    But  I  suppose  you 
know  your  —  your  own  business  best,' 
she  ended,  taking  up  her  work  again. 

Eunice  felt  quite  sure  that  she  did, 
and  yet  there  were  days  when  the  ex- 
periment seemed  a  failure  or  at  least 
only  just  begun:  days  when  she  would 
read  in  a  paper  of  brilliant  social  events 
in  New  York,  in  Stephen's  New  York. 
Stephen  might  have  been  there  at  that 
dinner,  his  eyes,  that  looked  so  gravely 
from  his  picture,  lighted  with,  the  joy- 
fulness  of  the  occasion,  his  splendid 
head  towering  above  the  other  men  as 
he  joined  in  the  toasts  —  Stephen  had 
told  her  they  always  made  toasts 
at  these  dinners;  she  could  hear  his 
laugh,  his  hearty  boyish  laugh.  And 
those  other  days  in  early  spring,  when 
a  hurdy-gurdy  would  play  *  Turkey  in 
the  Straw,'  and  she  could  see  Stephen 
pitching  his  Law  Journals  about,  ex- 
ulting in  the  glorious  fact  that  he  was 
alive.  Oh,  how  she  longed  for  him, 
wanted  him  these  days, — with  a  pas- 
sionate yearning  that  for  moments 
maddened  her.  But  as  the  months 
went  by  the  times  of  overwhelming 
wanting  came  less  and  less  frequently. 
*I  shall  soon  be  happy,'  Eunice  told 


766 


THE  GLORY-BOX 


herself.  And  on  a  morning  of  June  love- 
liness, a  morning  of  very  blue  sky,  white 
clouds  and  butter-cups,  Eunice  knew 
that  she  was  happy. 

'I'm  glad  to-day,  Stephen,  I'm  glad, 
just  because  it's  all  so  beautiful.' 

She  wondered  now  and  again  why, 
since  she  herself  was  so  surely  leaving 
the  sorrow  behind  her,  her  mother 
should  still  droop  under  its  weight. 
They  seldom  talked  about  Stephen. 
They  had  agreed  at  the  beginning  not 
to  do  that  often,  but  there  was  bitter- 
ness in  her  mother's  face  and  bitter- 
ness on  occasion  in  her  words.  'I've 
got  used  to  seeing  your  box  around, 
but  don't  ever  ask  me  to  look  inside/ 
It  occurred  to  Eunice  that  perhaps  it 
was  because  to  her  mother  had  come 
only  the  grief.  She  was  not  having 
Stephen  to  love. 

Ill 

One  afternoon  late  in  February,  Eu- 
nice was  met  in  the  hall  by  her  mother. 
'A  letter  came  for  you  this  morning. 
It 's  from  New  York.'  She  stood  watch- 
ing her  as  Eunice  opened  it  with  un- 
steady fingers. 

Eunice  looked  up  in  a  few  moments, 
very  white.  '  It 's  from  Professor  Lan- 
sing's sister,'  she  faltered.  'Miss  Lan- 
sing is  coming  on  to  Chicago  this  week. 
She  says  she  would  like  to  see  me. 
She'll  stop  off  in  Dayton  over  night, 
Saturday  probably,  and  will  come  out 
for  lunch  if  it's  convenient  for  us  to 
have  her.  She  can  make  connections 
by  doing  that.  Oh,  mother,  it's  beau- 
tiful of  her  to  want  to  come.' 

'I  don't  know  that  it  will  do  you 
much  good  to  see  her.  You  '11  probably 
get  upset.' 

'No,  I  won't  be  upset  because  I'll 
be  so  glad.  Stephen  said  she  was  a  won- 
derful woman,  and — we  can  talk  about 
him.  He  was  at  her  house  only  a  few 
days  before  he  —  caught  cold.' 


'Well,  I  don't  know,'  said  her  mo- 
ther. *  You  had  better  come  into  the  kit- 
chen where  it's  warm.  You  look  like 
a  ghost,  Eunice.  I'll  give  you  a  cup 
of  soup  to  drink.  It's  on  the  stove 
now.'  She  laid  nervous  compelling  fin- 
gers on  Eunice's  arm.  'I  suppose,' 
Mrs.  Day  was  pouring  out  the  soup  as 
she  spoke,  'I  suppose  that  Miss  Lan- 
sing has  n't  any  idea  of  the  way  we 
live.  Even  the  front  stoop  looks  a  sight. 
It 's  needed  a  coat  of  paint  for  years.' 

'I  know,'  Eunice  answered,  her  face 
clouding.  '  I  wish  things  were  different 
for  Stephen's  sake.  But  we  can't  help 
it.' 

'No,'  said  her  mother  harshly,  'we 
can't  help  it.  But  I  wish  she  was  n't 
coming  for  a  meal.  The  last  decent 
tablecloth  was  cut  up  into  napkins  a 
month  ago.  I  was  ashamed  of  the  one 
we  set  Mabel  Bennet  down  to  the 
other  night.' 

Eunice  walked  to  the  window.  She 
looked  out  upon  the  backyard,  upon 
the  snow  that  was  reflecting  the  sun- 
set, a  sentence  of  one  of  Stephen's  let- 
ters in  her  mind.  'It's  the  dignity  of 
their  living  that  makes  these  Washing- 
ton Square  people  so  worth  while.' 
And  then  she  recalled  that  other  letter. 
'It  will  be  jolly  to  have  nice  linen. 
Good  linen  makes  you  feel  respecta- 
ble.' 

It  'pained  her  that  they  must  offer 
this  friend  of  Stephen's  what  they  had 
been  ashamed  to  offer  Mabel  Bennet. 
Stephen's  pride  would  be  hurt,  Stephen 
who  had  loved  that  word 'dignity,'  and 
Stephen's  pride  was  her  own  pride  just 
as  much  as  if  she  were  his  wife,  as  if  he 
were  living. 

Eunice  stood  a  long  time  looking  out 
upon  the  snow,  until  the  rose  of  the 
sunset  had  gone  from  it,  leaving  it 
blue  and  cold.  She  turned  from  the 
window:  — 

'  Mother,'  -  she  was  glad  that  in  the 
darkening  kitchen  she  could  not  see 


THE  GLORY-BOX 


767 


her  mother's  face  distinctly,  —  'mo- 
ther, don't  you  think  we  had  better  use 
that  very  fine  cloth  you  gave  me,  and 
the  napkins,  to  make  the  table  look 
nice?  Hadn't  we  better  use  them?' 

'Use  your  things  out  of  your  Glory- 
Box,  Eunice!' 

'Yes,  they  are  just  pretty  things, 
now,  mother.  All  the  pain  is  out  of 
them.  I'm  going  to  wear  the  best  set 
you  made  me.  I  think  if  I  have  on 
those  nice  clothes  under  my  dress  I 
won't  be  so  shy  with  Miss  Lansing. 
I  want  —  Oh,  mother,  I  want  Stephen 
to  —  to  feel  proud  of  me.' 

Mrs.  Day  bent  to  rake  the  fire,  then 
straightened  up.  'If  you  can  stand 
wearing  that  set,  I've  nothing  to  say. 
You  have  a  right  to  your  own  notions. 
But  I  don't  see  how  I  can  bear  to  look 
at  the  cloth.' 

'After  it's  been  done  up  and  on  the 
table  once,  you  '11  forget  there  was  any- 
thing sad  connected  with  it.  I  know 
you  will,'  said  Eunice,  with  her  brave, 
pleading  eyes  fixed  on  her  mother's 
set  face. 

'I  don't  know;  maybe  I  could  for- 
get. But  I  don't  see  how  I  could  bring 
myself  to  use  something  out  of  your 
own  Glory-Box.  It  seems  almost  indel- 
icate. They're  all  your  things/ 

Eunice  crossed  the  room  and  laid  her 
face  down  on  her  mother's  shoulder. 
'You  gave  me  the  things,  mother,  and 
you've  had  so  little  of  what  you've 
always  wanted.  Can't  it  be  our  Glory- 
Box,  for  us  both  to  use  on  special  oc- 
casions—  like  this?'  Her  arms  tight- 
ened about  her  mother's  neck.  'Can't 
we  use  them  this  time  for  Stephen's 
sake?' 

After  a  moment's  silence  Mrs.  Day 
pushed  her  gently  away. 

'If  they  are  to  be  washed  you'll 
have  to  bring  them  down  to-morrow. 
I  '11  want  to  get  them  on  the  line  while 
this  good  weather  lasts.  Saturday  is 
only  four  days  off,' 


Saturday  evening  Eunice  lighted  the 
candles  on  her  bureau;  lighting  the 
candles  seemed  like  another  ceremony 
of  this  perfect  day.  She  had  got  up 
early  so  as  to  put  her  room  and  the  rest 
of  the  house  in  order.  While  her  mo- 
ther was  finishing  in  the  kitchen  she  had 
set  the  table.  It  had  been  a  joy  to  do 
that,  to  spread  the  cloth  so  that  the 
creases  would  come  in  just  the  right 
place,  and  the  large  initial  'D'  show 
without  being  too  conspicuous,  and  to 
fold  the  napkins  prettily  and  arrange 
the  dishes.  At  the  last  moment  she 
had  decided  that  it  would  not  be  too 
extravagant  to  buy  a  little  plant  of 
some  sort  for  a  centre-piece.  So  there 
was  just  time  for  her  to  slip  into  the 
clothes  that  had  been  spread  out  on 
the  bed,  and  do  over  her  hair,  before 
Miss  Lansing  arrived. 

Stephen  had  said,  'You  will  like 
her,  Eunice.'  Like  her!  —  she  was  the 
most  wonderful  woman  she  had  ever 
met.  She  was  elderly,  but  strangely 
enough  you  did  not  wonder  whether 
she  had  been  pretty  or  beautiful  when 
she  was  young.  She  was  wonderful 
just  as  she  was  now.  You  could  not 
think  of  her  as  being  different.  She 
was  tall,  a  little  taller  than  Eunice  her- 
self. Her  face  was  finely  cut,  the  sort 
of  face  you  saw  in  engravings  of  old 
portraits;  there  were  not  many  lines 
in  it.  Her  eyes  were  dark  and  young 
too,  though  she  had  quite  gray  hair 
and  evidently  did  n't  care  to  be  in  the 
fashion,  for  her  black  silk  fell  all 
around  in  ample  lengths.  Eunice  had 
watched  her  hands.  They  were  not 
small,  but  long  and  slender  and  very 
white;  the  two  rings  she  wore  seemed 
made  for  them. 

And  Eunice  had  not  felt  shy.  At 
first  she  had  thought  she  was  going  to; 
Miss  Lansing  had  seemed  at  first  so 
like  a  personage;  but  the  thought  of 
Stephen,  and  of  the  feather-stitched 
best  set  she  was  wearing  made  her 


768 


THE  GLORY-BOX 


forget  that  Washington  Square  was,  as 
Stephen  had  said,  rather  terrifying  on 
the  outside.  It  was  Stephen's  friend 
whom  they  were  entertaining,  and  Ste- 
phen's friend  was  not  a  personage  real- 
ly, but  a  wonderful  woman  who  had 
loved  Stephen  too. 

After  lunch  they  talked  together  in 
the  parlor  while  her  mother  was  clear- 
ing things  away.  Miss  Lansing  said 
that  she  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  Ste- 
phen that  last  year.  He  had  seemed  to 
enjoy  coming  to  the  house.  He  had 
come  to  dinner  sometimes,  but  more 
often  he  had  dropped  in  on  Saturday 
or  Sunday  afternoons  for  tea.  One  af- 
ternoon he  had  not  been  quite  himself. 
She  had  questioned  him  a  little  and  he 
had  confessed  with  a  laugh  that  he  was 
homesick  for  Ohio. 

'That  was  the  time  he  talked  for  two 
hours  about  you,  my  dear/  Miss  Lan- 
sing said,  smiling.  '  Fortunately  no  one 
else  came  in,  so  he  was  uninterrupted. 
I  liked  to  listen  to  his  talk;  he  had 
charm.'  But  Eunice  saw  her  eyes  kin- 
dle: 'He  was  more  than  charming.  He 
was  great.' 

'Yes,5  Eunice  answered  very  low. 
'He  would  have  been  a  great  man,  Miss 
Lansing.  I  always  knew  he  would.' 

At  that  Miss  Lansing  put  out  both 
hands  and  covered  Eunice's  that  were 
clasped  tightly  in  her  lap.  'He  would 
have  been  a  great  man,'  she  repeated, 
'and  you,  my  dear,  would  have  made 
him  a  great  wife.' 

Eunice  felt  that  never,  unless  she 
should  hear  Stephen's  voice  again, 
should  she  listen  to  such  wonderful 
words  as  those.  Ever  since  Miss  Lan- 
sing had  gone  they  had  sung  themselves 
in  her  heart  like  a  sacred  refrain.  She 
was  glad  that  it  was  night  now  so  that 
she  could  fall  asleep  repeating  them. 

'Getting  ready  for  bed,  Eunice?' 


'I'm  beginning  to.'  Eunice  opened 
the  door  to  her  mother, who  stood  out- 
side winding  the  clock. 

'Do  you  know,'  said  Mrs.  Day  as 
she  set  the  alarm,  'I've  been  thinking 
again  what  a  good  idea  it  was  to  open 
that  can  of  peas.  They  did  make  the 
chops  look  so  tasty,  and  they  were  al- 
most as  tender  as  the  French.  I  helped 
Miss  Lansing  twice.' 

Eunice  kissed  her  as  she  turned 
away. 

'It  was  a  nice  dinner  throughout, 
mother,  and  the  table  looked  lovely.' 

'Well,  I  saw  Miss  Lansing  look  at 
the  cloth.  She  was  too  much  of  a  lady 
to  say  anything,  of  course,  but  I  could 
tell  she  noticed  it.' 

'Yes,'  said  Eunice,  'I  think  she  did.' 

Mrs.  Day  was  closing  her  door. 

'Put  out  the  light  in  the  hall  before 
you  go  to  bed,  Eunice.' 

'Yes,  mother,'  said  Eunice,  softly 
closing  her  own  door. 

She  stood  still  a  moment  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  candle-lighted  room.  Then 
she  went  over  to  the  Glory-Box  and 
took  out  the  kimono  and  laid  it  over 
the  footboard  so  that  the  pink  folds 
could  catch  the  light.  When  she  had 
undressed,  she  put  it  on.  'It  will  be  a 
beautiful  ending  to  the  day,'  she  said, 
as  she  stood  before  the  mirror  braiding 
her  hair. 

Her  eyes  rested  on  Stephen's  picture. 

'  I  think  you  would  have  been  proud 
to-day,  dear,  and  I  think  you  would 
have  liked  this.' 

She  turned  to  the  mirror,  and  looked 
at  the  girl  reflected  there,  at  the  dark 
eyes  and  hair  and  at  the  kimono  drap- 
ing her  soft  white  gown. 

'Dawn  and  apple-blossoms,'  she 
whispered  and  then  stretched  out  her 
arms. 

'Stephen,  my  dear.  Oh,  Stephen.' 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SORROW 


PROLOGUE 

THE  traveler  looked  about  him.  The 
glorious  sunlight  of  the  preceding  day 
had  gone;  the  glittering  greenery  that 
had  frolicked  with  the  breeze  was  no 
longer  to  be  seen.  The  trees  along  the 
roadside  were  gnarled,  stunted,  som- 
bre; the  bushes  were  scarce  more  than 
brambles.  Bleakness  covered  every- 
thing. Grass,  such  as  it  was,  showed  it- 
self only  in  patches;  the  soil  was  stony, 
the  air  chill. 

The  traveler  wrapped  his  cloak  about 
him.  Whether  his  senses  were  sharp- 
ened by  the  dreariness  of  his  surround- 
ings, or  whether  they  instinctively 
sought  a  new  object  for  their  attention, 
he  could  not  say;  but  he  became  aware, 
gradually,  — as  a  sound  sleeper  slowly 
wakes  to  the  things  about  his  bed,  — 
of  some  one  beside  him,  traveling  the 
same  way,  taking,  it  seemed,  even  steps 
with  himself.  He  felt  no  surprise,  but 
rather  as  if  he  were  picking  up  a  mem- 
ory that  had  been  lying  just  under  the 
surface  of  consciousness,  —  as  if  he 
ought  to  have  known  that  some  one 
had  been  beside  him  for  an  indefinite 
time. 

The  traveler  walked  on  for  a  while  in 
silence;  and  then,  overcome  half  by  cu- 
riosity, half  by  a  mixture  of  resentment 
and  suspicion,  turned  and  demanded 
a  little  curtly  where  the  other  was 
going. 

'I  am  going  your  way,'  replied  the 
stranger;  and  the  two  walked  on  to- 
gether, side  by  side. 

*  I  beg  your  pardon,'  said  the  traveler, 
'but  I  know,  as  I  am  immersed  in  my 
own  thoughts,  that  I  cannot  be  an  ac- 
ceptable companion.  We  had  better 

VOl.  U4-NO.  <? 


journey  singly;  I  will  go  ahead  or  fall 
behind,  as  you  choose.' 

'  I  prefer  to  keep  even  pace/  answered 
the  other. 

Hardly  knowing  whether  or  not  to  be 
offended,  the  traveler  hesitated;  should 
he  go  ahead  or  fall  behind  ?  But,  though 
he  could  not  tell  why,  he  did  neither;  he 
kept  on  the  same  road  at  the  same  pace, 
step  by  step  with  his  companion. 

The  landscape  grew  still  more  deso- 
late; the  earth  seemed  hostile  to  vege- 
table life.  A  rare  tree,  here  and  there, 
shook  its  barren  branches;  prickly 
things  rendered  the  walking  difficult. 

The  traveler  thought  to  himself:  '1 
will  turn  round  and  go  back,  and  so  I 
shall  both  leave  this  detestable  place 
and  escape  from  this  importunate  com- 
panion.' 

The  stranger  spoke  up:  'No,  let  us 
keep  on  together.' 

The  traveler  started,  and,  making 
a  feeble  attempt  to  smile,  said,  'You 
seem  to  be  a  mind-reader.'  He  decided 
to  stop  at  once;  nevertheless  he  con- 
tinued to  keep  on  the  same  road  at  the 
same  pace.  Then  he  thought,  forgetting 
that  he  had  not  spoken  aloud, '  It  was 
not  polite  in  me  to  let  him  know  that  I 
wished  to  shake  myself  free  of  his  com- 
pany. I  will  quietly  turn  off  to  the 
right  or  left.' 

'No,  let  us  keep  on  the  same  road,' 
repeated  the  stranger. 

At  this  the  traveler  contained  him- 
self no  longer,  but  burst  out,  almost 
angrily,  'Who  are  you?' 

'  I  am  the  Spirit  of  Life,'  answered  the 
other;  'you  and  I  are  journeying  tp- 
gether.' 

The  traveler  did  not  understand  what 
the  stranger  meant;  but  he  was  aware 

769 


770 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SORROW 


of  a  bitter  chill  in  the  air  and  of  still 
greater  desolation  all  about,  and  he  de- 
termined to  cast  manners  to  the  wind 
and  run  for  it;  but  no,  his  feet  kept  on 
the  same  way,  at  the  same  pace. 

'Be  not  impatient,'  said  his  com- 
panion, 'this  is  our  road.' 

The  chill  struck  through  the  travel- 
er's cloak,  his  fingers  trembled  with 
cold,  but  he  kept  on.  As  they  crossed 
the  brow  of  a  low  hill  they  saw  a  great, 
gloomy  building  lying  before  them. 
The  traveler  thought  of  fortresses  and 
prisons  in  foreign  lands  that  he  had  read 
of. 

'I  shall  turn  here  and  go  back,'  he 
cried,  amazed  at  the  foolish  terror  of 
his  imagination. 

'  We  must  go  on,'  replied  the  stranger. 

They  were  now  close  under  the  shad- 
ow of  the  building. 

'What  is  this  abhorrent  place?'  ask- 
ed the  traveler. 

'This,'  answered  his  companion  tak- 
ing the  traveler's  arm,  'is  the  House  of 
Sorrow.' 

The  traveler  felt  a  sword  pierce  his 
heart,  yet  his  footsteps  did  not  fail;  for, 
against  his  will,  the  Spirit  of  Life  bore 
him  up.  He  went  on  with  even  step, 
and  the  two  crossed  the  threshold. 


They  that  have  experienced  a  great 
sorrow  are  born  again.  The  world  they 
are  now  in  is  quite  different  from  their 
old  world.  In  that  earlier  world  they 
lived  upon  terms  of  household  familiar- 
ity with  Joy  and  Felicity;  now  they 
must  lie  down  by  the  side  of  Sorrow 
and  eat  with  Sorrow  beside  them  at 
the  board.  Outward  things  may  assert 
their  identity  to  eye,  to  ear,  to  touch, 
but  outward  things  cannot  deceive  the 
spirit  within;  the  House  of  Sorrow  is 
strange,  all  its  furniture  is  strange,  and 
the  newcomer  must;  {earn  anew  fyow  to 
live. 


The  first  lesson  is  to  accept  the  past 
as  a  beautiful  day  that  is  done,  as  the 
loveliness  of  a  rose  that  has  withered 
away.  The  object  of  our  yearning  has 
passed  from  the  world  of  actual  con- 
tacts into  the  world  of  art.  Memory 
may  paint  the  picture  as  it  will,  drop 
out  all  shadows  and  catch  the  beauty  of 
our  exquisite  loss  in  all  the  golden  glow 
of  human  happiness.  There,  within  the 
shrine  prepared  by  Sorrow,  that  pic- 
ture will  ever  refresh  us  and  bless  us. 
Evil  cannot  touch  it,  nor  ill-will,  nor 
envy,  nor  sordid  care;  only  our  own 
faithlessness,  our  own  acceptance  of  un- 
worthy things,  can  stain  the  freshness 
of  its  beauty.  Sorrow  has  constituted 
us  the  sacristans  of  this  shrine;  on  us 
rests  the  care  of  this  pictured  relic,  and, 
unless  we  suffer  motes  and  beams  to 
get  in  our  eyes,  it  will  remain  as  bright 
in  the  sanctuary  of  memory  as  in  the 
sunshine  of  earthly  life. 

The  second  lesson  is  to  receive  from 
Sorrow  the  gift  that  we  have  all  asked 
for,  begged  for,  a  thousand  times.  We 
have  felt  the  oppression  of  petty  things, 
we  have  been  caught  in  the  nets  of 
grossness,  we  have  suffered  ourselves  to 
become  captives  and  servants  to  the 
common  and  the  mean,  till,  weary  with 
servitude,  we  have  cried  out,  'Oh,  that 
I  might  rescue  my  soul! '  And  now  the 
work  of  deliverance  is  accomplished  and 
our  souls  are  free.  Tyranny  has  fallen 
from  our  necks.  Vulgar  inclinations 
have  lost  their  ancient  glamour,  and  the 
baser  appetites  shiver  in  their  naked- 
ness. Our  wish  has  been  granted;  the 
prison  doors  are  open  wide,  we  may  pur- 
sue with  all  our  strength,  with  all  the 
resolution  we  can  summon,  the  things 
that  we,  when  bound,  believed  that  we 
longed  for. 

The  third  gift  of  Sorrow  is  that  she 
will  not  suffer  us  to  put  up  with  artifi- 
cial lights.  We  had  been  content  with 
the  candle-light  of  sensuous  things,  let- 
ting our  souls  float  idly  on  the  clouds  qf 


THE  HOUSE  OP  SORROW 


771 


chance  experience;  we  had  accepted 
life  as  a  voyage  down  a  magic  river  of 
random  happenings,  satisfied  with  such 
beacons  as  guarded  our  temporal  pros- 
perity. But  Sorrow,  with  one  sweep  of 
her  hand,  has  extinguished  all  those 
lights,  and  robbed  the  things  of  sense  of 
all  their  shimmering.  Sorrow  has  shown 
us  that  we  live  in  the  dark;  and  no  great 
harm  has  been  done,  for  we  no  lon- 
ger care  to  see  the  flickering  lights  that 
once  flared  about  our  heads  with  so  de- 
ceptive a  glow.  Sorrow  has  given  us  a 
yearning  for  inextinguishable  light.  All 
is  dark;  but  all  darkness  is  one  great 
supplication  for  light  which  cannot  be 
quenched.  Shadow,  mystery,  black- 
ness, the  outer  and  the  inner  courts 
of  chaos,  all  echo  Sorrow's  cry  for 
light. 

So  the  soul  into  which  the  iron  has 
entered,  amazed  and  offended  by  the 
bitterness  of  agony,  turns  to  find  some 
light,  some  principle,  whose  shining 
shall  illume  for  her  these  random  hap- 
penings of  joy  and  sorrow  which  make 
up  what  we  call  life,  whose  wisdom 
shall  satisfy  her  passionate  demand 
for  some  explanation  why  she  should 
have  been  conjured  up  out  of  nothing- 
ness, to  be  caressed  and  flattered  for  a 
season,  and  then  stabbed  to  the  heart. 
What  is  this  universe  that  treats  us 
so?  What  animates  it?  What  is  it  try- 
ing to  do?  What  is  its  attitude  toward 
man? 

Who  shall  explain  these  things?  We 
have  lost  the  support  of  the  Christian 
dogmas,  and  we  have  no  new  staff  to 
lean  upon;  we  have  strayed  from  the 
old  road  of  hope,  and  we  do  not  find  a 
new  road.  What  can  science  or  philo- 
sophy do  for  us,  —  science  that  pays 
so  little  heed  to  the  soul,  philosophy 
that  pays  so  little  heed  to  grief?  We 
must  shift  for  ourselves  and  see  what 
we  can  find.  Happiness  left  us  content 
with  happiness,  but  Sorrow  bids  us  rise 
up  and  seek  something  divine. 


The  first  act  must  be  to  take  our  eyes 
from  Sorrow,  cast  memory  loose,  put 
on  the  magic  cap  of  indifference  and 
forgetfulness,  and  look  out  as  from 
a  window  upon  the  phenomena  that 
may  chance  to  meet  the  eye,  and  see 
whether  from  the  sample  we  can  infer  a 
pattern,  interwoven  with  a  thread  of 
hope,  for  the  whole  fabric. 


ii 

I  look  at  the  universe  as  it  presents 
itself  to  me  this  morning,  as  if  I,  for  the 
first  time,  were  making  its  acquaint- 
ance. I  find  myself  in  a  pleasant  room. 
Golden  light,  pouring  in  at  the  window, 
irradiates  shining  breakfast  things.  A 
wonderful  odor  greets  my  nostrils;  a 
steaming  fragrance,  followed  by  a  de- 
licious taste,  quickens  my  whole  being. 
Next,  round,  yellow  fruit  is  presented 
to  me,  smelling  as  if  it  remembered  all 
its  blossoming  origins  or  had  packed 
its  rind  with  ambrosia  in  the  garden  of 
the  Hesperides.  Added  to  these  is  a 
delicious  bread,  rich  Rembrandtesque 
brown  without,  ripe  yellow  within,  a 
'princely  kind  of  bread,  which  they  tell 
me  is  called  Johnny-cake. 

Breakfast  done,  I  walk  out  into 
an  unroofed  azure  palace  of  light. 
Upon  the  ground  a  multitude  of  lit- 
tle green  stalks  intertwine  with  each 
other  to  keep  my  feet  from  touch- 
ing the  soil  beneath;  mighty  giants, 
rooted  to  earth,  hold  up  a  hundred 
thousand  leaves  to  shelter  me  from  the 
excess  of  golden  glory  that  illumines  the 
azure  palace;  the  leaves  rustle,  either 
for  the  music's  sake  or  to  let  me  feel 
their  sentiment  of  kinship.  Further 
on,  little  beautiful  things,  which  have 
renounced  locomotion,  —  recognizing 
that  they  have  found  their  appointed 
places  and  are  happy  there,  like  the 
Lady  Pia  in  the  lower  heaven  of  Para- 
dise, —  waft  floral  benedictions  to  me. 
And  about  them  hover  winged  flowers 


772 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SORROW 


that  spread  their  petals  to  the  breeze 
and  flit  from  fragrance  to  fragrance. 
Into  a  honey-laden  cornucopia,  a  pas- 
sionate presence,  its  wings  humming 
in  wild  ecstasy,  dips  its  bill,  while  the 
sunlight  furnishes  the  jeweled  magnifi- 
cence of  its  plumage. 

A  troop  of  young  creatures,  far  more 
wonderful  than  these,  passes  by,  with 
glancing  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks,  making 
sweetest  music  of  words  and  laughter. 
These,  they  tell  me,  are  children,  and 
they  say  that  there  are  many  of  them, 
and  that  I,  too,  was  once  a  child.  I 
laugh  at  this  preposterous  flattery. 

Another  being,  well-nigh  ethereal,  a 
naiad  perhaps,  or  the  imagining  of  some 
kindly  god,  trips  by.  It  is  exquisite. 
The  leaves  cast  their  shadows  before  it; 
the  flowers  tremble  for  pleasure.  'What 
is  it?'  I  whisper.  Some  one  answers 
carelessly:  'That  is  a  maiden.' 

Then  another  young  creature  dances 
by,  —  head  erect,  all  animation,  the 
breeze  blowing  its  hair  back  from  what 
must  be  a  temple  for  pure  and  noble 
thought  —  like  a  gallant  ship  beating 
out  to  sea.  This,  they  tell  me,  is  a 
youth. 

I  walk  on  and  behold  many  goodly 
things.  I  hear  melodies  that  stir  yearn- 
ings to  which  I  can  give  no  name,  start 
flashes  of  joy,  or  glimmering  under- 
standings of  the  'deep  and  dazzling 
darkness'  that  surrounds  the  farthest 
reaches  of  terrestrial  light.  I  am  told 
that  there  are  men,  called  poets,  .who 
have  built  a  palace  out  of  their  crystal 
imaginations,  where  life  and  its  doings 
are  depicted  in  a  thousand  ways,  some- 
times as  in  a  mirror,  trait  for  trait, 
sometimes  glorified,  and  all  in  varied 
cadences  of  music.  And  I  am  told  that 
the  wonderful  things  which  greet  my 
senses  —  dry  land  and  its  fruitfulness, 
ocean,  air,  clouds,  stars,  and  sky — are 
but  an  infinitesimal  fragment  of  an  in- 
finite whole,  in  which  the  curious  mind 
may  travel  for  countless  ages  and  never 


reach  the  end  of  eager  and  throbbing 
questionings;  that  there  is  between  me 
and  it  the  most  wonderful  of  all  rela- 
tions, the  contact,  real  or  imaginary,  of 
my  consciousness  with  the  great  stream 
of  phenomena  that  passes  before  it,  and 
that  this  relation  is  the  source  of  never- 
ending  intellectual  pleasure. 

But  more  than  by  all  things  else  I  am 
impressed  by  the  sentiments  between 
creatures  of  my  kind,  between  mother 
and  son,  father  and  daughter,  husband 
and  wife,  friend  and  friend,  a  wonder- 
ful mutual  attraction  which  makes  each 
yield  his  will  to  the  other  and  rouses  a 
double  joy,  —  from  securing  for  the 
other  and  from  renouncing  for  one's 
self,  —  a  half-mystical  bond  that  holds 
two  together  as  gravitation  holds  terres- 
trial things  to  the  earth,  so  sweet,  so 
strong,  so  delicate,  that  the  imagina- 
tion cannot  rise  beyond  this  human  af- 
fection at  its  height. 

Such  is  the  fragment  of  the  universe 
which  presents  itself  at  this  moment  to 
my  consciousness.  Bewildered  by  won- 
ders heaped  on  wonders,  I  cry  out 
triumphantly, '  Is  there  not  evidence  of 
friendliness  to  man  here?' 


in 

But  popular  teachers  answer,  No.  In 
the  beginning,  they  say,  in  the  dark 
backward  of  time  beyond  our  ken,  is 
chaos,  a  wild  whir  of  primal  matter  in 
the  clutch  of  primal  energy,  nebulous 
substance  rotating  through  space,  con- 
densing according  to  laws  immutable. 
^Eons  pass  and  stars  emerge.  In  one 
corner  of  immensity  the  nebulous  sub- 
stance of  our  planetary  system  revolves 
and  concentrates.  Without  pausing  in 
its  eternal  course,  substance  shrinks 
and  consolidates  into  a  sun  and  his 
attendant  satellites,  gases  condense  to 
liquids,  liquids  to  solids.  Our  particu- 
lar planet,  a  poor  relation  of  the  dis- 
tant stars,  once  molten,  has  gradually 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SORROW 


773 


cooled,  its  vapors  condensing  into 
water,  its  earthen  crust  gradually  thick- 
ening and  hardening;  matter  always 
rearranging  itself,  energy  always  in 
agitation. 

Then,  somehow,  out  of  the  inorganic 
mass  of  matter,  emerge,  perhaps  in  the 
depths  of  ocean,  rocked  into  wakening 
by  the  oscillations  of  the  water,  the  first 
rudiments  of  organic  life.  Then  life, 
like  a  flame,  catches  what  fuel  it  can; 
it  creeps  from  vegetable  to  vegetable, 
mounting  always  to  more  elaborate 
forms;  it  pauses  and  hesitates  upon  the 
fringed  borders  between  vegetable  and 
animal  life,  then  kindles  afresh  and 
bursts  up  in  animal  creation.  In  long 
succession  type  succeeds  type.  The 
flame  leaps  from  lower  structure  to 
higher,  animating  sponges,  corals,  shell- 
fish, fishes,  amphibians,  reptiles,  four- 
footed  beasts,  apes,  men.  So  the  vital 
fire  has  mounted  higher  and  higher. 

And  as  part  of  the  process  by  which 
it  came  creeping  up,  this  vital  fire  quick- 
ened the  cells  of  which  organic  forms 
consist.  It  imparted  a  sensibility,  a  ca- 
pacity for  comradeship,  by  which  the 
cells  became  aware  of  the  outside  world ; 
it  endowed  them  with  sundry  move- 
ments of  attraction  and  distaste.  As 
the  cells  prospered  and  multiplied,  their 
interest  in  outside  things  increased; 
they  made  acquaintance  with  light, 
heat,  electrical  forces,  and  all  the  vari- 
ous prowling  energies  which  reveal 
themselves  to  man.  In  certain  spots  a 
special  sensitiveness  entered  into  closer 
communication  with  the  outer  world; 
the  importunities  of  the  outer  world 
compelled  a  division  of  labor  in  receiv- 
ing messages,  until  the  separate  nerves 
for  smell,  taste,  sound,  light,  heat, 
touch,  sitting  at  their  wicket  gates,  re- 
ceive the  thousands  of  messages  which 
come  to  them. 

But  in  the  long  course  of  evolution 
one  moment  stands  easily  supreme.  In 
the  living  organism  sensations  quick- 


ened, activities  increased,  closer  and 
closer  relations  between  the  cells  were 
established  by  industrious  filaments, 
better  and  better  paths  were  prepared 
for  postal  nerves,  until  communications 
became  so  varied,  so  quick,  so  vivify- 
ing, that  an  instrument  was  created 
like  a  mirror,  like  recording  tablets; 
the  vital  flame  leaped  into  conscious 
life.  In  course  of  time  the  nervous  sys- 
tem expanded  and  developed,  until  in 
the  brain  of  Plato,  Dante,  Shakespeare, 
images  arise  which  add  new  regions  of 
beauty  to  the  universe. 

After  this  fashion,  roughly  speaking, 
we  are  told,  the  electron,  the  atom, 
the  molecule,  the  cell,  have  gradually 
shaped  this  visible  universe,  this  heaven 
fretted  with  golden  fire,  this  earth  with 
its  sapphire  seas  set  in  floral  greenery, 
this  race  of  man  with  his  inquiring  in- 
tellect and  his  hungry  heart.  Blind 
chemical  and  physical  forces,  after  in- 
finite experiments,  after  infinite  failures 
and  beginnings  again,  proceeding  on 
their  predetermined  way,  have  wrought 
all  that  there  is.  They  have  created 
that  which  delights  the  heart  of  man, 
and  with  equal  indifference  the  poison- 
ous causes  which  wipe  out  all  his  de- 
light forever. 

We,  the  ignorant,  listen  as  best  we 
can  to  the  words  of  popular  science.  We 
feel  our  incompetence,  our  ignorance, 
our  inability  to  appreciate  what  we  are 
taught.  But  to  us  an  enumeration  of 
processes  and  stages  does  not  seem  to 
be  an  explanation;  that  enumeration 
sounds  as  hollow  to  us  as  if  science 
were  to  explain  our  personal  existences 
by  recounting  every  step  our  feet  have 
taken  since  we  first  set  foot  to  floor. 
Moreover  men  of  science  bewilder  us  by 
their  respect,  pushed  almost  to  obse- 
quiousness, for  size  and  distance,  for 
chemical  energy  and  physical  restless- 
ness. Why  should  consciousness,  'the 
roof  and  crown  of  things,'  toady  to  un- 
self-conscious  magnitude,  why  should 


774 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SORROW 


it  duck  and  bend  before  unconscious 
energy?  And  where  is  the  explanation 
or  understanding  of  our  two  worlds, 
more  real  to  us  than  ponderable  matter 
or  restless  energy,  our  world  of  happi- 
ness and  our  world  of  sorrow? 

We  turn  for  enlightenment  to  the 
Spirit  of  Life;  but  the  Spirit  of  Life  an- 
swers:— 

'My  concern  is  with  life,  not  with 
knowledge/ 

'Whom,  then,  shall  we  ask?' 

'Ask  Pain  and  ask  Love,'  replies  the 
Spirit  of  Life. 

IV 

Like  little  Jack'Horner,  science  pulls 
out  its  plums,  —  electricity,  radium, 
the  chemical  union  of  elements,  the 
multiplication  of  cells, — and,  like  Jack, 
congratulates  itself.  But  to  the  in- 
mates of  the  House  of  Sorrow,  far  more 
wonderful  than  all  these  things,  far 
more  mysterious,  and  demanding  sub- 
tler thought  from  philosophy,  is  human 
affection.  For  a  generation  past,  hu- 
man affection  has  been  treated,  and  for 
years  to  come  may  still  be  treated,  as 
the  superfluous  product  of  physico- 
chemical  energies.  The  scientific  mind, 
elated  by  its  victories,  bivouacs  on  the 
old  fields  of  battle.  But  the  real  inter- 
est in  atom  and  cell  lies  in  the  human 
consciousness,  and  the  interest  in  con- 
sciousness lies  in  the  human  affections. 
In  themselves  atoms  and  cells  are 
neither  wonderful  nor  interesting;  they 
are  merely  strange,  and  can  claim  only 
the  attention  due  to  strangers.  But  hu- 
man love  is  of  boundless  interest  to 
man,  and  should  have  the  pious  devo- 
tion of  the  wisest  and  most  learned 
men. 

Science  proceeds  as  if  the  past  were 
the  home  of  explanation;  whereas  the 
future,  and  the  future  alone,  holds  the 
key  to  the  mysteries  of  the  present. 
When  the  first  cell  divided,  the  mean- 
ing of  that  division  was  to  be  discovered 


in  the  future,  not  in  the  past;  when 
some  prehuman  ancestor  first  uttered  a 
human  sound,  the  significance  of  that 
sound  was  to  be  interpreted  by  human 
language,  not  by  apish  grunts;  when  the 
first  plant  showed  solicitude  for  its 
seed,  the  interest  of  that  solicitude  lay 
in  the  promise  of  maternal  affection. 
Things  must  be  judged  in  the  light  of 
the  coming  morning,  not  of  the  setting 
stars. 

It  is  not  the  past  which,  like  an 
uncoiling  spring,  pushes  us  on;  crea- 
tion faces  the  future,  and  is  drawn  on- 
ward by  an  irresistible  attraction.  '  For 
though  it  be  a  maxim  in  the  schools, 
says  Thomas  Traherne, '  that  there  is  no 
love  of  a  thing  unknown,  yet  I  have  found 
that  things  unknown  have  a  secret  in- 
fluence on  the  soul,  and,  like  the  centre 
of  the  earth  unseen,  violently  attract 
it.  We  love  we  know  not  what.  ...  As 
iron  at  a  distance  is  drawn  by  the  load- 
stone, there  being  some  invisible  com- 
munications between  them,  so  is  there 
in  us  a  world  of  love  to  somewhat, 
though  we  know  not  what. . . .  There  are 
invisible  ways  of  conveyance  by  which 
some  great  thing  doth  touch  our  souls, 
and  by  which  we  tend  to  it.  Do  you  not 
feel  yourself  drawn  by  the  expectation 
and  desire  of  some  Great  Thing?' 

Life  seems  to  have  differentiated 
itself,  developing  a  Promethean  spirit 
within  a  grosser  element.  Life  as  a 
whole  cares  only  to  preserve  itself,  it 
seeks  to  live,  it  cringes  and  will  accept 
existence  on  any  terms,  it  will  adapt 
itself  to  desert  or  dung-hill;  but  the 
Promethean  spirit  seeks  a  higher  and  a 
higher  sphere.  This  life  within  life  - 
this  cor  cordium  of  existence — is  surely 
traveling  on  a  definite  road.  The  very 
passion  with  which  it  takes  its  direc- 
tion, its  readiness  to  seize  on  pain  and 
use  to  the  full  pain's  ennobling  proper- 
ties, are  our  assurance  that  life  follows 
an  instinct  within  that  guides  it  to  that 
which  is  either  its  source  or  its  full  frui- 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SORROW 


775 


tion.  We  must  interpret  the  seed  by  the 
flower,  not  the  flower  by  the  seed.  We 
must  interpret  life  by  its  deepest  attri- 
butes, by  pain  and  by  love. 

Pain  has  been  explained  as  an  accom- 
paniment of  the  Promethean  spirit  of 
life,  which,  in  precipitate  haste  to  pro- 
ceed upon  its  journey,  takes  the  most 
ready  and  efficacious  path  onward, 
heedless  of  what  it  breaks  and  crushes 
on  the  way.  But  pain  is  rather  an  im- 
pulse within  the  spirit  of  life.  Pain  is 
its  conscience  urging  it  on.  Unless  we 
were  pricked  on  by  pain,  we  should 
wish  to  stand  still,  content  with  our 
own  satisfaction,  meanly  indifferent  to 
higher  pleasures;  without  pain  all  life 
might  have  been  content  to  house  it- 
self in  low  animal  forms,  and  wallow  in 
bestiality,  ease,  and  lust.  It  may  be  that 
the  onward  progress  might  have  been 
accomplished  without  pain;  we  might 
have  been  whirled  upward,  insensible, 
toward  the  universal  goal.  But  we  have 
received  the  privilege  of  consciously 
sharing  in  the  upward  journey,  so  that 
each  onward  movement  must  be  a 
wrench  from  the  past,  each  moment  a 
parting,  each  step  an  eternal  farewell. 
These  noble  inconstancies  are  tasks 
imposed  by  pain. 

In  its  humblest  capacity  pain  serves 
as  a  danger  signal  for  the  body's  health, 
or  as  punishment  for  precautions  ne- 
glected; even  here,  however,  it  is  more 
spiritual  than  corporeal,  for  it  is  the 
means  by  which  the  soul  arouses  the 
body  to  perpetual  vigilance  in  the  serv- 
ice of  Life.  Paul  must  concern  itself 
with  corporeal  things,  because  con- 
sciousness is  dependent  upon  the  body; 
it  must  discharge  its  share  of  the  gen- 
eral tribute  that  consciousness,  as  a 
dependency,  pays  to  the  body.  But 
such  services  as  pain  may  render  in 
the  material  world  cannot  account  for 
all  pain;  they  cannot  account  for  the 
heartache,  for  the  depth  and  breadth 
of  anguish,  for  the  sombre  majesty  of 


grief.  An  explanation  must  be  sought 
elsewhere. 

Pain  is  a  function  of  the  soul;  it 
fosters  the  preservation  and  spiritual 
growth  of  conscious  life.  The  pangs  of 
conscience,  the  agony  of  the  heart, 
nourish  the  tenderer  elements  of  con- 
sciousness; they  root  out  the  docks  and 
darnels  of  worldly  pleasure,  and  so  pro- 
tect the  little  nurslings  of  the  spirit  that 
would  else  have  been  choked,  nursing 
them  with  passion  and  tears,  as  Nature 
nurses  with  sunshine  and  with  rain. 

No  man  can  say  by  what  means  in- 
organic matter  brought  forth  organic 
creation,  what  directing  Power  called 
together  its  gaseous  ministers,  carbon, 
hydrogen,  oxygen,  and  nitrogen,  and 
imposed  on  them  the  duty  of  produc- 
ing a  new  thing  in  the  universe;  nor 
can  we  say  how  the  corporeal  organ- 
ism, seemingly  content  with  processes 
of  material  decomposition  and  reinte- 
gration,  generated  mind.  These  great 
deeds  were  done  in  the  dark,  they  have 
left  no  witnesses;  but  we  have  the  tes- 
timony of  our  feelings  that  some  mo- 
mentous change,  comparable  to  these 
great  changes,  is  even  now  taking  place, 
however  slow  its  progress  may  be.  Con- 
sciousness, in  its  own  ideal  world,  is 
seething  with  independent  vitality, 
eager  to  develop  itself,  eager  to  give 
birth  to  a  more  spiritual  state,  eager  to 
help  Life  take  another  great  onward 
step.  The  excesses  of  pain,  that  serve 
no  corporeal  purpose,  seem  to  be  caus- 
ed by  the  violent  efforts  of  the  Spirit  of 
Life  in  its  struggles  to  take  such  a  step; 
but,  in  reality,  pain  is  the  cause  rather 
than  the  effect. 

Charged,  therefore,  with  such  possi- 
bilities in  the  service  of  Life,  pain  — 
its  capacities  little  taxed  by  duties  of 
guardianship  and  nurture  —  rises  to 
nobler  offices;  it  gradually  becomes  a 
closer  and  closer  companion  to  Life,  it 
twines  its  tendrils  round  the  tree  of 
Life,  it  grafts  itself  on  like  a  branch,  and 


776 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SORROW 


becomes  incorporate  with  Life  itself, 
an  essential  element  in  vital  energy,  a 
function  of  some  vital,  spiritual  organ. 
Yet  this  organ  is  not  yet  established  at 
a  definite  task,  for  at  times  pain  seems 
to  be  the  trenchant  edge  of  the  Life 
spirit,  cutting  and  purging  the  soul 
from  whatever  may  impede  her  up- 
ward progress;  at  times,  in  the  soul's 
more  tranquil  moods,  pain  seems  to  be 
a  homesickness  for  the  home  that  Life 
aspires  to  create.  Moreover,  pain  par- 
takes of  the  vast  variety  of  Life;  it  an- 
nounces the  prick  of  a  needle  on  the 
finger,  or  sweeps  over  the  soul  in  the 
beauty  of  tragedy  with  awe-inspiring 
flight.  Science,  which  deals  with  the 
things  that  are  past,  unable  to  fit  pain 
into  utilitarian  categories,  repeats  its 
vaso-motor  formulas;  but  faith,  which 
deals  with  things  that  are  to  be,  hails 
it  as  the  prophet  of  a  new  heaven  and  a 
new  earth.  What  better  explanation  of 
pain  is  there,  than  that  it  is  the  birth 
pangs  of  spirit,  the  assurance  of  new 
things  unseen? 

In  this  work  of  lifting  life  to  a  higher 
stage,  pain  is  but  one  of  many  minis- 
ters, the  most  terrible,  the  most  effi- 
cient. All  the  forces  of  life  work  to  that 
end.  The  struggle  for  life,  often  as- 
cribed to  the  egotism  of  the  individual, 
is  not  properly  so  ascribed.  That  strug- 
gle is  undertaken  in  obedience  to  the 
law  of  upward  progress.  Each  vege- 
table and  animal  is  in  honor  bound  to 
carry  on  its  individual  life  to  the  utter- 
most, for  who  can  tell  before  the  event 
what  road  Life  will  take  upon  its  up- 
ward journey.  Each  is  bound  to  pre- 
vent life  from  taking  the  wrong  road. 
The  acorn,  the  seed  of  the  dandelion, 
the  spawn  of  the  herring,  the  man- 
child,  must  hold  themselves  always 
ready  to  carry  Life  upon  the  next  on- 
ward stage;  each  claims  the  honor  for 
itself  and  chooses  to  kill  and  to  risk 
death  rather  than  forego  the  chance  of 
such  supreme  dignity.  In  the  struggle 


for  self-preservation  lies  the  fulfillment 
of  the  creature's  allegiance  to  life.  The 
struggle  for  life  means  pain  inflicted 
and  pain  received;  but  in  pain  lies  the 
honor  of  the  organic  world.  We  can- 
not imagine  nobility  or  dignity  without 
pain.  Lower  things  do  not  experience 
it.  Common  men  always  flee  from  it 
and  execrate  it;  but,  now  and  then, 
here  and  there,  men  and  women  seek 
it  out.  They  may  quiver  in  agony, 
they  may  succumb  momentarily  to  the 
weakness  of  the  flesh,  but  they  bear 
witness  that  pain  is  good.  For  them 
pain  is  the  ploughing  and  harrowing 
which  must  precede  seed-time  and  har- 
vest. These  men  we  have  been  taught 
to  call  saints  and  heroes.  Shall  we  give 
no  weight  to  their  testimony? 

As  it  is  with  pain,  so  is  it  with  human 
love.  Each  is  a  turning  toward  the 
light  ahead.  The  mutual  attraction  of 
cells  has  no  meaning  till  it  appears  as 
the  first  effort  of  nature  on  her  way  to 
produce  human  affection.  At  every 
stage  in  the  drawing  together  of  cells 
and  multiples  of  cells,  whether  in  polyp, 
reptile,  or  ape,  the  significance  of  that 
drawing  together  lies  in  that  for  which 
it  is  preparing  the  way.  So,  too,  is  it 
with  human  affections :  they  shine  with 
a  light  not  their  own,  but  reflected  from 
the  higher  significance  of  the  future. 
Our  love  is  but  a  pale  anticipation  of 
that  love  which  the  universe  is  striving 
to  round  out  to  full-orbed  complete- 
ness. Love,  at  least,  offers  an  explana- 
tion of  the  goal  of  life,  —  life  struggling 
to  consciousness,  consciousness  rising 
to  love.  All  other  things  find  their  ex- 
planation in  something  higher,  but 
love  is  its  own  fulfillment. 

Love  has  no  doubts.  To  itself  love  is 
the  very  substance  of  reality.  The  phe- 
nomena of  sight,  sound,  touch,  and  their 
fellows,  are  but  the  conditions  under 
which  life  has  made  a  foothold  for  it- 
self in  this  boisterous  world;  the  senses 
know  nothing  beyond  their  own  func- 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SORROW 


777 


tioning,  they  have  nothing  to  say  re- 
garding the  end  or  purpose  of  life.  But 
to  love,  —  all  the  labor  and  effort  of  all 
the  universe,  with  all  its  sidereal  sys- 
tems, with  all  its  ethereal  immensity, 
has  been  for  the  sake  of  producing  love. 
Of  what  consequence  is  it,  whether  in- 
sensible matter  endure  a  myriad  years, 
or  assume  infinite  bigness?  In  the  ab- 
sence of  consciousness,  an  infinity  of 
matter  is  as  nothing.  One  flash  of  con- 
scious life  illumined  by  love  is  worth  all 
the  patience,  all  the  effort,  all  the  labor, 
of  unconscious  energy  throughout  an 
infinity  of  time.  Consciousness  is  but  a 
minister  to  love,  to  the  love  that  is  to 
be. 

Science,  with  its  predilection  for  sen- 
suous things,  for  enumerations,  classifi- 
cations, explanations  in  terms  of  matter 
and  energy,  asserts  that  consciousness 
fulfils  no  useful  function  at  all.  Con- 
sciousness is  an  accidental  creation, 
shot  out  like  a  random  spark  by  the 
friction  of  living,  a  sort  of  tramp  who 
has  stolen  a  ride  on  the  way.  Accord- 
ing to  this  theory  the  musician  would 
continue  to  play  his  fiddle  whether  he 
produced  a  melody  or  not;  the  endless 
chain  of  propulsions  from  behind  would 
impel  one  hand  to  finger  the  strings, 
the  other  to  ply  the  bow.  But  to  the 
non-scientific  man,  consciousness  is  the 
achievement  to  which  the  Universe  has 
bent  all  its  energies. 

Had  the  Universe  taken  a  different 
turn,  or  had  it  neglected  the  things 
which  it  has  done,  consciousness  as  we 
know  it  would  never  have  come  into 
being.  But  consciousness  has  come, 
and  the  assertion  that  it  is  a  superflu- 
ous thing,  an  accident,  seems  to  have 
been  hatched  from  the  very  willfulness 
of  arrogance.  Because  science  —  a  vir- 
tuoso in  motion,  in  attractions  and  re- 
pulsions —  has  not  yet  discovered  the 
function  of  consciousness,  is  it  not  pre- 
mature to  say  that  consciousness  has 
no  function?  To  the  common  mind  the 


obvious  function  of  consciousness — in 
addition  to  the  minor  occupations 
which  its  genesis  from  matter  has  im- 
posed upon  it  —  is  to  experience  love, 
and  thereby  give  a  reasonable  meaning 
to  the  Universe. 

If  matter,  or  energy,  has  succeeded 
in  creating  consciousness,  even  though 
only  on  our  planet  and  in  such  little 
measure,  may  it  not  be  that  after  other 
aeons  of  restless  activity,  consciousness 
in  its  turn  shall  generate  another  state 
of  being  to  which  science  (then  absorb- 
ed by  a  predilection  for  consciousness, 
as  it  is  now  absorbed  by  its  predilection 
for  sensuous  things)  will  deny  any  use- 
ful function,  but  which  shall  justify  it- 
self as  consciousness  does  to-day?  May 
it  not  be — if  we  let  ourselves  listen  to 
the  incantations  of  hope  —  that  this 
higher  spiritual  sensitiveness,  generated 
by  consciousness,  will  create  as  much 
difference  between  the  new  order  of 
creatures  that  shall  possess  it  and  our- 
selves, as  there  is  now  between  us  and 
inorganic  matter?  Does  not  the  experi- 
ence of  those  men  who  —  in  daily  life 
scarce  realizing  material  things — have 
felt  themselves  rapt  into  the  presence 
of  God,  point  to  some  such  inference? 
4  When  love  has  carried  us  above  all 
things  ...  we  receive  in  peace  the  In- 
comprehensible Light,  enfolding  us 
and  penetrating  us/  But  whatever  our 
laboring,  sweating  Universe  may  bring 
forth,  this  seems  to  be  the  direction  it 
has  taken,  the  goal  that  it  has  set  be- 
fore itself. 

Is  it  not  odd  that  men  should  con- 
tinue to  interpret  love  in  terms  of 
the  atom  and  the  cell,  of  chemistry  and 
physics,  when  the  whole  significance 
of  all  the  doings  of  matter  and  ener- 
gy comes  from  our  human  conscious- 
ness? 

But  shall  they  that  suffer  pain  to- 
day, that  have  once  lived  in  the  Eden 
of  love,  shall  these  enter  into  the  light 
of  the  day  that  is  to  dawn? 


778 


OUR  'CLASSICAL  RECOLLECTIONS' 


EPILOGUE 

THE  traveler  sighed,  lost  in  perplex- 
ity; and  the  Spirit  of  Life  said,  'Come, 
let  us  walk  in  the  courts  of  the  House 
of  Sorrow/  So  they  walked  through 
the  courts,  and  the  newcomer  beheld 
in  the  House  a  great  multitude  of  win- 
dows, most  of  which  were  dark,  as  if 
there  was  no  light  within,  or,  as  if  the 
curtains  were  drawn  and  the  shutters 
closed.  But  other  windows  shot  forth 
rays  of  light,  some  faint  and  feeble, 
some  stronger,  while  others  poured 
forth  a  flood  of  brightness. 

'Why  are  some  of  the  windows  so 
bright?'  inquired  the  newcomer;  and 
the  Spirit  of  Life  answered,  *  Those 
are  the  windows  of  the  light-bearers; 
their  inmates  burn  lights,  some  more, 
some  less.' 

'  With  what  do  they  feed  their  lights  ? ' 
asked  the  newcomer. 


'A  few  shine  of  their  own  nature,' 
answered  the  Spirit,  'as  if  they  drew 
upon  an  inexhaustible  source  within; 
but  most  of  them  burn  the  oil  of 
hope.' 

'If  they  have  no  hope,  what  then?' 
asked  the  newcomer. 

'Then,'  said  the  Spirit,  'they  must 
make  their  light  from  pain.  There  is  an 
old  saying,  "He  that  doth  not  burn, 
shall  not  give  forth  light."  The  past 
lightened  you  with  its  brightness;  but 
by  your  own  shining  you  must  lighten 
the  present  and  the  future.  Hope  gives 
the  readier  light;  but  even  if  hope  fail, 
none  need  leave  their  windows  dark, 
for  where  you  have  pain  at  your  dis- 
posal, unlimited  pain,  it  should  not  re- 
quire great  spiritual  ingenuity  to  use 
that  pain  for  fuel.' 

The  newcomer  bowed  his  head,  and 
the  Spirit  of  Life  led  him  to  his  ap- 
pointed room  within  the  house. 


OUR  'CLASSICAL  RECOLLECTIONS' 


BY  ANNIE  KIMBALL  TUELL 


'ALL  things  beautiful  pass  away  to 
Persephone,'  wrote  the  mourning 
Greek,  and  I  fancy  he  believed  the  bur- 
den of  his  song.  But  there  is  a  native 
human  trust  in  the  immortality  of 
whatever  concerns  ourselves,  despite 
the  acknowledged  mutability  of  phe- 
nomena at  large.  So  it  may  never  have 
entered  the  poet's  mind  that  the  liquid 
music  of  his  elegy,  the  fair  Hellenic 
speech  itself,  might  pass  with  body's 
beauty  and  pillar's  pride  and  the  per- 


ishable loveliness  of  vase  and  amphora 
to  the  pale  guardianship  of  'Our  Lady 
of  Shadows.'  But  the  Greek  tongue  is 
well-nigh  silent  now  in  our  schools,  and 
the  richest  of  dead  languages  has 
lapsed  from  its  immortality  and  ceased 
commonly  to  'live  on  the  lips.' 

Active  protest  grew  faint  long  ago. 
It  is  long  since  Panurge,  unable  to  find 
a  language  familiar  to  his  valet,  tried 
Greek  at  last  and  was  understood.  It 
is  long  since  Milton,  declaring  'heart- 
easing  mirth'  to  be  called  in  heaven 
Euphrosyne,  registered  his  belief  in  the 


OUR  'CLASSICAL  RECOLLECTIONS' 


779 


likely  theory  that  Greek  is  the  natural 
language  of  the  celestial  regions.  It  is 
almost  as  long  since  in  the  Battle  of 
Books  the  Ancients  made  their  easy 
conquest  over  the  pert  and  upstarting 
Moderns.  Indeed  that  protracted  liter- 
ary strife  between  the  Ancients  and  the 
Moderns,  once  so  comfortably  balanced 
and  apparently  interminable,  is  fallen 
almost  out  of  mind.  The  Ancients  of 
to-day,  should  they  have  the  effrontery 
to  form  a  phalanx,  would  not  venture 
into  battle  at  all.  They  would  simply 
stand  in  line,  trusting  to  one  of  the 

*  blind  hopes '  of  Prometheus,  the  assur- 
ance that  they  have  been  proved  very 
hard  to  kill.    And  whosoever  would 
defend  their  cause  must  no  longer  speak 
in  the  manner  of  those  who  expect  to 
be  heard. 

The  classical  scholar  has  ceased  to 
contend  for  precedence  in  college  cur- 
ricula and  has  accepted  without  rancor 
his  partial  eclipse.  I  dare  say  he  remem- 
bers in  his  heart  the  good  time  —  still 
to  quote  Rabelais —  when  the  ancient 
languages  were  once  'to  their  pristine 
purity  restored,'  and  above  all  Greek, 

*  without  which  one  might  be  ashamed 
to  count  himself  a  scholar.'    But  the 
classical  scholar  of  to-day,  if  he  has 
not  studied  the  humanities  in  vain,  has 
not  failed  to  learn  from  them  liberality 
of  view  and  tolerance  for  new  orders 
for  efficiency.    He  applauds  the  grow- 
ing vogue  of  modern  tongues,  welcome 
promise  that  the  American  people  shall 
yet  be  raised  from  its  linguistic  illiter- 
acy; for  he  knows  the  discipline  and 
potential  liberty  to  be  gained  from  the 
study  of  language.    He  is  the  brother 
and  promoter  of  historical  learning;  for 
his  life,  dedicated  to  the  vitality  of  the 
past,  has  known  the  reviving  vigor  to  be 
reached  through  that  permanent  con- 
tact. He  comprehends  the  popular  avid- 
ity for  modern  literatures;  for  he  is  the 
disciple  of  a  literature  which  has  left, 
even  to  those  who  know  it  not,  an  eter- 


nal legacy  of  strength  and  beauty  and 
shapeliness.  He  respects  the  young 
man's  alertness  in  the  quest  of  new 
philosophies;  for  he  guards  the  plente- 
ous fountains  of  philosophy,  and  knows 
better  than  we  the  energy  and  intellec- 
tual humility  which  may  derive  from 
that  search.  Man  of  the  present  as  of 
the  past,  he  understands  the  recent 
leap  of  economics  to  the  front  both  in 
education  and  in  publication;  for  he 
met  Demos  long  ago  in  the  pages  of 
Aristophanes,  and  knows  that  he  is  to 
be  reckoned  with.  No,  the  true  class- 
ical scholar  is  slow  to  oppose  a  progres- 
sive shift  of  college  emphasis. 

Perhaps  he  feels  that  the  real  check 
on  Greek  is  less  the  eager  modernity  of 
the  academic  environment  than  the 
utilitarian  pressure  closing  always  more 
heavily  on  the  secondary  schools.  If 
Greek  is  to  have  any  intimate  share  in 
education,  the  initial  steps  in  its  study 
must  be  taken  early.  Though  we  are 
always  told  that  Cato  learned  Greek  at 
eighty,  no  one  has  yet  explained  the 
use  he  made  of  it.  But  a  far-away  voice 
speaking  for  Greek  can  hardly  make 
itself  heard  in  the  current  clamor  that 
the  public  money  .be  spent  not  for  the 
refinements  of  the  negligible  few,  but 
for  firmer  courses  of  industrial  prepar- 
ation, which  shall  help  the  workaday 
pupil  to  earn  his  bread  with,  or  better, 
without,  the  sweat  of  his  brow.  Here 
too  the  conservative  respects  the  force 
by  which  he  is  dispossessed.  The  de- 
mand that  education  shall  serve  the 
common  need  seems  to  him  a  natural 
impulse  of  elementary  justice,  fortun- 
ate, inevitable,  requiring  only  a  provi- 
dent and  discreet  guidance.  He  knows 
the  common  need  better  than  the  dic- 
tator of  the  present,  the  practical  man, 
appreciates  the  more  elusive  values  of 
the  humanities. 

To  Demos,  under  the  pressure  of 
his  hungry  generations,  the  scholar 
often  seems  the  devotee  of  an  obsolete 


780 


*  CLASSICAL  RECOLLECTIONS' 


archaism  and  of  effete  cultivations, 
repository  of  sterile,  old-world  imprac- 
ticalities,  with  whom  there  can  be  no 
productive  issue.  Discussion  has  grown 
with  time  more  urbane  on  all  subjects. 
Diomed  no  longer  hurls  his  ashen  spear 
into  the  side  of  Deiphobus.  But  the 
classical  scholar,  wrestling  for  a  foot- 
hold in  the  secondary  school,  is  likely  to 
hear  under  some  courteous  disguise  the 
time-honored  charge,  apt  for  the  settle- 
ment of  all  radical  differences,  'Thou 
art  not  fit  to  hear  thyself  convinced/ 
To  this  unsatisfactory  but  irrefutable 
argument  there  is  never  a  ready  answer. 
The  pleader  for  Greek  must  prove  his 
fitness  more  humanly  than  by  a  revised 
dialectic. 

There  is  now  and  then  a  promising 
bit  of  inconsistency  in  our  school  sys- 
tem, for  whatever  is  Greek  save  the  lan- 
guage is  still  preserved  with  solicitude. 
The  boy  is  driven  to  learn  the  history 
of  Athens  and  Sparta,  although  our 
courses  curtail  the  history  curriculum 
more  and  more  in  many  an  otherwise 
strong  school.  Our  colleges  admit  — 
let  us  be  frank  —  throngs  of  intelligent 
pupils  who  do  not  know  the  difference 
between  a  Saxon  and  a  Norman  and 
have  heard  but  the  name  of  Magna 
Charta.  But  the  high-school  graduate 
is  familiar  with  the  tale  of  Leonidas 
and  has  probably  less  difficulty  than 
Darius  the  King  to  *  remember  the 
Athenians.' 

Greek  art  too  is  placed  in  the  boy's 
way,  with  the  hope  that  he  may  chance 
to  notice  it.  As  he  proceeds  along  the 
corridor  in  these  days  of  ardent  school 
decoration,  he  goes  between  a  double 
row  of  masterpieces  which  the  world  has 
still  no  mind  to  lose.  High  under  the 
cornice  the  Parthenon  horses  prance  in 
a  procession  of  hoofless  glory.  In  the 
distance  looms  up  an  armless  Venus. 
Above  the  window  headless  Nik6  for- 
ever tries  in  vain  to  unfasten  her  sandal. 
Sometimes  the  boy  notes  the  maimed 


deities  as  he  passes;  but  frankly  I  sup- 
pose he  would  prefer  statues  of  a  race 
less  august  but  with  all  their  members 
intact.  These  things  appear  acceptable 
to  the  educated,  but  for  the  most  part, 
in  his  opinion,  they  are  *  antiquities 
which  nobody  can  know/  Yet  we  in- 
sist that  he  shall  know  them. 

And  in  the  grown-up  world  of  cul- 
ture the  pulse  of  Hellenic  blood  still 
beats  high.  Here  too  the  zest  persists 
for  all  things  Greek  except  the  language. 
The  lecture  halls  of  notable  classic 
scholars  are  thronged  as  promptly  as 
ever.  Archaeology,  once  fearfully  re- 
garded by  the  vulgar  as  a  science  of  dry 
bones  for  the  strictly  academic,  makes 
yearly  a  more  engaging  appeal  to  com- 
mon man.  Of  books  of  travel  in  Greece 
there  is  no  end,  for  the  ever-pressing 
vanguard  of  the  tourist  hordes,  finding 
stale  its  historic  stamping-ground  of 
westen  Europe,  long  since  advanced  its 
frontier  and  is  pushing  in  always  larger 
numbers  eastward  into  the  far  JEgean 
seas. 

Yes,  the  next  generation  will  look 
more  familiarly,  if  more  profanely,  than 
ourselves  on  the  ruined  temples  which 
stand  for  our  reverence  under  the  old 
Greek  sky.  They  will  step  more  boldly 
across  the  threshold  of  the  gods,  loiter 
at  their  ease  in  the  pillared  porticoes, 
and  wander  at  will  among  the  dese- 
crated shrines.  They  too  will  love  the 
yellowed  softness  of  the  weathered 
fanes  standing  in  the  curve  of  many  a 
round  shore  or  rising  in  golden  hill-top 
light  against  the  live  blue  of  the  south- 
ern sky.  These  are  beautiful  things 
which  have  not  yet  passed  away  to 
Persephone.  They  will  find  at  Athens 
or  at  Paestum  or  at  Girgenti  a  present 
loveliness  and  a  fair  symbolism  of  de- 
parted days.  But  one  joy  they  will  lack, 
though  they  praise  the  gods  with  sin- 
cerity and  venerate  duly  the  classic 
shrines.  They  will  not  have  what  Ma- 
caulay,  supposing  that  he  referred  to 


OUR  'CLASSICAL  RECOLLECTIONS' 


781 


a  universal  and  enduring  experience, 
called  'our  dear  classical  recollections.' 
Our  children  will  not  have  heard  in  old 
school  days  Zeus  and  Athena  speaking 
their  own  tongue  in  the  clear  temple  of 
Hellenic  story,  —  a  temple  big  enough 
to  celebrate  'heaven  and  ocean  and 
air  and  the  imperishable  race  of  [all 
the  blessed  gods.' 


II 

Dear  classical  recollections  —  al- 
ready the  phrase  has  a  quaint  ring!  But 
we  who  have  them  still  bear  witness 
that  they  are  precious,  and  we  think 
that  our  witness  is  true.  At  least  our 
testimony  is  not  invalid  through  the 
prejudice  of  our  erudition;  for  we  who 
now  dare  wish  the  survival  of  our  herit- 
age for  the  coming  generations  are  not 
the  classical  scholars. 

We  are  the  neglectful  who  have  passed 
for  the  most  part  to  other  affairs,  and, 
to  speak  honestly,  we  have  forgotten 
that  Greek '  which  we  so  much  do  vaunt 
but  nowhere  show.'  The  grimy  old 
books  were  long  ago  relegated  to  the 
bottom  shelf,  and  above  them  has  arisen 
tier  on  tier  the  library  of  our  subse- 
quent fast-slipping  interests.  Anacreon 
long  since  made  place  for  Herrick,  Lu- 
cian  for  Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  Euripides 
for  Ibsen.  Fair-armed  Nausicaa  has 
faded  before  the  vision  of  Beatrice, 
and  Cuchulain  one  day  cut  the  ground 
from  under  Achilles  by  a  single  stroke. 
The  little  red  dictionary  in  the  corner  is 
dusted  no  oftener  than  the  obduracies 
of  housekeeping  demand;  ^Eschylus, 
crowned  not  only  on  earth  but  in  Hades, 
is  growing  as  Greek  to  us  as  the  conver- 
sation of  Cicero  sounded  to  Casca;  even 
the  pet  anthology,  once  lightly  familiar, 
'though  much  worn,  is  therein  little 
read.' 

The  Iliad  still  opens  to  the  Trojan 
walls  where  heaven-born  Helen  passes 
like  to  one  of  the  immortal  goddesses 


among  the  aged  men,  or  to  the  grim  con- 
test where  the  soul  of  Hector,  defender 
of  Trojans,  is  driven  from  the  body, 
lamenting  its  bloom  and  its  youth. 
But  the  pictures  flash  no  longer  from 
the  words,  only  gleam  out  dimly  at  the 
sound  suggestion  of  the  noble  verse. 
Without  the  little  red  dictionary  we 
could  hardly  construe  a  line  of  Homer 
or  chat  with  dear  old  Herodotus  on  the 
insufferable  presumption  of  the  Per- 
sians. If  we  would  render  a  chorus  of 
the  'Agamemnon,'  we  must  invent  the 
metre  for  ourselves,  and  our  interpre- 
tation of  Pindar  must  be,  like  Pindar 
himself  to  Cowley,  'a  vast  species 
alone.* 

And  yet  in  a  most  unscholarly  fashion 
the  Hellenic  world  has  remained,  even 
for  us,  a  memory  clean  and  potent  of 
great  old  things  cool  and  fresh,  of  clear 
simplicities  and  single  passions,  of  liv- 
ing grace  and  abundant  life.  We  stood 
long  ago  as  suppliants  to  the  blessed 
gods,  the  Lord  of  the  Silver  Bow,  and 
Dictynna  of  the  Mountains,  and  that 
god  'wonderful  by  night,  leader  in  the 
dance  of  the  fire-breathing  stars,'  and 
to  'Earth  the  mother  of  all.'  We  have 
been  at  the  service  of  Bacchus,  in  no 
operatic  orgy,  but  with  Euripides  in  the 
midnight  wood,  while  the  crackle  of 
satyr  and  maenad  sounded  nigh  in  the 
thicket,  and  we  heard  the  very  cry  of 
joy  when  the  ruddy  god,  the  son  of 
Semele,  was  born.  We  have  rested  in 
an  authentic  Arcadia,  no  fancy  land  of 
coral  clasps  and  amber  studs,  not  in 
court  guise  or  ribboned  masquerade  or 
wailing  a  mournful  threnody  in  the 
funeral  train  of  some  northern  Thyrsis 
or  Lycidas.  But  in  a  sunny  Arcadia  of 
the  living  we  have  seen  the  fattening 
of  the  two-year  kid,  have  drunk  pure 
milk  from  a  basin  round  and  shapely, 
have  heard  the  pipes  under  a  Sicilian 
sun,  and  watched  below  the  shifting 
trace  of  level  wind  on  a  blue  Sicilian 
sea.  We  have  been  in  Cloud-Cuckoo- 


782 


OUR   *  CLASSICAL  RECOLLECTIONS' 


Land  and  heard  in  the  lilt  of  perfect 
anapests  the  primal  twittering  of  birds 
on  creation  day,  and  believed  for  truth 
the  word  of  the  old  poet  that  'the 
Graces,  seeking  for  a  support  to  which 
they  might  cling  and  not  fall,  found  the 
soul  of  Aristophanes.'  And  I,  for  one, 
have  waited  in  the  Vatican  before  the 
Far-Darter,  careless  that  it  is  no  longer 
permissible  to  adore  Apollo  Belvidere, 
and  have  addressed  to  him  as  a  rea- 
sonable service  the  right  invocation  in 
his  own  language. 

Our  children  will  not  quote  Greek, 
but  they  can  have  their  fill  of  transla- 
tion. Indeed  the  ubiquity  of  cheap  Eng- 
lish versions  is  a  satisfactorily  commer- 
cial proof  that  the  compulsion  of  the 
Greek  spirit  remains  with  us.  But  for 
all  cosmopolitan  tongues  save  the  Greek 
it  is  an  accepted  platitude  that  poetry 
which  has  suffered  a  transmigration  of 
language  is  quenched  of  its  flavor  like 
wine  which  has  crossed  the  sea.  Never 
are  we  asked  to  test  the  noble  Prologue 
of  Faust,  unless  we  are  strong  enough 
to  hear  the  morning  stars  and  all  the 
works  of  nature  singing  together  in 
stout  German.  We  do  not  presume  to 
seek  the  ineffable  vision  of  Dante  with- 
out the  support  of  the  *  fine  style  which 
does  him  honor.'  Nor  can  we  touch 
the  secrets  of  our  own  poets  with- 
out the  interpretation  of  their  native 
melodies. 

Chaucer,  spirit  of  intimate  cheer,  we 
may  not  know  without  the  full-voweled 
richness  of  his  easy  music;  nor  Milton, 
the  *  mighty-mouthed  inventor  of  har- 
monies,' without  his  harmony;  nor  can 
we  travel  the  high-rambling  ways  of 
the  Faerie  Queene,  if  we  have  not  leisure 
for  Spenser's  majestic  pace.  How,  then, 
is  the  gold  become  dimmed,  how  is  the 
most  pure  gold  changed,  if  we  seek  to 
enter  too  cheaply  the  thesaurus  of  clas- 
sic riches,  to  understand  the  priceless 
values  of  the  Greek  inspiration,  igno- 
rant of  the  language  which  has  given  to 


our  own  the  sacred  words  'poet'  and 
*  melody,'  and  has  taught  us  that  'en- 
thusiasm' is  divine,  for  'a  god  is  in  it.' 
Ours  is  but  lip-service  to  that  god,  if  we 
allow  to  dwindle  into  far-off  spaces  the 
true  sound  of  Prometheus's  immense 
invocation,  or  lose  the  veritable  echo 
of  the  great  *  song  which  saved  at 
Salamis.' 

There  will  not  be  another  revival  of 
Greek  learning  so  confiding  as  the  old, 
when  '  the  ancient  tongues  were  to  their 
pristine  purity  restored.'  Never  again 
will  the  Greek  letters  carry  so  vener- 
able a  meaning  as  in  the  early  Renais- 
sance days  when,  their  significance 
guessed  only  by  a  few,  they  seemed  oc- 
cult and  fraught  with  marvel,  potential 
of  hoarded  life  and  unsuspected  grace, 
master- words  yet  to  be  spelled,  able  per- 
chance to  call  to  flesh  again  the  grand 
and  careless  divinities  of  the  elder  days. 
Nor  can  Greek  be  to  us,  or  to  our  child- 
ren, the  entrance-talisman  to  a  brave 
new  world  of  indisputable  thought, 
unexplored  country  of  unquestioned 
wisdom  and  reliable  truth,  abundant 
for  the  instruction  of  the  nations.  Cen- 
turies of  scholars  have  explored  that 
country,  and  the  instruction  of  the  na- 
tions is  by  no  means  complete.  Besides, 
our  generation  hears  of  its  unexplored 
countries  from  the  complex  challenge 
of  the  present,  finds  for  its  curiosity 
and  intellectual  devotion  a  richness  of 
perplexity  and  unmeasured  compass  of 
inquiry  not  imaginable  to  the  Greeks. 
The  wholesale  absorption  of  our  master 
minds  in  the  minutiae  of  classic  scholar- 
ship, already  finely  chopped  through 
the  ages,  is  rightly  and  luckily  unthink- 
able. 

But  to  preserve  within  easy  reach 
the  mother  tongue  of  our  culture  inher- 
itance is  but  to  safeguard  an  essential 
element  of  our  present.  We  have  learned 
in  larger  matters  to  distrust  new  orders 
which  displace  the  past  in  wholesale 
rejection  of  experience;  for  in  more 


OUR   *  CLASSICAL  RECOLLECTIONS' 


783 


ways  than  one  the  world  is  proved  *  wise, 
being  very  old.'  We  must,  to  be  sure, 
plead  for  our  conservatisms  with  quali- 
fied insistence.  We  must  not  press  our 
claims  too  loudly,  or  champion  our 
cause  with  disproportionate  affection. 
We  shall  not  impose  the  humanities 
upon  the  unwilling  and  the  unready.  Jf 
the  growing  generation  asks  the  means 
of  bread,  we  shall  not  cry  out  upon 
*  blind  mouths'  and  ordain  a  forcible 
feeding  of  Greek.  But  to  urge  that 
Greek  be  restored  to  reasonable  acces- 
sibility is  not  to  make  a  sentimental 
claim  upon  the  public  purse.  After 
all,  we  do  not  champion  our  classical 
recollections  in  stiff  attachment  to 
the  clustered  associations  of  school- 
days, nor  in  too  rigid  a  loyalty  to  the 
wholesome  classic  training.  But  with 
opposition  our  regret  has  turned  to  full 
persuasion  that  a  distinct  proportion 
of  Greek  must  be  guaranteed  to  pop- 
ular education,  if  we  are  to  insure  the 
continued  efficiency  of  English  literary 
scholarship  or  save  a  necessary  stand- 
ard for  the  full  enlightenment  and  dis- 
cipline of  the  English  literary  genius. 
In  America  at  least  there  is  needed 
some  modest  revival  of  Greek  learning, 
without  which  in  more  illiterate  times 
a  man  *  might  be  ashamed  to  count 
himself  a  scholar.' 


in 

To  call  one's  self  a  scholar  requires 
to-day  perhaps  more  than  ever  the  gift 
of  tongues;  for  this  is  the  generation 
of  those  who  seek  '  comparative  litera- 
ture,' no  longer  kept  a  mystery  for  the 
inner  circle  of  the  initiate,  but  offered 
freely  by  open  invitation.  The  critical 
school  of  judicial  and  oracular  pro- 
nouncement is  in  its  grave;  luckily  it 
cannot  come  out  of  it.  Even  the  cult 
of  the  personal  *  appreciation,'  though 
we  may  trust  its  permanency,  can  no 
longer  shut  itself  in  the  private  cham- 


bers of  its  imagery  to  spin  its  web.  Our 
more  immediate  zeal  is  to  seek  out  the 
hidden  sources  of  literary  impulse,  to 
trace  through  the  ages  the  continuous 
action  and  reaction  of  one  country 
upon  another,  anxious  in  a  cordial  spirit 
of  cousinship  to  claim  all  our  inter- 
national relations.  This  zest  for  the 
community  of  literary  material  has 
been  good  for  us.  It  has  served  to  fresh- 
en with  a  new  significance  the  old  habit 
of  specialized  investigation,  to  clear  the 
overgrown  channels  of  research,  to  sub- 
due the  chaos  of  historical  variety  to  a 
system  of  intersecting  lines,  to  reveal 
below  the  swirl  of  local  detail  a  sim- 
plicity of  advance.  It  has  humanized 
us  besides  to  transcend  even  a  little  our 
provincialism,  to  find  a  home-felt  plea- 
sure at  each  new  proof  of  the  universal 
kinship. 

But  in  our  new  ardor  for  a  cosmopoli- 
tan scope  of  study  we  may  need  to  guard 
more  carefully  against  the  large  danger 
of  the  little  learning.  In  our  modern 
world  thus  frankly  addicted  to  *  genea- 
logical criticism '  we  must  know  the  lan- 
guages of  the  genealogy.  The  populari- 
zation of  comparative  literature  can 
easily  enfeeble  the  grip  and  slacken  the 
judgment  if  it  is  undertaken  without 
the  necessary  rigors,  in  sluggish  ac- 
ceptance of  pre-digested  manna.  With- 
out the  languages  to  serve  our  individ- 
ual turn,  we  cannot  know  in  miniature 
the  experience  of  the  pioneer  scholar, 
or  take  honest  satisfaction  in  the  dis- 
covery of  *a  poor  thing*  but  our  own. 
And  as  we  cannot  with  any  perspicacity 
compare  literatures  seen  darkly  through 
the  glass  of  translation,  so  we  cannot 
compare  their  genealogies  in  ignorance 
of  their  beginnings,  if  anything  has  a 
beginning.  We  cannot  return  in  seri- 
ousness to  these  beginnings  and  forget 
that,  if  Latin  has  contributed  more 
of  its  body  to  the  modern  tongues, 
Greek  has  given  a  finer  service  of  its 
spirit. 


784 


OUR  ' CLASSICAL  RECOLLECTIONS* 


And  the  English  genius,  unconfined 
and  fancy-free  as  it  has  liked  at  times 
to  think  itself,  still  needs,  we  may 
suppose,  for  its  perpetual  correction 
the  ripe  understanding  of  classic  re- 
straint. Ours  is  the  tradition  of  liberty 
in  artistic  method,  of  vigorous  exub- 
erances and  inspired  variations.  And 
surely  we  have  indulged  our  native 
willfulness  not  blindly  but  in  sound  in- 
stinct. The  independence  of  the  Eng- 
lish nature  has  been  its  condition  of 
fertile  and  healthy  production;  the  rich 
field  of  English  letters  would  have 
yielded  a  less  generous  growth  if  it  had 
not  often  outsprouted  attempts  at  arti- 
ficial clipping.  But  our  unfettered  ener- 
gies may  easily  become  'outrageosities' 
if  we  fail  to  keep  for  reference  the  can- 
ons of  Hellenic  classicism.  And  per- 
haps we  shall  indulge  our  vagaries  less 
unfalteringly,  if  the  classic  ideal  does 
not  remain  a  steadfast  witness  to  the 
eternal  rectitude  of  structure,  absolute 
and  immutable  behind  all  the  lively 
shifts  of  experimentalism. 

Ours,  we  are  told  besides,  is  the  liter- 
ature of  the  personal  and  the  particular. 
Ever  since  Chaucer  went  on  pilgrimage 
to  Canterbury,  it  has  continued  to  mar- 
shal sundry  folks  each  different  in  soul 
and  feature  from  every  other.  'Here 
she  was  wont  to  go,  and  here,  and  here/ 
sang  the  English  shepherd;  and  whoso 
follows  the  footsteps  of  the  English 
muse  follows  a  path  lined  with  special 
trees  and  bordered  by  the  local  way- 
side flower.  And  our  zest  for  the  sig- 
nificant detail  has  served  its  function  in 
the  development  of  the  world's  letters. 
Literary  evolution,  at  least,  if  it  is  to 
be  '  careful  of  the  type/  can  never  be 
*  careless  of  the  single  life.'  But  we 
shall  create  our  individuals  and  our 
singularities  with  less  conviction,  if  the 
touchstone  of  the  catholic  and  the  uni- 
versal is  not  kept  in  the  singleness  of 
Greek  genius. 

For  a  century  and  more  we  have 


often  been,  like  the  rest  of  the  world, 
voluble  and  inclined  to  confidence. 
Modern  personality,  zealous  to  search 
its  inmost  recesses,  has  not  scrupled  to 
handle  the  intimacies  with  familiarity 
and  to  give  up  its  secret  sins  and  re- 
vered privacies.  And  as  we  face  the 
broader  human  interests,  we  do  not 
grow  less  talkative;  rather  we  become 
more  eager  to  express  the  utmost  of 
the  personal  thought  and  experience  for 
the  enrichment  of  the  common  destiny. 
Upon  us  presses  the  demand  for  the 
broader  personality;  around  us  throng 
the  claims  of  the  universal  problems, 
asking  practical  and  theoretical  solu- 
tion. Here  too  the  responsibility  which 
so  easily  besets  us  is,  we  hope,  obedient 
to  a  normal  right.  Long  ago  in  the  old 
romance,  Sir  Percival,  perversely  silent 
before  the  procession  of  the  Grail  mys- 
teries, taught  the  lesson  that  man*s  last- 
ing duty  in  the  presence  of  perplexing 
mysteries  is  to  question  their  mean- 
ing. The  modern  world  cannot  ask  its 
multifarious  questions  in  silence.  It 
must  continue  the  ever-deepening  mur- 
mur of  query  and  tentative  reply.  We 
shall  wait  long  before  reticence  will 
become  for  us  a  dominant  literary  note. 
Perhaps  it  may  never  rightly  become 
so.  But  in  tired  hours  we  shall  still  do 
wisely  now  and  then,  if  we  return  for  a 
little  to  the  dignified  Greek  world  of 
noble  withdrawal  and  controlled  stress, 
strong  with  the  power  of  abundant 
.reserve. 

And  perhaps  as  we  pass  further  from 
the  repose  of  the  classic  spirit,  we  may 
but  need  it  the  more.  Perhaps  the  po- 
etry of  the  next  generation ,  if  it  reaches 
out  with  more  assurance  in  significant 
choice  of  the  democratic  and  common 
subject;  if,  groping  still  toward  the  ex- 
pression of  the  common  need,  it  rejects 
with  more  resolution  the  poetic  diction 
even  of  the  present  day  for  the  dialect 
of  the  ignorant  and  the  vulgar,  may  re- 
quire more  than  ever  the  reminder  that 


OUR  *  CLASSICAL  RECOLLECTIONS' 


785 


sympathy  of  heart  takes  no  necessary 
issue  with  serenity  and  dignity  of  tone. 
Certainly  we  shall  need  all  the  classical 
reminders  we  can  get  in  many-blooded 
America,  which  claims  as  its  privilege 
to-day  in  its  taste  for  literary  form,  — 
as  it  claimed  of  old  for  its  tenets 
political  and  religious,  —  'the  dissi- 
dence  of  dissent.' 


rv 

Perhaps  our  hope  is  not  *  blind.'  If 
Greek  is  to  remain  an  everlasting  sign 
of  high  consistencies  and  fine  reserves, 
we  must  turn  with  a  more  loyal  and 
comprehending  trust  to  the  public  high 
school,  the  guardian  of  our  coming  cul- 
ture. If  we  respect  patiently  and  faith- 
fully enough  its  generous  ideal  and  far 
discernment,  it  may  yet  restore  to  the 
children  who  come  after  us  the  chance 
for  'dear  classical  recollections.'  For 
the  public  high  school,  though  tor- 
mented by  a  multitude  of  conflicting 
necessities,  hampered  by  the  intrusion 
of  contradictory  criticism,  bewildered 
in  its  responsibility  like  the  conscienti- 
ous man  in  the  fable,  possessed  of  both 
a  boy  and  a  donkey,  yet  exists  only  to 
meet  the  composite  need  of  the  whole 
people,  if  anybody  could  have  the  as- 
tuteness to  apprehend  the  nature  of 
that  need. 

We  must  temperately  bide  our  time 
till  a  more  generous  subsidy  of  public 
education  shall  be  commonly  recogniz- 
ed as  the  best  patriotic  investment.  We 
must  wait- till  the  captivity  of  the  sec- 
ondary school-teacher  is  turned  by  a 
sufficiency  of  competent  help  to  free 
and  adequate  service.  We  must  not  lay 
Greek  as  a  last  straw  upon  her  devoted 
back,  already  weighted  with  a  load 
which  would  tax  miraculous  virtue. 
We  must  wait  in  patience  besides  till, 
at  whatever  lavishness  of  experimental 
waste,  we  have  met  with  a  more  prac- 
tical intelligence  the  necessity  of  the 

VOL.  114  -  NO.  6 


laboring  world  for  efficient  vocational 
preparation.  Daily  are  we  surer  that 
if  man  cannot  live  by  bread  alone,  he 
is  not  likely  to  live  without  it  in  any 
way  creditable  to  civilization. 

But  already  in  our  well-intentioned 
doubling  of  courses  and  differentia- 
tion of  systems  we  may  be  in  danger 
of  cutting  the  class  chasm,  too  wide. 
The  boy,  even  of  the  industrial  school, 
has  the  right  to  know  that  the  things 
of  culture  exist,  that  they  are  excel- 
lent and  are  unforbidden.  Life  long 
ago  published  a  capital  cartoon.  On 
the  pictured  bottom  of  the  sea  lay  an 
open  chest  stored  with  gold  enough  to 
stock  several  Treasure  Islands.  Near 
by  lingered  two  shrewd  young  fishes. 
'Come  along,'  said  one.  'You  won't 
find  any  worms  there.'  And  the  gold 
lay,  we  suppose,  untouched,  thereafter 
to  be  unregarded.  It  is  not  the  least 
privilege  of  the  high  school  to  teach 
broadcast  the  gospel  that  there  are 
other  things  than  worms,  to  proclaim 
and  reveal  the  preciousness  of  the 
world's  fine  gold,  and  to  keep  open  the 
approach  to  all  treasures  of  learning  for 
those  whose  happier  lot  or  more  aspir- 
ing energy  allows  the  longer  search  in 
college  years. 

The  common  cause  of  service  for  col- 
lege and  secondary  school  will  appear  in 
truer  proportion  when  their  veiled  bel- 
ligerency ceases  for  good.  Perhaps  the 
college  must  learn  first  and  most.  Con- 
descension once  discarded,  it  will  com- 
prehend better  the  baffling  problem  of 
the  secondary  system,  with  its  double 
function:  to  perform  reliably  its  trust 
toward  the  chosen  people  destined  for 
academic  enlightenment,  and  still  to 
honor  first  its  great  mission  to  the  Gen- 
tiles of  the  less  fortunate  public.  It  may 
relieve  tension  by  a  timely  decision,  — 
no  vague  broadening  in  the  scope  of  re- 
quirements, but  rather  a  united  empha- 
sis upon  intensive  precision,  —  that 
would  be  at  once  the  strongest  sup- 


786 


OUR   ' CLASSICAL  RECOLLECTIONS' 


port  to  the  secondary  school  and  its 
own  surest  safeguard  of  adequate  pre- 
paration. 

In  turn  the  secondary  school  may  with 
grateful  good-fellowship  reach  in  less 
anxious  times  a  more  liberal  interpre- 
tation of  its  calling.  It  may  serve  with 
a  gladder  response  the  interest  of  high- 
er education,  freed  from  the  check  of 
a  too  rigidly  enforced  economy,  un- 
chafed  by  the  irritation  of  inconsider- 
ate censure,  able  at  last  to  indulge  a 
little  that  heartening  devotion  to  pure 
scholarship  without  which  secondary 
education  becomes  the  sorriest  of  mod- 
ern sights.  If  the  full  culture  of  our 
nation  demand  the  maintenance  of  an 
unpopular  subject  wanted  by  few  seek- 
ers, even  if  that  subject  be  Greek,  the 
high  school  will  maintain  it.  It  will  at 
some  cost,  at  some  sacrifice  of  utilita- 
rian frugality,  secure  td  the  college  this 
part  of  its  complete  faculty,  wise  to 
know  that  even  in  education  the  best 
economy  is  sometimes  to  choose  an  ul- 
timate or  even  an  unseen  value.  Yet 
again  perhaps  shall  Greek  live  on  the 
lips. 

And  indeed,  if  we  are  wrong,  if  the 
stimulus  of  Greek  is  to  be  eliminated 


from  the  common  suggestion  of  heart 
and  thought,  the  neglect  will  be  due  in 
part  to  its  past  sufficiency,  —  so  intrin- 
sically has  it  modified  the  direction  of 
our  growth.  For  of  other  gods  than 
Brahma  it  might  rightly  be  written, 
*  When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings.'  If 
we  can  do  without  Greek,  we  can  only 
think  that  its  services  have  been  'so 
splendid  that  they  are  no  longer  neces- 
sary.' 

But  that  we  shall  long  forego  direct 
contact  with  this  essential  gift  from  the 
world's  great  past,  the  mind  which  has 
faith  in  the  steadiness  of  our  racial 
progress  cannot  believe.  Still  must  the 
modern  world  give  tribute  of  earth  and 
water  to  the  old.  'The  ancient  melodies 
have  ceased,'  and  the  'fair  nine'  are 
become  wanderers  on  the  earth.  But 
though  attempts  have  been  made  to 
supersede  them,  though  a  Heavenly 
Muse  has  even  sat  upon  Mount  Sinai, 
though  we  may  live  to  see  the  cult  of 
muses  most  unclassical,  when  new  ways 
prove  hard  and  new  fountains  dry,  we 
shall  return  gladly  and  not  hi  vain  to 
the  old  invocation :  — 

Hereth,  that  on  Parnasso  dwelle, 
By  Elicon,  the  clere  welle! 


THE  ROAD  TO  DIEPPE 

BY   JOHN   FINLEY 

[Concerning  the  experiences  of  a  journey  on  foot  through  the  night  of  August  4, 
1914  (the  night  after  the  formal  declaration  of  war  between  England  and  Ger- 
many), from  a  town  near  Amiens,  in  France,  to  Dieppe,  a  distance  of  somewhat 
more  than  forty  miles.] 

BEFORE  I  knew,  the  Dawn  was  on  the  road, 
Close  at  my  side,  so  silently  he  came 
Nor  gave  a  sign  of  salutation,  save 
To  touch  with  light  my  sleeve  and  make  the  way 
Appear  as  if  a  shining  countenance 
Had  looked  on  it.  Strange  was  this  radiant  Youth, 
As  I,  to  these  fair,  fertile  parts  of  France, 
Where  Csesar  with  his  legions  once  had  passed, 
And  where  the  Kaiser's  Uhlans  yet  would  pass 
Or  e'er  another  moon  should  cope  with  clouds 
For  mastery  of  these  same  fields.  —  To-night 
(And  but  a  month  has  gone  since  I  walked  there) 
Well  might  the  Kaiser  write,  as  Caesar  wrote, 
In  his  new  Commentaries  on  a  Gallic  war, 
•   'Fortissimi  Belgce.'  —  A  moon  ago! 

Who  would  have  then  divined  that  dead  would  lie 
Like  swaths  of  grain  beneath  the  harvest  moon 
Upon  these  lands  the  ancient  Belgae  held, 
From  Normandy  beyond  renowned  Liege!  — 

But  it  was  out  of  that  dread  August  night 
From  which  all  Europe  woke  to  war,  that  we, 
This  beautiful  Dawn- Youth,  and  I,  had  come, 
He  from  afar.   Beyond  grim  Petrograd 
He'd  waked  the  moujik  from  his  peaceful  dreams, 
Bid  the  muezzin  call  to  morning  prayer 


788  THE  ROAD  TO  DIEPPE 

Where  minarets  rise  o'er  the  Golden  Horn, 
And  driven  shadows  from  the  Prussian  march 
To  lie  beneath  the  lindens  of  the  stadt. 
Softly  he'd  stirred  the  bells  to  ring  at  Rheims, 
He'd  knocked  at  high  Montmartre,  hardly  asleep, 
Heard  the  sweet  carillon  of  doomed  Louvain, 
Boylike,  had  tarried  for  a  moment's  play 
Amid  the  traceries  of  Amiens, 
And  then  was  hast'ning  on  the  road  to  Dieppe, 
When  he  o'ertook  me  drowsy  from  the  hours 
Through  which  I  'd  walked,  with  no  companions  else 
Than  ghostly  kilometer  posts  that  stood 
As  sentinels  of  space  along  the  way.  — 
Often,  in  doubt,  I  'd  paused  to  question  one, 
With  nervous  hands,  as  they  who  read  Moon-type; 
And  more  than  once  I  'd  caught  a  moment's  sleep 
Beside  the  highway,  in  the  dripping  grass, 
While  one  of  these  white  sentinels  stood  guard, 
Knowing  me  for  a  friend,  who  loves  the  road, 
And  best  of  all  by  night,  when  wheels  do  sleep 
And  stars  alone  do  walk  abroad.  —  But  once 
Three  watchful  shadows,  deeper  than  the  dark, 
Laid  hands  on  me  and  searched  me  for  the  marks 
Of  traitor  or  of  spy,  only  to  find 
Over  my  heart  the  badge  of  loyalty.  — 
With  wish  for  bon  voyage  they  gave  me  o'er 
To  the  white  guards  who  led  me  on  again. 

Thus  Dawn  o'ertook  me  and  with  magic  speech 
Made  me  forget  the  night  as  we  strode  on. 
Where'er  he  looked  a  miracle  was  wrought: 
A  tree  grew  from  the  darkness  at  a  glance; 
A  hut  was  thatched;  a  new  chateau  was  reared 
Of  stone,  as  weathered  as  the  church  at  Caen; 
Gray  blooms  were  colored  suddenly  in  red; 
A  flag  was  flung  across  the  eastern  sky,  -— 


THE  ROAD  TO  DIEPPE  789 

Nearer  at  hand,  he  made  me  then  aware 
Of  peasant  women  bending  in  the  fields, 
Cradling  and  gleaning  by  the  first  scant  light, 
Their  sons  and  husbands  somewhere  o'er  the  edge 
Of  these  green-golden  fields  which  they  had  sowed, 
But  will  not  reap,  —  out  somewhere  on  the  march, 
God  but  knows  where  and  if  they  come  again. 
One  fallow  field  he  pointed  out  to  me 
Where  but  the  day  before  a  peasant  ploughed, 
Dreaming  of  next  year's  fruit,  and  there  his  plough 
Stood  now  mid-field,  his  horses  commandeered, 
A  monstrous  sable  crow  perched  on  the  beam. 

Before  I  knew,  the  Dawn  was  on  the  road, 
Far  from  my  side,  so  silently  he  went, 
Catching  his  golden  helmet  as  he  ran, 
And  hast'ning  on  along  the  dun  straight  way, 
Where  old  mens'  sabots  now  began  to  clack 
And  withered  women,  knitting,  led  their  cows, 
On,  on  to  call  the  men  of  Kitchener 
Down  to  their  coasts,  —  I  shouting  after  him : 
*O  Dawn,  would  you  had  let  the  world  sleep  on 
Till  all  its  armament  were  turned  to  rust, 
Nor  waked  it  to  this  day  of  hideous  hate, 

Of  man's  red  murder  and  of  woman's  woe!' 

/  \ 

Famished  and  lame,  I  came  at  last  to  Dieppe, 

But  Dawn  had  made  his  way  across  the  sea, 

9 

And,  as  I  climbed  with  heavy  feet  the  cliff, 
Was  even  then  upon  the  sky-built  towers 
Of  that  great  capital  where  nations  all, 
Teuton,  Italian,  Gallic,  English,  Slav, 
Forget  long  hates  in  one  consummate  faith. 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 


BY   CORNELIA   A.    P.    COMER 


*  RICHARD/  said  my  dad  about  a  week 
after  Commencement,  'life  is  real.  You 
have  had  your  education  and  your 
keep,  and  you're  a  pleasant  enough  lad 
around  the  house.  But  the  time  has 
come  to  see  what 's  in  you,  and  I  want 
you  to  begin  to  show  it  right  away. 
If  you  go  to  the  coast  with  the  fam- 
ily, it  will  mean  three  months  fool- 
ing around  with  the  yacht  and  the  cars 
and  a  bunch  of  pretty  girls.  There's 
nothing  in  that  for  you  any  longer.' 

Of  course,  this  rubbed  me  the  wrong 
way. 

'Now  you've  got  your  degree,  it's 
time  we  started  something  else.  You 
say  you  want  to  be  a  scholar  —  I  sup- 
pose that  means  a  college  professor. 
Of  course  scholarship  does  n't  pay,  but 
if  I  leave  you  a  few  good  bonds,  prob- 
ably you  can  clip  the  coupons  while  you 
last.  I  don't  insist  that  you  make 
money,  but  I  do  insist  that  you  work. 
My  son  must  be  able  to  lick  his  weight 
in  wild-cats,  whatever  job  he's  on.  Do 
you  get  me?' 

I  looked  out  of  the  window  and  nod- 
ded, somewhat  haughtily.  Of  course 
I  could  n't  explain  to  dad  the  mixture 
of  feelings  that  led  me  to  choose  schol- 
arship. For,  while  I  am  keen  on  phil- 
ology, and  really  do  love  the  classics 
so  that  my  spirit  seems  to  swim,  if  you 
know  what  I  mean,  in  the  atmosphere 
that  upheld  Horace  and  the  wise  Cicero 
of  De  Senectute,  I  also  thought  there 
was  money  enough  in  the  family  al- 
ready. Was  n't  it  a  good  thing  for  the 
Bonniwells  to  pay  tribute  to  the  hu- 
manities in  my  person?  Did  n't  we, 

790 


somehow,  owe  it  to  the  world  to  put 
back  in  culture  part  of  what  we  took 
out  in  cash?  But  how  could  I  get  that 
across  to  dad? 

He  looked  at  me  as  if  he,  too,  were 
trying  to  utter  something  difficult. 

'There  are  passions  of  the  head  as 
well  as  of  the  heart,'  he  said  finally.  I 
opened  my  eyes,  for  he  did  n't  often 
talk  in  such  fashion.  'The  old  Greeks 
knew  that.  I  always  supposed  a  schol- 
ar, a  teacher,  had  to  feel  that  way  if  he 
was  any  good,  —  that  it  was  the  mark 
of  his  calling.  Perhaps  you've  been 
called,  but,  if  so,  you  keep  it  pretty 
dark.' 

He  stopped  and  waited  for  an  appro- 
priate response,  but  I  just  could  n't 
get  it  out.  So  I  remarked,  'If  I'm  not 
on  the  boat  this  summer,  you'll  need 
another  man  when  you  cruise.' 

'That's  my  affair,'  said  he,  looking 
disappointed.  'Yours  will  be  to  hold 
down  your  job.  I  Ve  got  one  ready  for 
you.  If  you  don't  like  it,  you  can  get 
another.  We'll  see  about  a  Ph.D.  and 
Germany  later  on.  But  for  this  season, 
I  had  influence  enough  to  get  you  the 
summer  school  in  the  Jericho  district 
beyond  Garibaldi,  and  you  can  board 
with  Seth  Miles.' 

When  I  was  a  child,  before  we  moved 
to  Chicago,  we  lived  in  Oatesville,  at 
the  back  of  beyond.  Garibaldi  is  an 
Indiana  cross-roads  about  five  miles 
further  on  the  road  to  nowhere. 

'0  dad!' I  said,  but  I  put  everything 
I  thought  into  those  two  words. 

He  instantly  began  to  look  as  much 
like  the  heavy  father  on  the  stage  as 


SETH   MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 


791 


is  possible  to  a  spare  man  with  a  Ro- 
man nose.  So  I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

'Oh,  very  well!'  I  said.  'If  you  find 
me  a  fossil  in  the  fall,  pick  out  a  com- 
fortable museum  to  lend  me  to,  won't 
you?' 

'Richard/  said  my  dad,  'God  only 
knows  how  a  boy  should  be  dealt  with. 
I  don't.  If  I  could  only  tell  you  the 
things  I  know  so  you  would  believe 
them,  I  'd  set  a  match  to  half  my  for- 
tune this  minute.  I  want  you  to  touch 
life  somewhere,  but  I  don't  know  how 
to  work  it  in.  I'm  doing  this  in  sheer 
desperation.' 

I  could  see  he  meant  it,  too,  for  his 
eyes  were  shiny  and  the  little  drops 
came  out  on  his  forehead. 

'I  don't  happen  to  know  anybody 
fitter  than  old  Miles  to  inspire  a  scholar 
and  a  gentleman.  So,  if  the  summer 
does  n't  do  you  any  good,  it  can't  do 
you  any  harm.  I  shall  label  your  sea- 
son's work  Richard  Bonniwell,  Jr.  on 
His  Own  Hook.  Exhibit  A. — Don't 
forget  that.  Your  mother  and  I  may 
seem  to  be  in  Maine,  but  I  guess  in  our 
minds  we  '11  be  down  at  Jericho  school- 
house  looking  on,  most  of  the  time.' 

You'd  think  a  man  might  buck  up 
in  response  to  that,  would  n't  you? 
But  I  did  n't  particularly.  It  made  me 
feel  superior  toward  dad  because  he 
did  n't  know  any  better  than  to  ar- 
range such  a  summer,  thinking  it  would 
teach  me  anything.  I  suspected  this  in- 
dulgent attitude  of  mine  might  break 
down  later,  and  it  did. 

It  was  a  blazing  hot  summer  for  one 
thing.  One  of  those  occasional  sum- 
mers of  the  Middle  West  when  the  cat- 
tle pant  in  the  fields  and  the  blades  of 
corn  get  limp  on  their  stalks. 

Mr.  Miles,  who  was  a  benign  bach- 
elor, lived  in  a  brick  farmhouse  with 
one  long  wing,  and  a  furnace  of  which 
he  was  very  proud.  He  put  up  his  own 
ice,  too,  which  was  more  to  the  point  in 
July.  His  widowed  sister  kept  house  for 


him,  and,  if  the  meat  was  usually  tough, 
the  cream  and  vegetables  were  beyond 
praise.  He  owned  the  store  at  Gari- 
baldi as  well  as  this  large  farm,  so  he 
was  a  man  of  means,  and  important 
in  his  own  sphere.  To  look  at,  he  was 
rather  wonderful.  I  don't  know  how 
to  describe  him.  He  had  keen,  kind 
blue  eyes;  wavy,  white  hair;  strong, 
regular  features.  There  was  a  kind  of 
graciousness  and  distinction  about  him 
that  did  n't  fit  his  speech  and  dress.  It 
was  as  if  you  always  saw  the  man  he 
might  be  in  the  shadow  of  the  man  he 
was.  Put  him  into  evening  clothes  and 
take  away  his  vernacular,  and  he'd  be 
one  of  the  loveliest  old  patriarchs  you 
ever  met. 

The  school-house  was  brick,  too,  set 
back  from  the  road  in  a  field  of  hard- 
trodden  clay,  decorated  with  moth- 
eaten  patches  of  grass.  For  further 
adornment,  there  was  a  row  of  box- 
alders  out  in  front.  As  a  temple  of 
learning,  it  fell  short.  As  its  ministrant, 
I  did  the  same. 

There  were  forty  scholars:  squirmy, 
grimy  little  things  that  I  found  it  hard 
to  tell  apart  at  first.  I  knew  this  was  n't 
the  right  attitude,  but  how  could  I 
help  it?  I  had  never  tried  to  teach  any- 
body anything  before  in  my  life.  The 
bigger  girls  blushed  and  giggled;  the 
little  boys  made  faces  and  stuck  out 
their  tongues.  As  it  was  a  summer  ses- 
sion, there  were  no  big  boys  to  speak 
of. 

To  go  in  for  scholarship  does  n't  at 
all  imply  the  teacher's  gift  or  the  de- 
sire for  it.  At  Oxford,  you  know,  they 
are  a  bit  sniffy  about  the  lecturers  who 
arouse  enthusiasm.  Such  are  suspected 
of  being  '  popular '  and  that,  really,  is 
quite  awful.  Some  of  our  men  have  a 
similar  notion,  and,  no  doubt,  it  col- 
ored my  views.  Yet,  deep  down,  I 
knew  that  if  I  was  a  teacher,  it  was  up 
to  me  to  teach.  I  really  did  try,  but  it 
takes  time  to  get  the  hang  of  anything. 


792 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 


I  was  homesick,  too.  Mildred  and 
Millicent,  my  kid  sisters,  are  great  fun, 
and  the  house  is  full  of  young  people 
all  summer  long  at  home.  When  I  shut 
my  eyes  I  could  see  the  blue,  sparkling 
waters  of  the  inlet,  and  the  rocking  of 
our  float  with  its  line  of  gay  canoes. 

How  can  I  describe  the  rising  tide  of 
sick  disgust  at  my  surroundings  that 
began  to  flood  my  spirit?  Now  that 
it's  all  in  the  past,  I'd  like  to  think  it 
was  purely  my  liver,  —  I  did  n't  get 
enough  exercise,  really  I  did  n't,  for  it 
was  too  hot  to  walk  much,  —  but  per- 
haps part  of  it  was  just  bad  temper. 

You  see  —  it  takes  a  good  deal  of  a 
fellow  to  stand  such  a  complete  trans- 
planting. I  hated  the  paper  shades  in  my 
bedroom,  tied  up  with  a  cord,  and  the 
Nottingham  curtains,  and  the  springs 
that  sank  in  the  middle.  I  hated  the 
respectable  Brussels  carpet  in  the  best 
room,  and  the  red  rocking-chairs  on  the 
porch.  I  hated  the  hot,  sleepless  nights 
and  the  blazing,  drowsy  days. 

Oh,  I  tell  you,  I  had  a  glorious 
grouch! 

I  did  n't  exactly  hate  the  squirming 
children,  for  some  of  them  began  to 
show  signs  of  almost  human  intelligence 
after  they  got  used  to  me,  and  that  did 
win  me;  but  I  hated  that  little  school- 
room where  the  flies  buzzed  loudly  all 
day  long  on  the  streaky  panes.  With  a 
deadly  hatred  I  hated  it. 

I  got  to  feeling  very  badly  treated. 
What  did  my  father  suppose  such  com- 
monplace discomforts  were  going  to 
do  for  me?  What  part  had  a  summer 
like  this  in  the  life  and  work  that  were 
to  be  mine?  I  lost  that  comfortable 
little  feeling  of  advantage  over  life.  I 
mislaid  my  consciousness  of  the  silver 
spoon.  In  about  three  weeks  it  seemed 
as  if  I  'd  always  taught  summer-school 
at  Jericho,  and  might  have  to  keep  on. 

Oh,  well!  —  I  was  hot  and  sore.  Ev- 
erybody has  been  hot  and  sore  some 
time  or  other,  I  suppose.  The  minute 


description  can  be  omitted.  But  I 
don't  know  whether  everybody  with  a 
grievance  gets  so  badly  twisted  up  in 
it  as  I  do. 

These  emotions  reached  their  climax 
one  muggy,  sultry  July  day  as  I  plod- 
ded, moist  and  unhappy,  back  from  the 
school-house.  I  wiped  my  forehead, 
gritted  my  teeth,  and  vowed  I  would 
not  stand  the  whole  situation  another 
twenty-four  hours.  I  'd  resign  my  po- 
sition, wire  dad,  and  take  a  train  for 
somewhere  out  West  in  the  mountains. 
If  I  had  to  make  good  on  my  own 
hook  in  three  months,  I  'd  at  least  do  it 
in  a  cool  place,  at  work  of  my  selecting. 
The  challenged  party  ought  to  have 
the  choice  of  weapons. 

My  room  was  intolerably  stuffy,  so 
I  came  downstairs  reluctantly  and  sat 
on  the  front  steps.  There  was  a  wide 
outlook,  for  the  house  stood  on  a  ridge 
of  land  that  broke  the  flat  prairie  like 
a  great  welt.  Old  Miles  was  there, 
watching  a  heavy  cloud-bank  off  in  the 
southwest.  Those  clouds  had  been  fool- 
ing around  every  evening  for  a  week, 
but  nothing  ever  came  of  it.  The  longer 
the  drought,  the  harder  it  is  to  break. 

I  made  some  caustic  remark  about 
the  weather  as  I  sat  down.  Probably  I 
looked  cross  enough  to  bite  the  poker. 

Miles  looked  at  me  and  then  looked 
away  quickly,  as  if  it  really  was  n't  de- 
cent to  be  observing  a  fellow  in  such  a 
rage.  I  knew  the  look,  for  I  've  felt  that 
way  myself  about  other  men. 

'Yes,  bad  weather,'  he  said.  'When 
it  gets  too  hot  and  dry  for  corn,  it's 
too  hot  and  dry  for  folks.  And  then 
—  it  always  rains.  It'll  rain  to-night. 
You  wait  and  see.' 

I  mumbled  something  disparaging  to 
the  universe. 

'Richard!'  said  Mr.  Miles  suddenly 
and  strongly,  'I  know  what  ails  you. 
It  ain't  the  weather,  it's  your  teaching. 
You're  discouraged  because  you  can't 
make  'em  sense  things.  But  it  ain't 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 


793 


time  yet  for  you  to  get  discouraged.  I 
hate  to  see  it,  for  it  ain't  necessary/ 

This  made  me  feel  a  little  ashamed 
of  myself. 

'Did  you  ever  teach,  Mr.  Miles?'  I 
asked,  for  the  sake  of  seeming  civil. 

'Yes,  I  did.  So  I  know  there's  a  se- 
cret to  teachin'  you  prob'ly  ain't  got 
yet.  I  dunno  as  I  could  help  you  to  it. 
It  ain't  likely.  An'  yet  —  ' 

Unlikely  indeed!  I  thought.  Aloud, 
I  said  politely,  'I'd  be  glad  to  hear 
your  views.' 

'  I  know  what  you  feel ! '  he  said  with 
extraordinary  energy. '  My  Lord !  Don't 
I  know  what  you  feel?  You  want  to 
make  'em  sense  things  as  you  sense 
'em.  You  want  to  make  'em  work  as 
you  can  work.  You  won't  be  satisfied 
until  you've  given  'em  the  thirst  to 
know  and  the  means  of  knowing.  Yes, 
I  know  what  you  feel ! ' 

I  stared  at  him,  dumbfounded.  I 
knew  what  I  felt,  too,  but  it  was  n't 
much  like  this. 

'There  are  pictures  in  your  brain 
that  you  must  show  'em.  There's  a 
universe  to  cram  inside  their  heads. 
God  has  been  workin'  for  a  billion 
years  at  doing  things  —  and  just  one 
little  life  to  learn  about  'em  in!  To 
feel  you're  on  his  trail,  a-following 
fast,  and  got  to  pass  the  feeling  on  — 
I  guess  there's  no  wine  on  earth  so 
heady,  is  there,  boy?' 

I  could  n't  pretend  I  did  n't  under- 
stand him.  I  have  had  it  too  —  that 
wonderful  sensation  we  pack  away  into 
two  dry  words  and  label  'intellectual 
stimulus.'  But  it  had  n't  come  to  me 
that  I  could,  or  should,  pass  it  on. 
I  thought  it  was  an  emotion  designed 
for  my  private  encouragement  and  de- 
light. And  what  was  old  Seth  Miles 
doing  with  intellectual  stimulus?  I 
would  as  soon  expect  to  unearth  a  case 
of  champagne  in  his  cellar.  But,  how- 
ever he  got  it,  undeniably  it  was  the 
real  thing. 


A  dozen  questions  rushed  to  my 
tongue,  but  I  held  them  back,  for  he 
was  looking  me  up  and  down  with  a 
wistful  tenderness  that  seemed  to  pre- 
lude further  revelation. 

'I'm  going  to  tell  you  the  whole 
story  now,'  he  said  with  an  effort.  'I 
promised  your  father  I  would.  He  told 
me  to.  And  I'd  better  get  it  over. 
Mebbe  there 's  something  in  it  for  you 
—  and  mebbe  not.  But  here  it  is:  — • 

'I've  lived  right  here  since  I  was  a 
little  shaver.  My  father  cleared  this 
land  on  the  Ridge,  and  as  I  grew  up, 
I  helped  him.  We  were  a  small  family 
for  those  days.  I  was  the  only  boy. 
There  was  one  sister,  Sarah,  who  keeps 
house  for  me  now  —  and  Cynthy .  Cyn- 
thy  was  an  orphan  my  folks  took  to 
raise  for  company  to  Sarah.  My  father 
was  her  guardeen  and  she  had  two 
thousand  dollars,  so  it  was  n't  charity, 
you  understand.  She  was  the  prettiest 
child,  an'  the  gentlest,  I  ever  see,  with 
her  big  brown  eyes,  her  curly  bronze 
hair,  an'  her  friendly  little  ways.  I 
made  it  my  business  to  look  after  Cyn- 
thy, the  way  a  bigger  boy  will,  from 
the  time  she  come  to  us.  Sometimes 
Sarah,  being  larger  an'  self-willed, 
would  pick  on  her  a  little  —  an'  then 
I  'd  put  Sarah  in  her  place  mighty  sud- 
den. P'raps  Cynthy  was  my  romance, 
for  she  was  a  little  finer  stuff  than  we 
were.  But  I  was  n't  a  sentimental  boy. 
Quite  the  other  way.  Mostly  I  was 
counted  a  handful.  You  ain't  got  any- 
body in  your  school  as  hard  to  handle 
as  I  was  when  I  was  a  cub. 

'When  I  went  to  school,  I  went  for 
the  fun  of  it,  and  to  torment  the  teach- 
er. I  had  n't  another  thought  in  my 
head.  If  I  did  n't  get  a  lickin'  once  a 
week,  I  thought  I  was  neglected.  When 
I  was  sixteen,  I'd  been  through  Day- 
boll's  Arithmetic,  and  I  could  read  and 
spell  a  little  for  my  own  use,  but  my 
spelling  was  n't  much  good  to  any- 
body else.  That  was  all  I  knew  and  all 


794 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 


I  wanted  to  know.  You  see,  the  little 
I  learned  was  all  plastered  on  the  out- 
side, so  to  speak.  It  had  n't  called  to 
anything  inside  me  then. 

'One  fall  there  come  a  new  teacher 
to  our  school,  a  young  fellow  earnin' 
money  to  get  through  college.  He  got 
on  the  right  side  of  me  somehow.  I 
can't  tell  how  he  did  it,  because  I  don't 
know.  But  first  he  set  me  studying  and 
then  he  set  me  thinking.  And  I  began 
to  work  at  books  from  the  inside.  They 
were  n't  tasks  any  more.  He  made  me 
feel  like  I  had  a  mind  and  could  use  it, 
just  like  I  knew  I  had  strong  muscles 
and  could  use  them.  Seemed 's  if  when 
I  once  got  started,  I  could  n't  stop.  I 
got  up  mornings  to  study.  I  studied 
nights  an'  I  studied  Sundays.  There 
could  n't  nothing  stop  me.  I  thought 
I'd  found  the  biggest  thing  on  earth 
when  I  found  out  how  to  make  my 
mind  work!  Jerusalem!  Those  were 
days!  I  was  happy  then!  Sometimes 
I  wonder  what  the  Lord's  got  saved 
up  for  us  in  the  next  world  as  good  as 
that  tasted  in  this.' 

He  stopped,  threw  back  his  head 
and  drew  in  a  long,  ecstatic  breath,  as 
though  he  would  taste  again  the  sharp, 
sweet  flavor  of  that  draught. 

'I  studied  like  that  for  nigh  two 
years.  Then  a  new  idea  struck  me.  It 
was  one  spring  day.  I  remember  father 
and  I  was  ploughing  for  corn.  I  said, 
"Father,  if  I  could  get  a  school,  I  guess 
I  could  teach."  He  had  n't  no  more 
idea  I  could  teach  than  that  I  could  go 
to  Congress,  not  a  bit,  but  I  finally 
drilled  it  into  him  I  was  in  earnest,  and 
that  fall  he  helped  me  get  a  school  near 
home. 

*I  never  did  any  work  as  hard  as 
that.  It  was  against  me  that  I  was 
so  near  home  and  everybody  knew  I  'd 
never  studied  until  just  lately.  I  could 
tell  you  stories  from  now  till  bedtime 
about  the  times  I  had  with  the  big  boys 
and  girls.  But  I  never  let  go  my  main 


idea  for  a  minute  —  that  it  was  n't 
just  so  much  grammar  and  'rithmetic 
I  was  tryin'  to  cram  into  them,  but 
that  I  had  to  show  'em  how  to  sense  it 
all.  By  and  by,  one  after  another  found 
out  what  I  was  after.  The  bright  ones 
took  to  it  like  ducks  to  water.  It  was 
just  wonderful  the  work  they'd  do  for 
me,  once  they  understood. 

*A  notion  took  shape  in  my  head. 
For  all  I  could  see,  the  things  to  learn 
were  endless.  They  stretched  ahead  of 
me  like  a  sun-path  on  the  water.  I 
thought,  "Mebbe  I  can  go  on  learning 
all  my  days.  Mebbe  I  can  teach  as  I 
learn,  so  young  folks  will  say  of  me  as 
I  said  of  my  teacher,  He  showed  me 
haw  to  sense  things  for  myself.  That 
notion  seemed  wonderful  good  to  me! 
It  grew  stronger  an'  stronger.  It  seem- 
ed as  if  I  'd  fit  into  such  a  life  the  way 
a  key  fits  in  its  lock.  And  I  could  n't 
see  no  reason  why  I  should  n't  put  it 
through.  So  I  spoke  to  father.  He  did 
n't  say  much,  but  I  noticed  he  did  n't 
seem  keen  about  it.  He  'd  bought  the 
store  at  the  Corners  two  years  before, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  it  would  work  out 
pretty  well  if  he  sold  the  farm  and  just 
tended  store  and  had  a  little  house  in 
Garibaldi,  as  he  and  mother  got  along 
in  years.  I  thought  likely  Sarah  would 
marry,  and  anybody  might  be  sure 
Cynthy  would.  She  an'  Sarah  had  had 
two  years'  schooling  in  Oatesville  by 
this  time,  and  they  held  themselves  a 
bit  high.  Cynthy  was  grown  up  that 
pretty  and  dainty  you  caught  your 
breath  when  you  looked  at  her.  There 's 
some  young  girls  have  that  dazzling 
kind  of  a  look.  When  you  lay  eyes  on 
them,  it  hardly  seems  as  if  it  could  be 
true  they  looked  like  that.  Cynthy  was 
one  of  that  kind. 

'My  plans  took  shape  in  my  mind 
the  second  winter  I  taught.  I  set  my 
heart  on  teaching  one  more  year  and 
then  going  to  school  somewhere  my- 
self. I  got  the  State  University  cata- 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 


795 


logue  and  began  to  plan  the  studying 
I  did  nights  so  it  would  help  me  enter. 
It  was  just  then  that  I  ran  against  the 
proposition  of  teaching  Greek.  A  boy 
from  York  State  come  out  to  spend  the 
winter  with  an  uncle  whose  farm  joined 
ours.  He  'd  lost  his  father,  and  I  guess 
his  mother  did  n't  know  what  to  do 
with  him.  I  don't  mean  Dick  was  n't 
a  good  boy,  but  likely  he  was  a  hand- 
ful for  a  woman. 

*  Living  so  near,  we  saw  a  lot  of  him. 
He  was  always  coming  in  evenings  to 
see  the  girls,  and  he  pretended  to  go 
to  school,  too.  He  was  sort  of  uppish 
in  his  ways,  and  I  knew  he  made  fun 
of  me  and  my  teaching,  all  around 
among  the  neighbors.  What  did  he  do 
one  day  but  bring  me  some  beginning 
Greek  exercises  to  look  over,  with  his 
head  in  the  air  as  if  he  was  say  in', 
" Guess  I've  got  you  now!"  I  took  his 
exercises  and  looked  at  'em,  awful 
wise,  and  said  those  was  all  right,  that 
time.  Bless  you,  I  did  n't  know  Alphy 
from  Omegy,  but  I  meant  to,  mighty 
quick!  I  walked  seven  miles  an'  back 
that  evening  to  borrow  some  Greek 
books  of  a  man  I  knew  had  'em,  and 
sat  up  till  two  o'clock,  tryin'  to  get 
the  hang  of  the  alphabet. 

'Well,  sir!  I  just  pitched  into  those 
books  an'  tore  the  innards  out  of  'em, 
and  then  I  pitched  into  that  fellow. 
You'd  ought  to  have  seen  him  open 
his  eyes  when  he  found  I  knew  what 
I  was  talkin'  about!  He  got  tired  of 
his  Greek  inside  of  two  weeks.  But  I 
held  him  to  it.  I  made  him  keep  right 
on,  and  I  did  the  same,  and  kept  ahead 
of  him. 

'It  interested  me  awfully,  that 
Greek.  I  borrowed  some  more  books 
and  got  me  some  translations.  I  don't 
say  I  got  so  I  could  read  it  easy,  but  I 
got  on  to  a  lot  of  new  ideas.  There  was 
one  book  about  a  fellow  who  was  strap- 
ped to  a  rock  for  a  thousand  years  for 
bringing  the  fire  of  the  gods  to  mortals. 


Probably  you've  heard  of  it.  I  liked 
that.' 

All  this  sounded  to  me  a  good  deal 
like  a  fairy-tale  the  old  gentleman  was 
telling.  Of  course,  all  education  is  so 
much  more  rigid  nowadays  that  the 
idea  of  anybody  pitching  in,  that  way, 
and  grabbing  the  heart  out  of  any  form 
of  knowledge  was  novel  to  me.  Yet  I  'd 
read  in  the  biographies  of  great  men 
that  such  things  had  really  been  done. 
Only  —  Mr.  Miles  was  n't  a  great  man. 
How,  then,  had  he  come  to  accom- 
plish what  I  understood  was  essentially 
an  achievement  of  genius?  The  thing 
staggered  me. 

'Prometheus  Bound,'  said  Seth  Miles 
meditatively.  'That's  the  one.  You 
may  think  I  was  conceited,  but  it  seem- 
ed to  me  I  knew  how  that  man  felt. 
To  make  them  look  up!  To  kindle  the 
flame!  Did  n't  I  know  "how  a  man 
could  long  to  do  that?  Would  n't  I, 
too,  risk  the  anger  of  the  gods  if  I 
could  fire  those  children's  minds  the 
way  my  own  was  fired? 

'You  see,  it's  this  way,  Richard:  a 
feeling  is  a  feeling.  There  are  only  just 
so  many  of  'em  in  the  world,  and  if  you 
know  what  any  one  of  'em  is  like,  you 
do.  That's  all. 

'When  I  spoke  to  father  about  my 
plans  again,  he  looked  as  if  I'd  hurt 
him.  A  pitiful,  caught  look  came  in  his 
eyes,  and  he  said,  "Don't  let's  talk 
about  it  now,  Seth.  I  —  I  reelly  ain't 
up  to  it  to-day." 

'There  was  something  in  what  he 
said,  or  the  way  he  said  it,  that  just 
seemed  to  hit  my  heart  a  smashing 
blow.  I  felt  like  I'd  swallowed  a  pound 
of  shot,  and  yet  I  did  n't  know  why.  I 
could  n't  see  anything  wrong,  nor  any 
reason  why  my  plans  was  n't  for  the 
best,  for  all  of  us.  But  those  few  words 
he  said,  and  the  way  he  looked,  upset 
me  so  that  I  went  off  to  the  barn  after 
school  that  afternoon  and  climbed  into 
the  hay-mow  to  find  a  quiet  place  to 


796 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 


figure  the  thing  out.  I  had  n't  been 
there  long  before  I  heard  voices  down 
below,  and  Cynthy's  laugh,  and  some- 
body climbing  the  ladder.  It  was  Cyn- 
thy and  Dick.  Sarah  had  sent  'em  out 
to  hunt  more  eggs  for  a  cake  she  was 
bakin'. 

'I  didn't  think  they'd  stay  long/and 
I  wanted  to  be  let  alone,  so  I  just  kept 
quiet. 

'Now  I  want  to  say  before  I  go  any 
further  that  Dick  would  have  been  a 
great  deal  more  no-account  than  he 
was  if  he  had  n't  admired  Cynthy,  and 
it  was  n't  any  wonder  she  liked  him. 
Besides  what  there  was  to  him,  there 
was  plenty  of  little  reasons,  like  the 
kind  of  neckties  he  wore  and  the  way 
he  kept  his  shoes  shined.  There  was 
always  a  kind  of  style  about  Dick. 

'They  rustled  round,  laughing  and 
talking,  till  they  got  the  five  eggs  they 
was  sent  for,  and  then  Cynthy  made 
as  if  she  started  down  the  ladder.  Dick 
held  her  back. 

'"Not  till  you've  kissed  me!"  said 
he. 

'"I'm  ashamed  of  you,"  said  she. 

"I'm  proud  of  myself,"  said  he, 
;'to  think  I  know  enough  to  want  it. 
Why,  Cynthy,  I  ain't  never  had  one, 
but  I  'd  swear  a  kiss  of  yours  would  be 
like  the  flutter  of  an  angel's  wing  across 
my  lips." 

'"That's  foolishness,"  said  she,  but 
she  said  it  softly,  as  if  she  liked  fool- 
ishness. 

'Mebbe  you  wonder  how  I  remem- 
ber every  little  thing  they  said.  It's 
like  it  was  burnt  into  my  brain  with 
fire.  For  I  no  sooner  heard  'em  foolin' 
with  one  another  that  soft  little  way 
than  something  seemed  to  wring  my 
heart  with  such  a  twist  that  it  stopped 
beating.  —  Dick  kiss  Cynthy?  Why 
—  why,  Cynthy  was  mine!  She'd  al- 
ways been  as  close  to  me  as  the  beat 
of  my  own  heart.  From  the  minute  I 
first  laid  eyes  on  her  I'd  known  it,  in 


the  back  of  my  mind.  I'd  never  put 
it  into  words,  not  even  to  myself.  But 
that  was  the  way  it  was.  So  now  my 
soul  just  staggered.  Nobody  could  kiss 
Cynthy  but  me.  That  was  all. 

"Foolishness!"  said  Dick;  his  voice 
was  sort  of  thick  and  blurry,  and,  of 
a  sudden,  I  could  hear  him  breathing 
hard.  "Foolishness!  I  guess  it's  the 
only  wisdom  that  there  is!  —  My 
God!  —  My  God!  —  0  Cynthy,  just  one 
kiss ! " 

'"Dick!  Why,  Dick!" 

'Her  little  voice  sounded  like  the 
birds  you  sometimes  hear  in  the  middle 
of  the  night,  just  that  soft,  astonished, 
questioning  note. 

'I  suppose  I  was  across  that  mow 
and  beside  'em  in  five  seconds,  but  it 
seemed  to  me  I  took  an  hour  to  cross 
it.  I  never  traveled  so  long  and  hard 
a  road,  nor  one  so  beset  with  terror  and 
despair. 

'They  turned  and  faced  me  as  I 
came.  Dick's  face  was  red,  and  in  his 
eyes  was  agony  —  no  less.  Cynthy 
was  very  white,  her  little  head  held 
high  on  her  slender  neck.  Her  eyes 
was  brave  and  clear.  Mebbe  I  was  ex- 
cited, but  it  seemed  to  me  that  she  was 
shinin'  from  head  to  foot.  You  see,  to 
her  it  was  so  wonderful. 

'We  stood  there  silent  for  a  long  min- 
ute, lookin'  clean  into  one  another's 
souls.  Dick's  eyes  and  mine  met  and 
wrestled.  I  never  fought  a  fight  like 
that.  Without  a  word  nor  a  blow  — 
and  yet  we  were  fighting  for  more  than 
our  lives. 

'His  eyes  did  n't  fall.  He  did  n't  look 
shamefaced.  Oh,  he  too  had  pluck! 

'As  my  brain  cleared  of  the  queer 
mist,  that  cry  of  his  seemed  to  sound 
pitifully  in  my  ears. 

"0  Cynthy,  just  one.  kiss!' 

'I  don't  suppose  there's  a  man  on 
earth  that  ain't  said  that  from  once  to 
fifty  times,  just  as  much  in  earnest  as 
Dick,  and  just  as  little  thinkin'  them 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 


797 


words  are  the  key  in  the  Door  —  the 
door  that  gives  on  the  road  runnin' 
down  to  Hell  or  up  to  Heaven.  You've 
got  to  move  one  way  or  the  other  if  you 
open  that  door.  It  ain't  a  road  to  linger 
on.  Love  marches. 

'That  was  the  way  it  come  to  me 
then.  For  most  men,  love  marches.  — 
But  me.  How  about  me?  The  love 
that  come  to  me  had  been  silent  and 
patient.  It'd  sat  in  my  heart  like  a 
bird  on  its  nest.  Was  I  different  from 
other  men?  Did  I  ask  less,  give  more? 
I  was  just  a  boy  —  how  was  I  to 
know? 

'It  was  Cynthy  broke  the  tension. 
She  was  always  a  bit  of  a  mischief. 
Suddenly  she  smiled  an'  dimpled  like 
the  sun  comin'  out  from  a  cloud.  She 
caught  Dick's  finger-tips  quick  an' 
brushed  'em  across  her  lips. 

'Well,  Seth!'  she  says  to  me,  cheer- 
ful and  confident  again. 

"Is  he  your  choice,  Cynthy?"  said 
I.  "Dare -you  leave  us  —  all  of  us  — 
an'  go  to  him  forever?"  I  asked  her, 
steadying  my  voice. 

'  She  looked  a  little  hurt  and  a  little 
puzzled. 

"Has  it  come  to  that?"  she  asked 
me. 

"Mebbe  it  has  n't  with  you,"  I  an- 
swered, "but  it  has  with  Dick  —  an' 
with  me,  Cynthy." 

'She  looked  at  me  as  if  she  did  n't 
know  what  I  meant,  and  then  the  color 
rushed  up  into  her  face  in  a  glorious 
flood. 

'"Not— not  you  too,  Seth?"  she 
cried.  "Oh  —  not  you  too! " 

'Yes,  Cynthy,  — now  and  always." 

'She  looked  from  me  to  Dick  an' 
back  to  me  again.  In  her  face  I  saw  she 
was  uncertain. 

'"Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  before?" 
she  cried  out  sharply.  "Why  didn't 
—  you  —  teach  me!  O  Seth,  he  needs 
me  most!" 

'Dick's  eyes  and  mine  met  and  clash- 


ed  again  like  steel  on  steel.  But  it  was 
mine  that  fell  at  last. 

'We  all  went  back  to  the  house  to- 
gether without  saying  any  more. 

'It  come  to  me  just  like  this.  Dick 
was  tangled  in  his  feelings,  and  the  feel- 
ings are  the  strongest  cords  that  ever 
bind  a  boy  like  him.  Cynthy  was 
drawn  to  him,  because  to  her  Dick 
was  a  thing  of  splendor  and  it  was  so 
wonderful  he  needed  her!  I  need  n't 
tell  you  what  it  was  tied  me.  I  still 
had  a  fighting  chance  to  get  her  away 
from  him,  but  was  it  fair  of  me  to  make 
the  fight? 

'Every  drop  of  blood  in  my  body 
said,  Yes!  Every  cell  in  my  brain  said, 
No!  For,  you  see,  life  had  us  in  a  net 

—  but  I  was  the  strong  one  and  /  could 
break  the  net. 

'I  went  off  and  walked  by  myself. 
Sundown  come,  and  milking-time,  and 
supper.  But  I  forgot  to  eat  or  work. 
I  walked. 

'No  man  can  tell  you  what  he  thinks 
and  feels  in  hours  like  them.  There 
ain't  no  words  for  the  awful  hopes  or 
the  black  despairs  or  the  gleams  that 
begin  like  lightning-flashes  and  grow 
to  something  like  the  breaking  dawn. 

—  I  could  n't  get  away  from  it  anyhow 
I  turned.  It  was  n't  a  situation  I  dared 
leave  alone,  not  with  Dick  at  white- 
heat  and  Cynthy  so  confident  of  her- 
self and  so  pitiful.    It  was  n't  safe  to 
let  things  be.   I  must  snatch  her  from 
him  or  give  her  to  him.  —  It  was  my 
turn  now  to  cry  out,  0  my  God  ! 

'T  was  long  after  dark  when  I  come 
back.  My  mind  was  made  up.  They 
should  have  each  other.  I'd  do  what 
I  could  to  make  the  thing  easy.  "After 
all,"  I  told  myself,  "you  ain't  com- 
pletely stripped.  Don't  think  it!  You 
have  the  other  thing.  You  can  carry 
the  torch.  You  can  bring  down  the 
flame.  Folks  will  thank  you  yet  for  the 
sacred  fire!" 

'I  laid  that  thought  to  my  heart  like 


798 


SETH  MILES  AND  THE  SACRED  FIRE 


something  cool  and  comforting.    And 
it  helped  me  to  come  through. 

'When  I  got  back  to  the  house,  it 
was  late  and  everybody  was  abed  but 
my  father.  He  was  sitting  right  here 
where  we  are,  waiting  up  for  me.  There 
was  a  moon,  some  past  the  full,  rising 
yonder.  I  sat  down  on  the  step  below 
him  and  put  it  to  him  straight. 

*  "Father,"  said  I,  "Dick's  in  love 
with  Cynthy.  She's  eighteen  an*  he's 
twenty.  I  judge  we'd  better  help  'em 
marry." 

'He  give  a  heartbroken  kind  of 
groan.  "Don't  I  know  she's  eighteen?" 
he  said.  "Ain't  it  worryin'  the  life 
right  out  of  me?" 

'Whatever  do  you  mean?"  I  asked 
pretty  sharp,  for  I  sensed  bad  trouble 
in  his  very  voice. 

"It's  her  two  thousand  dollars,"  he 
said.  "She's  due  to  have  it.  If  she 
marries,  she  's  got  to  have  it  right  away. 
And  I  ain't  got  it  to  give  her,  that's 
all!" 

'"Where  is  it?  What's  become  of 
it?" 


" 


I  bought  the  store  at  the  Cross- 
roads with  it,  and  give  her  my  note. 
But  I  had  n't  no  business  to  do  it  that 
way.  And  the  store  ain't  done  well, 
and  the  farm  ain't  done  well.  The  sum- 
mer 's  been  so  cold  and  wet,  corn  ain't 
more  'n  a  third  of  a  crop,  and  I  put  in 
mainly  corn  this  year.  I  can't  sell  the 
store.  I  dunno's  I  can  mortgage  the 
farm.  I  dunno  what  to  do.  If  you  leave 
home  like  you  talk  of,  I  shall  go  under. 
Somebody  's  got  to  take  hold  an'  help 
me.  I  can't  carry  my  load  no  longer." 

'So  —  there  was  that!  And  I  had  to 
face  it  alone. 

'I  did  n't  despair  over  the  money 
part  of  it,  like  father  did.  I  knew  he'd 
neglected  the  farm  for  the  store,  and 
the  store  for  the  farm.  If  I  'd  been  with 
him  either  place,  instead  of  teaching, 
things  would  have  gone  on  all  right. 
I  thought  Dick  could  have  his  choice  of 


the  store  or  a  part  of  the  land  to  clear 
up  the  debt  to  Cynthy.  But,  whichever 
he  took,  father  'd  need  me  to  help  out. 
I  could  see  he  was  beginning  to  break. 
And  Dick  would  need  me  too,  till  he 
got  broke  in  to  work  and  earnin'.  So  — 
now  it  was  me  that  life  had  in  the  net, 
and  there  was  no  way  I  could  break 
out. 

'  Father  went  off  to  bed  a  good  deal 
happier  after  I  told  him  I  'd  stand  by. 
He  even  chippered  up  so  he  said  this: 
'You 're  all  right,  Seth,  and  teachin'  's 
all  right.  But  I  've  thought  it  all  over 
and  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
teachin'  and  studyin'  's  like  hard  cider. 
It  goes  to  your  head  and  makes  you 
feel  good,  but  after  all,  there  ain't 
nothing  nourishing  about  it.  I'd  like 
to  see  you  make  some  money." 

'I  sat  on  those  steps  the  rest  of  the 
night,  I  guess,  while  that  waning  moon 
climbed  up  the  sky  and  then  dropped 
down  again.  'T  ain't  often  a  man  is 
called  on  to  fight  two  such  fights  in  a 
single  day.  I  ain't  been  able  to  look  at 
a  moon  past  the  full  since  that  night. 

'And  yet — toward  morning  there 
come  peace.  I  saw  it  this  way  at  last. 
To  help  is  bigger  yet  than  to  teach.  If 
Prometheus  could  be  chained  to  that 
rock  a  thousand  years  while  the  vul- 
tures tore  his  vitals  just  so  that  men 
might  know,  could  n't  I  bear  the  beaks 
an'  the  claws  a  little  lifetime  so  that 
father  and  Cynthy  and  Dick  might 
live  ?  I  thought  I  could  —  an'  I  have.' 

Mr.  Miles  stopped  short.  Some- 
thing gripped  my  throat.  I  shall  never 
see  again  such  a  luminous  look  as  I 
caught  on  his  face  when  he  turned  it 
toward  the  darkening  west.  The  black 
clouds  had  rolled  up  rapidly  while  we 
were  talking  and,  if  you'll  believe  me, 
when  he  had  finished,  it  thundered  on 
the  right! 

'Is  —  is  that  all?'  I  said  chokily. 

'Cynthy 's  had  a  happy  life,'  he  said. 


RAB  AND  DAB 


799 


'Dick  made  good  in  the  store,  and  he's 
made  good  out  yonder  in  the  world. 
Dick  has  gone  very  far.  And  as  for  me, 
there's  only  one  thing  more  I  want  in 
this  world.  If —  if  I  could  see  her  boy 
and  his  pick  up  the  torch  I  dropped, 
and  carry  on  that  sacred  fire  —  ' 

It  was  mighty  queer,  but  I  found  I 
was  shaking  all  over  with  an  excite- 
ment I  hardly  understood.  Something 
that  had  been  hovering  in  the  air  while 
he  talked,  came  closer  and  suddenly 
showed  me  its  face. 

'But,'  I  said  thick  and  fast,  'but — 
why,  mother's  name  is  Cynthia!' 

'Yes,  Richard.' 

'And  father  — father  — ?' 

!  Yes,  Richard.' 

It  was  my  turn  to  feel  something 
squeeze  my  heart  as  in  two  hands.  I  '11 


never  tell  you  how  I  felt!  For  I  saw  a 
thousand  things  at  once.  I  saw  what 
dad  meant  by  my  touching  life.  And 
I  saw  the  meaning  of  the  path  I  had 
chosen  blindly.  Before  me,  like  a  map, 
were  spread  their  lives  and  mine,  to- 
day and  yesterday.  I  shook  with  the 
passions  that  had  created  me.  I  vi- 
brated with  the  sacrifices  that  had  gone 
to  make  me  possible.  For  the  first  time 
in  all  my  days  I  got  a  glimpse  of  what 
the  young  generation  means  to  the 
elder.  On  my  head  had  descended  all 
their  hopes.  I  was  the  laden  ship  that 
carried  their  great  desires.  Mine  to 
lift  the  torch  for  all  of  them  —  and 
thank  God  for  the  chance! 

I  struck  my  tears  away  and  reached 
out  blindly  to  grasp  Seth  Miles's  bony 
hand.  I  guess  he  knew  I  meant  it. 


RAB  AND  DAB.    II 


A  WOMAN  RICE-PLANTER'S  STORY 


BY   PATIENCE   PENNINGTON 


[In  the  first  installment  of  this  true  chronicle, 
the  author  told  of  her  adoption,  under  tragic 
and  dramatic  circumstances,  of  two  pickaninnies, 
Jonadab  and  Rechab.  They  grew  plump  and  pros- 
perous under  the  care  of  Patience  Pennington  and 
her  colored  servants,  but  developed  an  appalling 
aptitude  for  chicken-stealing  and  general  devil- 
ishness.  —  THE  EDITORS.] 


THE  second  summer  after  the  trans- 
planting of  the  orphans  found  them 
growing  in  favor  with  every  one.  Real- 
ly Chloe  was  becoming  proud  of  them. 
When  Jonadab  started  to  school  every 


morning,  in  his  dark  blue  denim  suit, 
he  was  pleasing  to  the  eye,  he  was  so 
shiningly  clean  with  his  startlingly 
white  teeth.  As  soon  as  he  got  back 
from  school,  he  studied  his  lessons,  had 
his  dinner,  and  then,  with  the  little 
axe  and  the  wheelbarrow,  followed  by 
Rechab  with  the  hatchet  and  little  cart, 
which  Dab  now  looked  down  upon  as  a 
plaything,  he  went  out  into  the  woods 
and  cut  a  good  supply  for  the  kitchen, 
never  waiting  to  be  told.  Chopping 
wood  was  his  favorite  relaxation,  as  it 
was  that  of  Mr.  Gladstone;  and  so  long 


800 


RAB  AND   DAB 


as  he  had  this  safety  valve  for  his  su- 
perfluous energy  he  could  keep  out  of 
mischief. 

Rab  got  into  endless  trouble  in  the 
long  summer  mornings  while  Dab  was 
at  school.  One  day  I  was  sewing  in  the 
parlor,  with  the  thick  board  shutters 
nearly  closed,  to  keep  out  the  heat, 
when  I  heard  a  shrill  woman's  voice, 
raised  in  angry  abuse  in  the  yard.  I 
listened  attentively  but  all  I  could  dis- 
tinguish was,  'I'll  beat  dat  limb  o' 
Satan,  sho's  you  bawn.' 

I  went  out  on  the  back  porch  and 
saw  in  the  yard  a  tall  brown  woman 
working  herself  into  a  fury.  She  held 
in  one  hand  a  big  stick,  and  led,  or 
rather  dragged,  a  small  boy  with  the 
other,  —  he  screaming  aloud  to  add  to 
the  clamor. 

'What  is  the  matter?'  I  repeated 
several  times  before  I  could  make  my- 
self heard. 

Then  her  shrill  angry  voice  rose  to 
a  shriek,  and  I  could  only  hear  Rab's 
name  coupled  with  that  of  the  Prince 
of  Darkness. 

At  last  I  said,  'I  cannot  possibly 
listen  to  such  language;  if  you  speak 
properly,  in  a  moderate  voice,  I  will 
hear  what  you  have  to  say;  otherwise 
I  will  go  in.' 

The  woman  quieted  down  then  and 
told  her  story. 

'  I  sen*  dis  chile,  Ben,  to  de  sto'  wid 
t'ree  cent  fu'  buy  salt,  en  dis  yah  black 
wicked  boy  meet  um  ne  path,  en  fight 
um,  en  tek  de  money,  en  I  gwine  bruk 
eb'ry  bone  in  'e  body.'  And  she  waved 
the  big  stick. 

I  was  greatly  distressed  at  this  high- 
way robbery  on  Rab's  part  and  I  said 
to  the  woman,  'I  am  shocked  beyond 
measure  at  what  you  tell  me,  and 
though  I  cannot  allow  you  to  beat  Re- 
chab,  I  promise  that  I  will  have  him 
severely  punished.  Here  are  the  three 
cents  he  took;  indeed,  here  are  five 
cents  which  were  to  have  been  Re- 


chab's  on  Saturday  if  he  had  been  good. 
He  has  entirely  forfeited  them,  and  he 
must  pay  them  to  you';  and  I  placed 
the  five  coppers  in  Rab's  hand  and 
made  him  give  them  to  the  woman, 
who  went  off  more  than  satisfied  at 
this  unexpected  good  luck. 

As  soon  as  she  had  gone,  I  called  An- 
crum,  the  old  man  whom  I  had  em- 
ployed cutting  down  underbrush  and 
trimming  up  trees  in  the  grounds.  He 
was  a  most  respectable  old  darkey,  who 
did  faithfully  and  thoroughly  every- 
thing that  was  given  him  to  do,  and 
bore  a  high  character  for  honesty  and 
industry;  and  though  he  was  nearly 
eighty  he  was  a  strong,  able-bodied 
man.  When  he  came  I  said,  'Daddy 
Ancrum,  would  you  mind  giving  little 
Rechab  a  good  whipping  for  me? ' 

'Not  at  all,  my  missis,  I'll  do  um 
wid  pledger.' 

'Now,  Daddy  Ancrum,  I  do  not  want 
you  to  beat  him,  but  he  must  be  well 
punished,  for  he  met  a  boy  smaller  than 
himself  on  the  road,  fought  him  and 
took  his  money  from  him,  and  if  he 
is  not  punished,  he  will  end  his  days 
in  the  penitentiary,  if  not  on  the  gal- 
lows.' 

Daddy  Ancrum  went  off  to  cut  a 
good  switch.  He  took  quite  a  time,  as 
he  wanted  to  find  a  hickory;  and  while 
he  was  gone  I  used  all  my  powers  of 
speech  on  Rab,  trying  to  make  him 
see  the  wickedness  of  his  action,  and 
brought  him  at  last  to  confess  his  guilt, 
— which  he  had  stolidly  denied  at  first, 
—  and  even  to  tell  what  he  had  done 
with  the  money.  He  had  bought  three 
sticks  of  mint  candy  at  the  store. 
When  Daddy  Ancrum  came  for  him  he 
was  penitent.  I  told  Ancrum  to  take 
Rab  some  distance  out  in  his  own  be- 
loved woods,  so  that  the  little  village 
would  not  be  disturbed  too  much,  for 
I  knew  Rab's  voice  would  wake  the 
echoes  in  the  tall  pines.  Again  I 
charged  the  old  man  not  to  be  too 


RAB  AND  DAB 


801 


severe.   I  did  this  without  Rab's  hear- 


ing me. 


Ancrum  answered,  'Miss  Patience, 
you  need  n't  fret.  I  had  twelve  chillun 
en  I  know  how  fu'  lick  chillun  widout 
beat  um.' 

I  went  into  the  sitting-room  and 
closed  it  up  as  much  as  possible  and 
took  up  my  sewing  again.  In  spite  of 
my  efforts  not  to  hear,  however,  I 
was  much  agitated  by  Rab's  yells;  it 
sounded  really  as  though  he  were  being 
killed,  and  I  was  debating  whether  I 
should  not  send  Chloe  out  to  say  that 
was  enough,  when  there  was  a  change, 
a  sudden  cessation  of  the  shrieks,  and, 
instead,  a  fierce  barking  of  dogs  and 
Rechab's  voice  raised  loud  in  command. 
I  rushed  out  to  see  what  had  happened. 
The  three  dogs,  Rag,  Tag,  and  Bobtail, 
were  devoted  to  Rab,  and  hearing  his 
cries  of  distress,  they  had  rushed  to  the 
rescue  and  attacked  the  executioner 
with  such  ferocity  that  Rab  had  to 
keep  them  off,  and  actually  had  to  use 
the  rod  which  he  had  been  feeling,  to 
prevent  their  biting  the  old  man.  Need- 
less to  say  the  punishment  ended  there- 
with, Rechab,  as  usual,  in  the  ascend- 
ant, and  much  elated  by  his  position 
of  controller  of  the  dogs.  I  must  say 
I  felt  proud  that  Rechab  had  used  all 
his  strength  to  keep  the  dogs  from 
biting  Daddy  Ancrum.  A  mean  na- 
ture would  have  rejoiced  in  seeing  him 
bitten,  instead  of  doing  all  he  could 
to  protect  him. 

The  solemnity  of  the  preparations, 
and,  no  doubt,  the  solidity  of  the  few 
strokes  given,  impressed  Rab  very  sen- 
sibly, and  for  a  few  weeks  after  that 
he  was  alarmingly  good.  I  had  the 
hickory  hung  up  on  the  back  porch  as 
a  reminder. 

During  this  interlude  of  perfection 
Rechab  devoted  himself  to  Chloe:  he 
brought  immense  bundles  of  fagots  for 
the  kitchen  stove,  scoured  the  pantry, 
and  caused  Chloe  great  anxiety  by  his 

VOL.  114 -NO.  6 


zeal  in  drawing  water;  the  well  was 
deep,  the  bucket  heavy,  and  the  curb 
low,  and  there  was  always  a  moment 
when  it  was  uncertain  whether  the 
bucket  would  come  up  or  Rab  would 
go  down.  I  felt  that  sooner  or  later 
he  would  join  Truth  at  the  bottom 
of  the  well,  and  most  uncongenial  com- 
panions they  would  prove. 

It  was  during  this  period  of  calm  that 
Rab  told  Chloe,  as  he  sat  by  her  on 
the  kitchen  steps,  that  when  he  was 
a  man  and  made  plenty  of  money  he 
would  give  her  a  big  silver  dollar  for 
her  own,  and  he  would  give  'Miss 
Patience  a  half  dollar.' 

When  I  made  the  boys  their  sum- 
mer outfit,  I  made  the  usual  blue  denim 
trousers  and  jacket,  but  I  put  bands 
of  red  on  some  of  the  little  shirts  and 
bands  of  blue  on  others,  which  gave 
the  boys  great  pleasure;  and  I  thought 
it  would  make  the  washerwoman  re- 
spect the  clothes  more  and  take  more 
pains  in  washing  them,  for  they  were 
really  very  pretty  and  I  liked  to  see  the 
bright  colors.  Altogether  this  was  a 
time  of  respite  and  happiness ;  and  even 
Chloe  went  so  far  as  to  say  to  me, '  I 
declar',  Miss  Patience,  dese  chillun  is 
great  company  an*  great  sarvis.' 

II 

About  this  time  I  was  called  away 
by  illness  in  the  family,  and  I  left  with 
a  comfortable  feeling  that  the  boys  had 
passed  their  worst  stage  and  were  now 
on  the  upward  path.  A  great  misfor- 
tune had  befallen  our  little  community. 
Miss  Beth  and  her  lovely  mother  had 
moved  away.  The  school  had  passed 
into  other  hands,  however,  and  Jona- 
dab  seemed  to  get  on  pretty  well,  and 
I  left  home  with  a  quiet  mind,  telling 
Jim  to  write  me  a  letter  for  himself  one 
week,  and  for  Chloe  the  next.  Though 
he  did  all  the  writing,  their  letters  were 
as  different  as  possible,  as  he  wrote 


802 


RAB  AND  DAB 


down  exactly  what  Chloe  said  and  her 
letters  were  much  more  interesting 
than  his;  and  in  this  way  I  heard  every- 
thing, having  the  two  points  of  view. 

The  first  two  letters  reported  every- 
thing as  serene  and  satisfactory.  Then 
came  a  mysterious  letter  from  Chloe: 
she  did  not  want  to  make  me  anxious, 
but  the  boys  were  not  as  good  as  they 
had  been.  She  did  not  state  anything 
definite.  At  last  a  letter  showing  great 
excitement  came.  Miss  Somerville,  the 
teacher,  had  gone  to  see  Chloe  to  ask  if 
Jonadab  had  been  sick,  for  he  had  not 
been  at  school  for  two  weeks. 

This  was  a  great  blow  to  Chloe,  for 
she  had,  she  said,  started  him  off  at 
eight  o'clock  every  morning  with  his 
bag  of  books,  and  the  school-house  was 
in  sight  from  the  front  gate.  She  be- 
gan investigating  and  found  that  he 
went  past  the  school  every  day  and 
waited  in  the  woods  until  he  knew  Jim 
and  herself  had  gone  to  the  plantation 
four  miles  away,  where  Jim  ran  the 
cultivator  in  the  corn  and  she  tended 
the  vegetable  garden.  As  soon  as  Jona- 
dab felt  sure  they  had  driven  far  enough 
away,  he  returned  to  the  yard  with  a 
few  kindred  spirits  and  joined  Rechab, 
who  was  left  with  the  dogs,  Rag,  Tag 
and  Bobtail,  and  a  large  supply  of 
lunch. 

Chloe  did  not  go  on  to  say  in  the  let- 
ter how  they  occupied  themselves,  but 
asked  me  to  write  and  tell  her  what 
she  must  do  about  Jonadab  and  the 
school.  I  wrote  back  at  once  and  told 
Jim  to  give  Jonadab  a  good  switching 
and  take  him  back  to  school,  and  to 
write  me  of  the  result.  As  soon  as  the 
distance  would  allow  I  heard  from  Jim; 
he  had  followed  my  directions  but  Jona- 
dab would  not  go  to  school;  he  simply 
spent  the  days  in  the  woods.  I  then 
wrote  a  solemn  letter  to  Jonadab  telling 
him  that  I  was  shocked  and  distressed 
at  his  conduct,  that  I  had  expected 
better  things  of  him,  that  I  had  given 


him  the  opportunity  to  learn,  which 
was  all  I  could  do;  that,  as  he  would 
not  go  to  school  and  learn  his  lessons, 
he  must  now  learn  to  work,  and  that 
he  must  go  with  Jim  to  the  plantation 
every  day  and  work  in  the  garden,  and 
his  books  must  be  locked  up  until  I 
got  home;  and  I  wrote  to  Jim  to  see 
that  he  did  work. 

After  this  the  letters  from  Jim  and 
Chloe  showed  great  reticence  and  I  was 
thankful  to  be  spared  the  knowledge 
of  anything  going  wrong  at  home, 
for  after  nursing  my  niece  through  an 
illness  and  back  to  health,  I  broke 
down  completely  and  was  threatened 
with  nervous  prostration,  and  had  to 
remain  in  Asheville  till  the  middle  of 
October.  When  I  did  come  home, 
instead  of  writing  to  have  the  wagon 
sent  for  me  as  usual,  I  got  a  vehicle  in 
Gregory  and  drove  up  to  the  planta- 
tion, Cherokee. 

Chloe  and  the  boys  were  delighted 
to  see  me.  I  walked  all  around  the  gar- 
den and  complimented  them  on  the 
fine  crops  of  turnips  they  had  raised; 
then  I  ordered  the  wagon  to  drive  out 
to  Peaceville.  Chloe  called  Jonadab 
and  said,  *  Bring  up  de  pee-pee.' 

In  a  few  minutes  Dab  appeared  driv- 
ing before  him  five  half-grown  turkeys. 

*  These  are  very  fine  turkeys,  Chloe,' 
I  said,  'but  where  are  the  rest?  I  left 
twenty/ 

'Dis  is  all  dat's  left,  Miss  Patience.' 

So  solemn  was  her  tone  that  I  for- 
bore to  ask  questions. 

Chloe  fed  the  turkeys  some  cracked 
corn  and  then  said,  'Bring  de  coob, 
Jonadab.' 

Dab  brought  forward  a  small  and 
very  rough  wooden  coop. 

'Put  een  de  pee-pee,'  ordered  Chloe. 

I  watched  with  wonder,  but  did  not 
interrupt  what  seemed  to  be  a  drill. 
With  wonderful  docility  the  little  tur- 
keys stepped  leisurely  into  the  coop, 
as  Dab  drummed  on  it  with  his  fingers, 


RAB  AND  DAB 


803 


having  first  scattered  corn  over  the 
floor. 

'Now  fetch  de  wheel-barrer.'  This 
was  done.  '  Rechab,  help  Jonadab  put 
de  coob  een  de  wheel-barrer.'  This 
was  also  done.  Then  came  the  final 
orders.  'Now,  Jonadab,  you  sta't  fu' 
de  village,  en  don't  you  stop  ne  path 
to  pass  de  time  o'  day.  Rechab  an* 
me '11  ketch  you  ef  you  do.' 

Thus  adjured,  Jonadab  seized  the 
handles  and  trotted  off  with  the  wheel- 
barrow at  a  brisk  pace. 

I  did  not  speak  until  he  was  out  of 
hearing,  Rab  having  gone  to  open  the 
gate  for  the  equipage;  then  I  asked, 
'What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  Chloe? 
What  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  tur- 
keys?' 

'  Miss  Patience,  I  don't  wan'  ter  cast 
yu  down,  jes'  es  yu  get  home,  but  I 
had  to  do  dis  way  to  save  dese  pee- 
pee  fo'  yu.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it 
to-morrer.' 

I  said,  'Very  well,'  and  by  this  time 
the  wagon  was  ready  and  I  got  in,  and 
told  Chloe  to  get  in  with  Rab  by  the 
driver.  Before  we  had  gone  far  we  saw 
Jonadab  ahead,  trotting  gayly  with  his 
remarkable  turnout.  When  we  caught 
up  with  him,  which  he  tried  his  best  to 
prevent,  Rab  asked  me  to  let  him  get 
out  and  run  along  with  Jonadab,  which 
I  allowed  him  to  do. 

As  soon  as  he  was  out  Chloe  said, 
'Well  den,  Miss  Patience,  yu'll  hab  to 
drive  slow,  sence  yu  let  Rab  git  out, 
fo'  ef  yu  let  dem  git  out  o'  sight,  dat's 
de  las'  o'  dem  pee-pee.' 

The  boys  were  in  such  high  spirits, 
and  made  such  good  time,  that  only 
once  or  twice  did  I  have  to  tell  Jim  to 
drive  slowly.  When  we  reached  the 
pine-land  house,  I  was  thankful  to  rest 
in  the  hammock  swung  on  the  broad 
piazza,  and  to  feel  the  joy  of  getting 
home,  even  when  there  were  only  dar- 
kies and  dogs  to  welcome  me.  Chloe 
got  very  quickly  a  nice  savory  supper 


for  me,  and  the  boys  expended  them- 
selves in  offering  me  fresh  water  drawn 
by  them  from  the  well,  which  they  as- 
sured me  was  'cool  as  ice.' 

Ill 

The  next  morning  after  breakfast 
Chloe  sent  the  boys  out  to  get  wood  and 
then  appeared  in  the  sitting-room  in  a 
glistening  white  apron  and  head-hand- 
kerchief and,  dropping  a  curtsy,  be- 
gan. 

'Now,  Miss  Pashuns,  ef  yu  feel  rest- 
ed, I'll  tell  you  'bout  de  chillun.  I 
did  n't  wan'  to  write  you,  fo'  both  Jim 
en  me  know'd  'twould  mek  yu  sick. 
We  had  to  write  yu  'bout  Jonadab  not 
goin'  to  school,  but  Jim  en  me  talked 
about  it,  en  said  we  could  n't  tell  yu 
w  'at  Jonadab  done  w  'en  'e  did  n't 
gone  to  school.' 

Here  Chloe  stopped  as  though  she 
had  reached  a  climax,  and  I  was  obliged 
to  ask,  'Chloe,  what  did  he  do?' 

'  Miss  Pashuns,  Jonadab  lef '  dis  ya'd 
wid  'e  book  es  good  en  sanctify  es  any 
chile  kin  be,  en  'e  gone  pas'  de  school 
un  de  wood,  en  'e  stay  dere  'till  'bout 
ten  o'clock,  den  'e  cum  home  yere  wid 
a  gal  en  a  boy  en  meet  Rab,  en  dem  tek 
de  axe  en  brokee  en  de  house  winder, 
en  dey  gone  through  de  house,  en  eat 
up  eberyt'ing  dem  find,  all  de  can  ob 
tomotus,  en  de  sa'mon  en  de  sa'dine 
yu  lef  een  de  closet,  dem  chillun  eat 
all.  Den  w'en  dey  done  eat  eberyt'ing 
een  de  house,  dem  projek  'round,  till 
dem  fin'  de  store-room  key  w'ey  I  had 
um  hide,  en  dey  gone  een  dey,  en  tek 
de  meat,  en  de  grits,  en  de  rice,  till  dem 
eben  carry  dem  off  by  de  wheel-barrer- 
ful  down  to  Elsy  en  dat  'dulterous  man 
w'at  libs  wid  'er.  1  keep  a-miss  t'ing 
ebery  day,  miss  t'ing,  en  miss  t'ing,  en 
kyant  mek  out  how  de  t'ing  go  so  fas', 
en  dem  chillun  was  dat  sma't  dey  hab 
sense  fu'  lef  eberyt'ing  de  look  jes' 
like  'e  ain't  tech.  En  de  only  way  I 


804 


BAB  AND  DAB 


do  fu'  find  out,  is  w'en  yu  write  de 
letter  fu'  tell  Jim  fu'  lick  Jonadab, 
after  Jim  dun  lick  um,  I  'quisit  Dab 
by  himself  en  I  'quisit  Rab  by  himself, 
en  at  last  dem  confess  en  tell  me  de 
truf.' 

I  felt  perfectly  dismayed.  I  cross- 
questioned  Chloe  and  felt  that  there 
was  no  doubt  of  the  truth  of  every 
word  she  had  uttered;  and  she  looked 
old  and  worn,  as  though  by  an  illness, 
from  the  strain. 

After  giving  me  time  to  digest  this, 
and  hearing  my  expressions  of  disgust 
and  dismay,  she  went  on,  'En  den  de 
turkey.  When  I  fus'  begin  to  miss  de 
pee-pee,  Miss  Vanderbilt  had  twelve 
good  big  one;  'e  had  had  much  mo',  but 
dey  been  a  drap  off  befo'  I  begin  to 
notice  dem  dat  mo'nin'.  I  count  um 
keerful,  en  was  jes'  a  dozen  —  dat  day  I 
leP  Jonadab  fu'  min'  de  ya'd  till  I  step 
down  to  de  plantation  en  pick  de  vege- 
table, en  dat  night  dey  was  two  gone. 
De  nex'  day  I  tek  Jonadab  wid  me  en 
I  lef  Rab,  en  dat  time  no  pee-pee  loss, 
but  de  nex'  day  I  lef  Dab  again  en  two 
gone;  en  ebery  time  I  lef  Dab  fu'  min' 
de  ya'd  I  miss  two  pee-pee,  till  at  las' 
dere  was  only  seben  pee-pee  leP,  en 
dat  day  Rab  sick  de  t'ree  dog  on  Miss 
Vanderbilt  en  dem  tear  she  most  to 
pieces  en  de  nex'  day  him  dead,  tho'  I 
done  all  I  could  fur  she. 

'Den  I  say  to  Jim,  "Miss  Pashuns 
mus'  see  some  turkey  w'en  she  come 
home  en  I  know  wha'  fu'  do." 

'Jim  say,  "Wha'  kin  yu  do?" 

'  Den  I  mek  answer :  "  I  gwine  put  de 
seben  pee-pee  een  de  little  coob,  en  I 
gwine  put  de  coob  een  de  wheel-bar- 
rer  en  I  '11  mek  Dab  roll  'em  down  to  de 
plantashun." 

' "All  dat  four  mile,  An'  Chloe?  Dab 
kyan't  do  dat." 

'Den  I  say,  "De  only  way  to  mek 
Dab  behave  'eself  is  to  keep  um  stirrin', 
en  I  calkilates  to  stir  um  dis  time." 

'So  de  nex'  mo'nin',  Miss  Pashuns, 


I  put  dem  seben  pee-pee  een  de  coob, 
en  I  put  de  coob  een  de  wheel-barrer, 
en  I  mek  Jonadab  roll  dem  down  to 
Cherokee,  en  dat  chile  was  jes'  as 
pleased  as  if  I  bin  a  play  wid  um.  I 
aimed  to  lef  de  pee-pee  down  to  de 
plantation  dat  night  een  de  fowl-house 
to  de  ya'd,  but  w'en  I  tell  Uncl'  Bona- 
parte dat,  'e  say,  "  Yu  kyant  lef '  dem 
here,  fo'  I  won't  tek  de  'sponsibility." 
En  I  say,  "Uncl'  Bonaparte  I '11  lock  de 
fowl-house  do'  befo'  I  lef'  en  yu  won't 
have  no  'sponsibility."  But  Uncl' Bon- 
aparte would  n't  let  me  leP  dem,  so  I 
had  to  mek  Dab  roll  dem  back,  en  after 
dat  I  jes'  kep'  it  up  ebery  day  I  went 
down  to  work  een  de  gya'den,  en  dem 
seem  to  prosper. 

'But  dem  chillun  keep  me  drawed 
out.  One  day  we  all  sta'ted  together 
en  we  git  'bout  half-way  down,  en  Rab 
was  behind  w'en  'e  holler  to  me,  "An' 
Chloe,  I  have  fu'  go  back,  I  furgit  some- 
thin  '  ";  en  befo'  I  cud  say  a  wud  'e  was 
gone.  Dat  ebenin'  w'en  'e  cum,  I  ax  'im 
wha'  mek  'e  stay  so  long,  en  'e  tell  me 
say  'e  was  dat  tyad  'e  had  to  lay  down 
ne  path  to  rest.  He  had  a  little  boy 
'e  bring  wud  um,  en  w'en  Rab  gone 
out  de  chile  say,  'An'  Chloe,  Rab 
neber  lay  down  ne  path,  Rab  gone  to 
Miss  Penel'pe  sto',  en  'e  tell  Miss  Pe- 
nel'pe  say  yu  sen'  um  for  a  box  o'  red 
herrin'  en  say  yu  say  mus'  'scuse  yu  fu' 
not  come  een,  but  yu'se  bery  hurry,  en 
yuse  to  de  gate  een  de  buggy  waitin.' 
Den  Miss  Penel'pe  wrop  up  de  box 
quick,  en  gie  um  to  Rab,  en  'e  walk  out 
to  de  road  bery  fas',  en  w'en  'e  git  half- 
way down  'e  brek  open  de  box  en  'e 
eat  en  'e  gie  me  some.  Den  'e  hide  de 
res'  in  de  bush." 

'Now  yu  know,  Miss  Pashuns,  I  was 
shock!  W'en  Rab  come  I  ax  um  ef  'e 
buy  herrin'  fu'  true,  en  'e  say  no,  but  I 
ketch  'e  han'  en  smell  um  en  'e  was 
convict,  fu'  'e  neber  t'ought  to  wash  'e 
hand. 

'  W'en  we  cum  'long  de  road  dat  eben- 


RAB  AND  DAB 


805 


in'  I  tell  um  fu'  show  me  w'ere  'e  had 
de  herrin'  hide,  but  'e  wun't.  But  about 
a  week  after  dat,  one  ebenin'  'e  say, 
"  An'  Chloe,  I  '11  show  yu'  wey  I  hide 
de  herrin', "  en  'e  tek  me  een  de  t'icket 
of  bush  en  sho'  me  de  box,  but  w'en  'e 
open  um  rat  or  some  oder  varmint  most 
done  eat  all.  Den  'e  offer  me  one,  but 
I  tell  um,  I  neber  accept  anyt'ing  dat 
is  stole. 

'Arter  dat  Rab  was  bery  good  fu'  a 
while,  but  one  mo'nin'  w'en  Dab  en 
me  bin  a  walk  purty  fas',  w'en  we  git 
to  de  gate  en  I  open  de  gate  fu'  Dab 
roll  de  wheel-barrer  trou',  'e  look  back 
en  'e  say, "  An'  Chloe,  Baby  slip'  us,  en 
gone."  I  look  up  de  road  en  I  see 
Rab  goin'  back  as  ha'd  as  'e  kin.  Den 
I  walk  fas'  en  mek  Dab  hurry  till  we 
git  to  de  ba'n  ya'd  en  I  tu'n  de  pee-pee 
loose,  en  den  we  wheel  right  back  en 
walk  fas'  fu'  ketch  Rab,  till  I  begin  to 
blow  and  Dab  say,  "An'  Chloe,  yo'll 
mek  yo'self  sick  ef  yo'  walk  so  fas';  let 
me  run  on  ahead,  en  I  kin  ketch  Rab." 
Den  I  tell  um  'e  cud  do  so,  en  run  on 
en  ketch  Rab  en  fetch  um  right  back  to 
me,  en  I  set  down  a  minit  fu'  blow,  fu' 
I  was  plum  wore  out,  but  I  did  n't  stop 
long,  en  w'en  I  git  to  de  villige  I  fin' 
my  room  do'  broke  open,  en  my  trunk 
lock  broke,  en  all  my  t'ing  on  de  flo', 
en  a  dollar  I  had  en  ten  cent,  wrop 
een  a  piece  of  silk  cloth,  was  gone,  en 
I  could  n't  fin'  neder  Rab  nor  Dab.  I 
put  my  t'ing  'way  as  well  as  I  could,  en 
den  I  wheel  right  back  to  de  planta- 
tion. 'Long  'bout  dinner  time  Jonadab 
cum  bery  hurry,  en  say  'e  bin  a  hunt  fu' 
Rab,  but  'e  could  n't  fin'  um. 

'Miss  Pashuns,  I  was  dat  discourige 
'bout  de  chillun  I  was  weak,  but  I  hoe 
out  de  young  tunup,  en  I  try  fu'  set  my 
min'  on  scriptur',  en  I  say,  "How  long, 
oh  Lord,  how  long!'3  En  arter  dat  I 
feel  better,  but  I  neber  eat  a  piece  o' 
dinner. 

'When  sun  most  down  Dab  put  up 
de  pee-pee,  en  we  gone  back  to  de  pine- 


land.  W'en  Jim  cum,  en  I  tell  um  wha' 
Rab  done,  'e  say,  I'll  gie  Rab  a  lickin' 
to-night,  but  w'en  sundown  cum,  we 
call  Rab  en  we  sen'  Dab  fu'  hunt  um, 
but  we  could  n't  hear  not'ing  of  um, 
en  I  was  miserable,  en  I  neber  sleep  a 
wink  dat  night,  fu'  Rab  neber  did  come 
till  de  middle  o'  the  next  day,  en  I  was 
dat  glad  to  see  um  I  would  n't  let  Jim 
lick  um  again. 

'Two  days  arter  dat,  Rab  tell  me 
'e  spen'  de  night  right  under  de  big 
house;  say  soon  as  Jim  en  me  gone  to 
bed,  'e  mek  fire  in  de  chimbley  under 
de  house  en  cook  a  chicken  en  a  pee-pee 
en  roast  two  ear  o'  corn  en  had  a  fine 
supper,  —  en  yo'  know,  Miss  Pashuns, 
dat  was  provokin'.  When  I  bin  a  fret 
so  'bout  de  chile,  en  him  bin  a  eat  yo' 
chicken,  en  yo  pee-pee,  right  under  yo' 
own  house,  en  Dab  know  all  de  time 
way  him  bin,  en  soon  es  Jim  en  me 
gone  to  bed,  him  jump  out  de  winder 
en  jine  Rab  under  de  house,  en  dem 
cook  en  eat  all  night.' 

Here  Chloe's  breath  gave  out,  to  my 
great  relief,  for  this  reeling  off  of  the 
terrible  doings  of  the  boys  was  most 
distressing.  I  felt  absolutely  hopeless. 
What  was  the  use  of  struggling  with 
such  degenerates?  Chloe  had  been  per- 
fectly right,  and  knew  her  own  race 
when  she  warned  me  of  the  danger  of 
'harboring  furriners.' 

Any  one  looking  at  Chloe  and  then 
at  the  boys  could  see  that  they  were 
descendants  of  different  tribes.  She 
was  a  rich  chocplate-brown  color,  with 
the  regular  kinked  hair,  while  the  boys 
were  black  as  ebony,  with  long  straight- 
ish  hair,  and  rather  aquiline  features; 
they  were  slender  and  straight  in  their 
build,  and  the  whites  of  their  eyes 
were  very  blue.  Stanley,  in  his  Darkest 
Africa,  describes  the  great  differences 
in  the  characteristics  of  the  tribes, 
some  being  by  nature  absolutely  hon- 
est and  others  absolutely  dishonest. 
All  this  I  called  to  mind,  and  realized 


806 


RAB  AND   DAB 


that  by  my  own  foolhardiness  I  had 
taken  upon  myself  two  of  the  worst 
shoots  of  one  of  the  very  worst  African 
tribes. 

During  the  interval,  Chloe  had  re- 
covered her  breath  and  now  began  to 
tell  how  she  had  seen  Dab  deliberately 
kill  with  a  stick  one  of  the  much  trav- 
eled pee-pees,  so  now  there  were  only 
five. 

I  interrupted  her  and  said,  'Chloe, 
I  cannot  stand  another  word  about  the 
boys.  I  feel  almost  distracted  already. 
I  have  never  heard  nor  dreamed  of 
such  creatures!  No  gratitude,  no  affec- 
tion, no  fidelity;  it  is  awful,  and  I  do 
not  wonder  you  look  thin  and  badly. 
I  don't  see  how  you  managed  to  get 
through  at  all,  and  from  my  heart  I 
thank  you  for  all  your  efforts.  Now  I 
want  to  beg  you  not  to  let  the  boys 
know  that  you  have  told  me  all,  for  I 
have  not  the  least  idea  what  to  do  to 
them  as  punishment,  and  yet  it  is  my 
clear  duty  to  punish  them  severely; 
so  let  them  think  you  have  not  told  me, 
and  to-morrow  I  will  tell  them  that  I 
cannot  give  them  the  suits  I  brought 
them  from  Asheville,  as  you  tell  me 
they  have  given  you  a  good  deal  of 
trouble;  but  I  will  give  them  the  mouth 
organs  I  brought  them/ 

I  wrung  her  hand  and  thanked  her 
again  and  said,  'Remember,  my  good 
Chloe,  our  Saviour's  words,  "  Inasmuch 
as  ye  did  it  unto  the  least  of  these  .  .  . 
ye  did  it  unto  me." 

IV 

As  if  to  reward  me  for  my  leniency, 
the  boys  blossomed  into  wonderful 
goodness.  All  their  little  duties  were 
well  and  faithfully  performed.  The 
turkeys  made  no  more  journeys,  for 
I  had  them  rolled  down  to  the  planta- 
tion the  day  after  my  return  and  put 
them  in  the  poultry-house,  and  giv- 
ing Bonaparte  a  lock,  I  told  him  he 


must  be  responsible  for  them.  Every 
morning  Rab  donned  his  clean  white 
apron  and  churned,  one  of  the  regular 
duties  which  he  had  absolutely  refused 
to  do  during  my  absence. 

In  the  move  from  the  pine-land,  Rab 
and  Dab  insisted  on  carrying  heavy 
loads  in  the  wheelbarrow,  the  only 
danger  being  that  in  their  zeal  to  roll 
it  and  their  fights  over  which  had  had 
it  longest,  the  freight  would  suffer. 
They  came  and  begged  me  to  let  them 
move  the  'gereenium'  in  it,  represent- 
ing that  it  was  much  safer  for  the  plant 
than  either  the  ox-wagon  or  the  horse- 
cart.  I  was  very  much  pleased  to  ex- 
cite their  interest  in  doing  anything 
well  and  carefully,  so  daily  I  packed 
as  many  plants  in  the  little  vehicle  as 
it  could  carry.  They  took  them  most 
successfully.  After  the  move  was  over, 
they  were  very  diligent  and  made  the 
large  grounds  beautifully  clean,  one 
raking  up  the  live-oak  leaves,  which 
had  fallen  during  the  summer,  while 
the  other  carted  them  off  to  the  ma- 
nure heap  in  the  beloved  wheelbarrow. 

Jonadab  went  daily  for  the  mail, 
proving  himself  perfectly  reliable  in 
that  important  function,  never  stop- 
ping to  play  on  the  road;  so  that  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  giving  them  every  Sat- 
urday evening  the  nickels  which  their 
good  conduct  brought  them,  and  which 
they  had  great  joy  in  spending  at  Miss 
Penelope's  store  for  candy,  of  which 
they  got  a  surprising  amount  for  the 
money. 

At  Christmas  I  told  them  to  hang 
up  their  little  socks  in  the  kitchen,  but 
not  content  with  the  holding  capacity 
of  these  they  borrowed  each  a  stocking 
of  huge  proportions  from  Chloe,  which 
they  hung  beside  their  own.  I  told 
Dab  to  hang  up  his  red  socks  and  Rab 
his  blue  pair,  so  that  we  should  know 
them  apart,  for  they  were  very  nearly 
the  same  size. 

By  daylight  Christmas  morning  the 


RAB  AND  DAB 


807 


yard  resounded  with  their  shouts  of 
delight  and  the  blasts  of  their  trumpets, 
horns,  and  the  various  instruments  of 
torture  to  the  ear,  with  which  the 
stockings  were  filled,  besides  apples, 
oranges,  peanuts,  almonds,  raisins,  and 
candy.  In  the  toe  of  each  stocking  was 
a  dime.  When  they  came  to  show  me 
their  treasures  I  gave  them  the  Ashe- 
ville  suits,  telling  them  they  had  been 
so  good  for  the  past  two  months  that 
it  was  a  pleasure  to  give  them  the  new 
suits  and  caps. 

I  was  very  happy  over  this  beautiful 
period  of  calm,  and  so  was  Chloe.  She 
said  to  me  one  day,  '  You  see,  Miss  Pa- 
shuns,  de  Laud  sen'  yo'  dis  blessin'  to 
comfort  yo',  kase  yo'  loos'  all  yo'  rice 
crap  f'um  de  freshit,  en  yo'  co'n  crap 
f'um  de  dry  drought,  en  so  'e  won't  let 
Satan  worry  yo  wid  dese  chillun,  en  'e 
mek  dem  good,  en  dey  sure  is  sarvice 
to  you  en  to  me.' 

One  day  Chloe  said  to  me  mysteri- 
ously, 'Miss  Pashuns,  Jonadab  tell  you 
anyt'ing?' 

'No,'  I  answered,  'what  do  you 
mean?' 

Chloe  came  nearer  and  said  in  a  low 
voice,  'Dem  see  somet'ing.' 

'What  kind  of  something,  Chloe?' 

But  Chloe  would  say  nothing  more 
except,  'Ax  dem.' 

So  the  first  time  I  had  an  opportun- 
ity of  talking  to  Jonadab  alone  I  said, 
'What  have  you  seen  strange  lately, 
Jonadab?' 

Without  the  least  hesitation  he  an- 
swered, 'A'nt  Cinthy.' 

'Oh,  no,  Dab,'  I  said,  'I  know  that's 
not  so.  When  God  takes  people's  souls 
into  the  next  world  they  stay  there; 
they  do  not  come  back  here.' 

But  Dab  was  firm,  and  began  to  nar- 
rate. He  had  almost  lost  his  stammer 
now. 

'Night  befo'  las'  I  bin  asleep,  en  I 
hear  A'nt  Cinthy  call  me,  en  I  open  my 
eye  an'  dere  was  A'nt  Cinthy  fo'  true. 


Him  had  she  head  tie  wid  a  w'ite  hand- 
kerchuff  en  'e  was  all  dress  in  w'ite,  wid 
a  bow  of  black  ribbin  on  she  breast,  an' 
she  look  at  me  an'  Rab  very  hard,  an' 
I  say,  "  W'at  yo'  want,  A'nt  Cinthy?" 
En  him  answer,  "I  wan'  me  bed,  gi'  me 
me  bed."  En  I  say,  "I  ain't  got  yo' 
bed."  Den  she  say,  "  Wey  is  me  bed?" 
Den  I  say,  "Yo'  bed  dey  een  de  or- 
chaid."  Den  she  say,  "I  wan'  me  shoe, 
gi'  me  me  shoe."  En  I  answer,  "I  ain't 
got  yo'  shoe,  en  I  do'  kno'  wey  dem 
dey."  Den  she  say,  "Gi'  me  me  five 
cent,  I  wan'  me  five  cent."  En  I  say, 
"I  neber  see  yo'  five  cent,  go  way  en 
le'  me  'lone."  En  den  she  gone.' 

I  said,  'Jonadab,  you  dreamt  all  this, 
for  Cinthy  could  not  come  back  if  she 
wanted  to,  and  she  would  not  want  to. 
Where  she  has  gone  she  has  no  use  for 
shoes,  nor  beds,  nor  five  cents,  so  you 
may  be  sure  this  was  a  dream.' 

I  took  the  earliest  opportunity  of  in- 
terviewing Rechab  alone,  and  I  asked 
him  a  leading  question,  and  he  repeat- 
ed the  incident  and  conversation  word 
for  word  as  Jonadab  had  done.  He 
told  what  A'nt  Cinthy  said  and  how 
she  looked,  laying  great  stress  on  the 
'bow  o'  black  ribbin  on  she  breast.' 

I  was  quite  puzzled  over  this,  but 
thought  it  best  not  to  make  too  much 
of  it,  and  said  nothing  more. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  Chloe  came  to 
me  and  said,  'Miss  Pashuns,  we  got  to 
do  somet'ing.  Cinthy  do  worrit  dem 
po'  chillun  too  much.  I  know  my  fault 
now.  I  shud  'a  bury  dat  five  cent  I 
fin'  een  a  tubacca  bag  tie  tu  de  head 
o'  de  bed,  een  Cinthy  han'.  I'll  neber 
ketch  een  dis  trouble  agen,  I'll  know 
wha'  fu'  do  next  time,  but  de  ole  lady 
wha'  bin  'e  fren',  baig  fu'  de  five  cent, 
fu'  trow  een  de  chutch,  en  I  gie  um  to 
she;  en  now  de  po'  soul  kyant  res'  un 
'e'  grave,  en  de  my  fault.  Dab  say  eb- 
ery  night,  w'en  dey  de  sleep,  en  de  fus' 
cock  crow,  she  does  call  um,  en  some 
time  'e  call  Rab.  I  bin  hear  people 


808 


RAB  AND  DAB 


say  if  you  bu'n  sulfer  een  de  room  dat 
'11  lay  de  speret.' 

I  tried  to  divert  her  thoughts  from 
this  subject,  and  began  to  talk  to  her 
about  the  seasoning  of  the  sausage- 
meat. 

A  few  days  passed  and  Jim  came  to 
me  and  said,  'Miss  Pennington,' — 
Jim's  parents  had  not  belonged  to  my 
family,  so  he  does  not  call  me  Miss 
Patience  as  all  the  others  do,  —  *  I  wish 
you  would  do  something  about  the 
boys.  Aunt  Cinthy  has  run  them  clean 
out  o'  the  house.  They  don't  per  tend 
to  sleep  there  now.' 

'Where  do  they  sleep?'  I  asked. 

'  In  the  straw  in  the  loft  of  the  horse 
stable,  ma'am.  They  bin  dere  now  five 
nights,  en  they  wun't  go  back  to  sleep 
in  their  house.' 

Chloe  came  in  and  added  her  testi- 
mony to  Jim's,  as  to  the  children's 
sleeping  in  the  stable;  then  she  added 
that  their  poor  mother  was  much  to 
blame  in  the  matter.  She  said,  'I  ax 
Jonadab,  I  say,  4'Yu'  ma  tell  yu'  any 
t'ing?"  'E  say,  "No,  ma'am,  she  neber 
tell  menuting."  But  Miss  Pashuns,  dat 
chile  born  wid  a  caul,  en  ef  'e  ma  had 
a  mek  um  swaller  de  caul,  'e  neber  'ood 
'a  see  speret,  but  long  as  'e  ma  t'row 


'way  de  caul,  dat  po'  chile  haf  fu'  see 
speret.' 

I  thought  earnestly  how  I  could  do 
anything  to  reach  this  situation;  then 
I  said,  'I  think  I  know  how  to  quiet 
the  poor  spirit;  and  Jim,  I  need  your 
help.' 

Jim  answered  with  enthusiasm  that 
he  was  at  my  command,  and  I  went 
on,  'Take  Jonadab  and  Rechab  and  go 
into  the  orchard  and  get  Cinthy's  bed, 
and  let  them  each  take  a  corner  and 
help  you  carry  it.' 

Jim  interrupted,  'It's  very  light, 
ma'am;  I  can  carry  it  myself.' 

'  I  know  you  can,  Jim,  but  I  want  you 
to  let  each  of  the  boys  take  a  share  in 
carrying  it  to  the  burying-ground  and 
placing  it  over  Cinthy's  grave,  and  I 
am  sure  the  boys  will  have  no  more 
visions  of  the  darkness.' 

Jim  was  very  reluctant  when  he 
heard  this.  He  said  he  didn't  'want 
to  meddle  in  the  matter.'  But  I  talked 
with  him  about  the  foolishness  of  fear- 
ing the  dead,  until  he  promised  to  obey 
my  instructions  exactly.  Whether  he 
did  it  or  not  I  did  not  inquire,  but  I 
heard  no  more  of  Cinthy's  nocturnal 
visits  and  the  children  returned  to  their 
room  quite  cheerfully. 


(To  be  concluded.) 


BROWNING  AND  THE  SPECIAL  INTERESTS 


BY   WILLIAM  AUSTIN   SMITH 


Come  now  let  each  of  us  awhile  cry  truce  to  spe- 
cial interests. 

—  Prince  Hohenstiel-Schwangau. 


To  the  poet,  not  to  Mr.  La  Follette, 
belongs  the  distinction  of  sending  the 
phrase  *  special  interests'  to  the  mint. 
When  it  rolled  from  the  poet's  pen, 
however,  it  was  less  bulky  with  connota- 
tion than  now.  To  envisage  the '  inter- 
ests '  of  Browning's  Prince  Hohenstiel- 
Schwangau  one  must  begin  by  stripping 
the  phrase  of  some  of  its  more  recent 
honors.  'The  Saviour  of  Society'  was 
written  in  1871.  Mr.  Roosevelt  had  not 
yet  entered  upon  his  career,  and  we  in 
America  had  not  been  taught  to  think 
of  oil  and  tobacco,  sugar  and  copper, 
as  predatory  interests.  Watts,  in  the 
brutal  splendor  of  his  Mammon,  has 
helped  us  to  clothe  the  idea  in  color. 

Browning,  we  recall,  would  have  us 
see  the  thing  at  a  different  angle.  One 
of  the  political  enigmas  of  the  last  gen- 
eration was  Napoleon  III,  the  target 
at  once  of  furious  scorn  and  adulation. 
In  a  poem  of  some  two  thousand  lines, 
Browning  gives  this  client,  under  the 
title  of  Prince  Hohenstiel-Schwangau, 
opportunity  to  defend  himself  and  his 
theory  of  civilization. 

In  that  leisurely  apology  the  quar- 
tette of  glowing  causes  —  'Liberty, 
Philanthropy,  Enlightenment,  and  Pa- 
triotism,' which  since  Rousseau  have 
been  declaimed  uninterruptedly  —  are 
styled  'the  special  interests.'  As  the 
Prince  saw  it,  the  most  insidious  lobby 
against  which  civilization  must  brace 


itself  is  the  activity  of  gracious  senti- 
ments. He  believed  that  only  by  hold- 
ing these  interests  in  the  leash  of  com- 
mon sense  can  society  be  maintained 
on  a  decent  footing.  The  Prince  had 
reason  for  the  faith  that  was  in  him,  and 
Browning  with  the  urbanity  of  a  good 
listener  lets  him  tell  his  unromantic 
story. 

The  audacity  of  the  Prince  lies  in  his 
irreverent  imputation.  To  place  Liber- 
ty, Philanthropy,  Enlightenment,  and 
Patriotism  in  the  same  fetid  lobby  with 
sugar,  oil,  and  tobacco  is  to  ,toy  peril- 
ously with  romanticism.  We  have  been 
taught  to  think  of  these  dignitaries 
with  respect.  To  call  Philanthropy  a 
special  interest,  along  with  soap  ana 
copper,  is  an  insult  to  the  spacious  sen- 
timents of  our  time. 

But  the  poet  lays  down  his  hand 
before  the  whole  goodly  company  of 
us,  —  agitators,  reformers,  philanthro- 
pists, clergymen,  and  all  the  restless 
adventurers  of  light.  '  I  call  you  spe- 
cial interests,'  he  seems  to  say.  'You 
declaim  about  Enlightenment,  Pro- 
gress, and  Philanthropy.  These  are 
interests  I  grant  you,  but  they  are 
special.  Civilization  has  its  other  con- 
cerns as  well,  —  "  workshop,  manufac- 
tory, exchange  and  market-place,  sea- 
port and  customhouse  o'  the  frontier, 
mouths  that  wanted  bread,  hands  that 
supplicated  handiwork,  men  with  wives 
and  women  with  the  babes, — all  these 
pleading  just  to  live,  not  die." 

Now,  once  grant  that  any  interest  is 
'special,'  with  all  the  potential  alarm  of 
that  phrase,  and  you  have  disarmed  it. 


810 


BROWNING  AND  THE  SPECIAL  INTERESTS 


There  is  no  real  danger  to  democracy 
from  any  special  interest  branded  as 
such.  By  classifying  it,  we  have  pluck- 
ed the  sting  of  its  eloquence  and  com- 
pelled it  to  defend  its  innocency  of 
intention  before  the  bar  of  public 
opinion. 

But  the  heady  atmosphere  of  reform 
has  been  too  tonic  for  the  growth  of 
humility  on  the  part  of  Liberty,  Phi- 
lanthropy, Enlightenment,  and  Patri- 
otism. We  may  expose  the  so-called 
*  special  interests'  and  hale  them  into 
court,  but  who  in  this  enlightened  cen- 
tury dares  summon  Philanthropy  into 
court  and  say,  *  You  must  have  super- 
vision and  control?' 

It  requires  courage  to  urge  indict- 
ment against  these  'interests.'  There 
is  an  appealing  chivalry  about  their 
calling,  and  they  know  it.  Their  be- 
nevolent intention  shelters  a  goodly 
brood  of  noble  causes  —  shorter  hours 
for  labor,  child-labor  laws,  mothers', 
widows',  and  orphans'  pensions,  child 
culture,  eugenics,  and  all  the  insurgent 
forces  of  modernity.  Benign  enough 
these  interests  look  as  we  name  them 
in  glowing  capitals,  *  Liberty,  Philan- 
thropy, Enlightenment,  and  Patriot- 
ism ' ;  but  oppose  their  lobby  and  we 
shall  discover  their  power.  A  legion  of 
forces  have  they  at  command, — power 
to  petition  and  to  plead,  to  pamphlet- 
eer and  denounce,  to  organize  leagues, 
to  storm  the  halls  of  legislation  and 
compel  us  into  joining  or  losing  our 
sociological  position  in  the  community. 
Never  were  sharper  claws  hid  beneath 
pussier  cushions. 


ii 

In  the  realm  of  religion,  things  have 
fallen  pretty  much  into  the  hands  of 
one  of  the  four  big  interests — 'Enlight- 
enment.' Here  the  specialist  stalks 
through  the  land  unmolested.  Thus  far 
the  plain  people  have  been  less  a  prey 


to  Enlightenment  than  the  clergy,  and 
only  the  initiated  are  disturbed  when 
one  reads  in  our  most  modern  author- 
ity such  a  paragraph  regarding  the 
Apostle  Paul  as  this:  'The  peculiarity 
of  the  mysticism  which  arises  out  of 
the  Apocalyptic  is  that  it  does  not 
bring  the  two  worlds  into  contact  in 
the  mind  of  the  individual  as  Greek 
and  Mediaeval  mysticism  did,  but  dove- 
tails one  into  the  other,  and  thus  cre- 
ates for  the  moment  at  which  the  one 
passes  over  into  the  other  an  object- 
ive, temporarily  conditioned  mysti- 
cism. This,  however,  is  available  only 
for  these  who  by  their  destiny  belong 
to  both  worlds.  Eschatological  mys- 
ticism is  predestinarian.' 

Now  I  know  this,  and  the  distin- 
guished author  knows  it,  but  did  St. 
Paul  know  it?  Tolstoi  once  wrote:  'It 
is  the  worst  of  educated  men  that  they 
cannot  speak  about  any  great  question 
till  they  have  read  everything  that 
has  been  written  about  it,  for  fear  that 
some  one  should  say,  "But  have  you 
read  Schwartzenburg? '  Then,  if  they 
have  not  read  Schwartzenburg,  they 
are  done.' 

But  the  moment  one  starts  upon  the 
business  of  '  reading  up '  in  religion,  he 
finds  Schwartzenburgs  springing  up 
like  mushrooms  in  the  night,  and  he 
falls  at  once  into  the  hands  of  special 
interests.  For  example:  Comparative 
Religion  has  been  maintaining  for  years 
a  most  insidious  lobby  against  the 
faith  once  delivered  to  the  Saints.  It 
is  battening  on  the  credulous.  Of  all 
the  interests  which  despoil  the  innocent 
of  their  rights,  comparative  religion  is 
the  most  arrogant. 

One  can  get  on  very  well  with  his  re- 
ligion till  he  starts  to  reading  up.  It  is 
the  Schwartzenburg  interests  which 
undo  him.  One  recalls  how  under  one 
of  these  benevolent  specialists  he  was 
first  let  in  on  the  ground  floor  of  some 
rich  vein  of  discovery  which  Compar- 


BROWNING  AND  THE  SPECIAL  INTERESTS 


811 


ative  Religion  had  just  struck  in  Asia 
Minor. 

One  month  there  fell  into  my  hands, 
the  current  Hibbert  Journal,  Gilbert 
Murray's  Four  Types  of  Greek  Religion, 
and  Schweitzer's  Paul  and  his  Interpre- 
ters, and  I  was  tossed  helplessly  about 
among  a  number  of  mutually  exclusive 
theories  of  Christianity.  One  Heit- 
muller,  with  unctuous  consideration 
for  weaker  minds,  as  if  loath  to  break 
distressing  news,  yet  firmly  as  who 
should  say,  '  You  must  sooner  or  later 
be  told  and  who  better  than  I  to  soften 
the  news,'  -Heitmuller  admits  us  into 
the  garish  light  of  the  most  modern 
discovery  when  he  tells  us  that  our 
beloved  Sacrament  of  the  Lord's  Sup- 
per is  merely  an  expansion  of  the  an- 
cient Pagan  custom  of  eating  one's 
God  in  order  to  obtain  the  God's  spe- 
cial virtue. 

Trembling  in  every  article  of  my 
creed,  I  cut  the  pages  of  my  Hibbert 
Journal,  hoping  for  some  word  of  denial 
of  this  terrible  report  from  Germany, 
and  lo!  I  am  again  regaled  with  the 
*  Peter  versus  Paul '  explanation  of  the 
New  Testament,  and  its  hard  sayings 
are  convincingly  explained  by  a  the- 
ological quarrel  in  the  college  of  the 
Apostles. 

But  my  card  has  been  in  the  circu- 
lating library  awaiting  the  return  of 
Schweitzer's  Paul  and  his  Interpreters, 
and  just  as  I  am  about  to  throw  up  the 
flag  of  surrender  before  the  bombard- 
ment of  light  from  the  specialists  in 
Comparative  Religion,  behold  Schweit- 
zer comes  to  my  rescue  with  battalion 
upon  battalion  of  footnotes,  Schwart- 
zenburgs,  Kabishes,  Gunkels,  Mauren- 
breckers  and  the  rest,  all  in  battle-array, 
to  smash  the  lines  of  Comparative  Reli- 
gion. The  battle  over,  I  venture  forth 
wounded  in  spirit;  but  at  least  my  Sac- 
rament is  safe.  But  I  am  not  yet  out 
of  the  hands  of  the  Special  Interests. 
Schweitzer,  too,  must  have  his  little 

VOL.  114  -  NO.  6 


fling,  and  I  am  now  let  in  for  eschato- 
logy,  which  is  his  mollifying  mixture  of 
scholarship  and  orthodoxy.  Again  I 
begin  to  see  the  thing  single  and  whole. 
Why  had  I  not  seen  it  before?  There 
it  is,  clear  as  daylight,  between  the  lines 
of  the  Gospels. 

If  only  the  specialists  would  let  the 
matter  rest  there,  all  would  be  well,  but 
I  have  a  friend  who  goes  seriously  into 
this  business  of  reading  up  and  whose 
religion  is  pitched  to  the  highest  key  of 
modernism.  He  finds  me  poring  over 
my  Schweitzer  and  rather  patronizingly 
asks,  'But  have  you  read  Reitzenstein?' 
Whereupon,  refusing  further  to  face  the 
light,  I  reach  for  my  Borrow,  hoping 
to  find  sanctuary  in  his  eighteenth- 
century  evangelicalism,  unchilled  as  yet 
b}'  Schwartzenburgs.  My  solace  comes 
from  The  Bible  in  Spain.  The  School- 
master of  Cohares  had  been  telling  Bor- 
row that  he  had  a  copy  of  the  New  Tes- 
tament in  his  possession  which  Borrow 
desired  to  see;  but  on  examining  it  he 
says,  'I  discovered  it  was  only  the 
Epistle  by  Pereira,  with  copious  notes. 
I  asked  him  whether  he  considered  that 
there  was  harm  in  reading  the  Scrip- 
tures without  notes:  he  replied  that 
there  was  certainly  no  harm  in  it,  but 
simple  people,  without  the  help  of  notes, 
could  derive  little  benefit  from  Scrip- 
ture, as  the  greatest  part  would  be  unin- 
telligible to  them;  whereupon  I  shook 
hands  with  him,  and,  on  parting,  said 
that  there  was  no  part  of  Scripture  so 
difficult  to  understand  as  those  very 
notes  which  were  intended  to  elucidate 
it,  and  that  it  would  never  have  been 
written  if  not  calculated  of  itself  to 
illumine  the  minds  of  all  classes  of 
mankind.' 

What  damaging  opaqueness  to  En- 
lightenment, but  how  in  secret  we  envy 
his  smug  detachment  from  Modernism. 
I  am  not  decrying  scholarship  as  an 
aid  to  the  study  of  religion,  but  if  one 
is  to  keep  his  House  of  Faith  in  perfect 


812 


BROWNING  AND  THE  SPECIAL  INTERESTS 


repair  he  must  be  ever  on  the  alert 
to  catch  the  latest  Schwartzenburg  on 
the  wing. 

in 

But  there  is  a  group  of  Special  In- 
terests with  interlocking  directorates 
which  ought  to  be  indicted  for  conspir- 
acy in  restraint  of  morals  and  religion. 
They  have  won  almost  complete  con- 
trol of  the  press,  schools,  and  politics, 
and  they  are  beginning  to  invade  the 
churches  with  their  efficiency  tests. 
Sociology  is  one  of  these  interests.  It 
started  its  benevolent  career  as  meek  as 
any  missionary.  That  is  the  way  with 
the  interests  until  they  obtain  certain 
valuable  concessions.  Sociology  seemed 
amiable  enough  until  it  began  to  set 
forth  certain  cubist  conceptions  of  mor- 
als and  to  meddle  with  religion. 

Prince  Hohenstiel-Schwangau  did 
not  include  religion  among  his  special 
interests,  but  he  did  mention  philan- 
thropy. Philanthropy,  with  its  kindred 
sciences,  is  certainly  a  pampered  inter- 
est battening  on  tax-ridden  religion  and 
government  franchises.  It  is  dictating 
terms  to  our  churches,  exacting  time 
and  tribute  from  the  clergy,  rewriting 
our  theology,  and  to-day  is  robbing  us 
of  our  last  ancestral  relic,  —  the  sense 
of  sin. 

In  the  short  Catechism  the  obliga- 
tions involved  in  man's  duty  toward 
his  neighbor  are  set  forth  with  the  frank- 
ness and  precision  of  the  out-and-out 
realist.  There  they  are,  just  as  we  meet 
them  in  real  life:  obedience  to  the  law; 
to  keep  my  hands  from  picking  and 
stealing  and  my  tongue  from  evil-speak- 
ing, lying,  and  slandering;  to  keep  my 
body  in  temperance  and  chastity;  not 
to  covet  or  desire  other  men's  proper- 
ty; but  to  learn  and  labor  to  get  mine 
own  living,  and  to  do  my  duty  in  that 
state  of  life  unto  which  it  shall  please 
God  to  call  me. 

The  programme  thus  set  forth  is  mat- 


ter-of-fact and  unscientific.  Nothing  is 
said  about  inheritance  or  environment, 
wages,  or  cubic  feet  of  air-space  affect- 
ing chastity.  The  fascinating  problem 
of  responsibility  which  we  are  impotent 
to  solve,  it  does  not  undertake  to  han- 
dle. The  Catechism  does  not  attempt 
to  explain  exhaustively  why  people  go 
wrong.  It  goes  no  further  into  psycho- 
logy .than  the  warning  that  it  is  impos- 
sible [to  live  a  clean,  honorable,  and 
Christian  life  without  Special  Grace, 
which  we  'must  learn  at  all  times  to 
call  for  by  diligent  prayer.'  There  is, 
you  see,  a  decent  tactful  restraint  in 
this  old-fashioned  treatment  of  sin.  It 
saves  OUT  self-respect  and  also  our 
morality. 

But  the  soft-hearted  philanthropists 
feel  a  more  anxious  concern  for  hu- 
manity than  did  the  writers  of  the 
Catechism.  Little  Emily,  now  famous 
through  the  investigations  of  the  State 
Senate  Vice-Investigating  Committee 
of  Illinois  regarding  the  relationship  be- 
tween wages  and  prostitution,  is  taught 
by  the  most  modern  school  of  philan- 
thropy not  to  call  upon  God  by  diligent 
prayer  if  she  would  preserve  her  chas- 
tity, but  to  call  upon  Brown,  Jones  & 
Company  for  higher  wages,  and  the 
state  legislature  for  a  minimum-wage 
law. 

I  shall  not  undertake  to  deny  that 
wages  and  prostitution,  ventilation  and 
morals,  food  and  faith,  shelter  some 
common  factor;  but  in  the  interest  of 
decency,  the  fact  must  not  be  over-em- 
phasized. The  last  rag  of  respectabil- 
ity to  which  the  sinner  desperately 
clings  is  a  sense  of  sin.  Rob  him  of  that 
and  you  have  robbed  him  of  his  good 
name.  He  has  sold  his  birthright  and 
is  no  longer  a  child  of  God.  Little 
Emily  on  the  witness-stand,  unless  be- 
trayed by  the  sociologist,  does  not  wish 
the  world  to  think  that  her  chastity 
is  an  affair  which  rests  entirely  with 
labor  legislation. 


BROWNING  AND  THE  SPECIAL  INTERESTS 


813 


Here  is  my  quarrel  with  so  many  of 
the  public-service  sciences.  They  are 
robbing  us  of  our  self-respect.  St.  Paul's 
psychology  was  more  true  to  human  na- 
ture, and  far  more  chivalrous.  There  is 
a  mechanical  side  to  morals,  as  eugenic 
experts  and  the  futurists  in  morals  un- 
dertake to  show;  but  they  have  over- 
capitalized the  shabby  fact. 

In  one  of  the  late  art  exhibitions,  I 
was  brought  to  pause  before  a  futurist 
cow.  The  picture  called  for  a  radical 
readjustment  of  my  old-fashioned  no- 
tions of  fitness  of  form  and  figure.  Were 
cows  really  made  in  such  dissonant, 
warring  entanglements  of  lines  and  sur- 
faces? But  the  next  time  I  visited  my 
dairy  I  caught  my  best  Ayrshire  in  the 
very  act  of  reproducing  the  futurist  at- 
titude —  its  massive  spreading  back  in 
veritable  imitation  of  those  awkward 
masses.  There,  behold,  was  the  cubist 
cow  in  all  her  garish  disregard  of  class- 
ical detail,  flaunting  her  futurism  in 
my  face!  Had  she  too  been  to  the  art 
exhibition,  and  had  I  here  proof  of 
Oscar  Wilde's  contention  that  Nature 
slavishly  copies  art? 

My  quarrel  with  the  futurist  was  that 
he  had  betrayed  me.  He  had  taken  my 
best  Ayrshire  and  with  his  foul  wand 
converted  her  into  a  cubist  monster. 
Henceforth  I  must  wander  through 
dairy  and  pasture  seeing  cubist  bo  vines 
where  once  Nature  exulted  in  come- 
ly masses  of  tans  and  brownish  reds 
spreading  in  graceful  surfaces  upon  the 
ground. 

Something  like  this  is  happening  all 
the  while  at  the  hands  of  our  special- 
ists,— neurologists,  criminologists,  psy- 
chologists, sociologists,  and  the  rest. 
They  betray  the  confidence  placed  in 
them.  In  certain  matters  they  speak 
with  authority.  They  have  a  truth 
but  they  overcapitalize  it.  They  have 
read  Schwartzenburg,  taken  time-reac- 
tion tests,  gathered  statistics  relating  to 
wages,  ventilation,  prostitution,  sew* 


age,  tenement-house  dimensions,  child 
culture  and  infant  mortality;  then  they 
begin  to  generalize  about  life. 

The  cow  in  some  respects  does  re- 
semble the  cubist  presentment  of  her, 
but  has  she  not  other  delightful  appear- 
ances as  well?  Why  tarry  in  the  slough 
of  an  occasional  degrading  fact?  The 
futurist,  riding  his  mechanical  truth, 
has  failed  to  grasp  the  cow's  real  aesthe- 
tic intention  and  the  redemptive  lines 
of  her  beauty.  In  clothing  one  of  our 
dear  old  racial  possessions  in  the  odious 
garment  of  his  special  idea,  he  has  out- 
raged and  betrayed  us. 


rv 

None  of  the  Special  Interests  can 
rightly  be  called  predatory  until  it  allies 
itself  with  government.  Here  is  the  real 
stigma  attached  to  sugar,  oil,  and  other 
odious  specials  which  have  brought  the 
so-called  'Interests'  into  bad  repute. 
But  of  late  Philanthropy  has  been 
despoiling  the  interests  of  their  most 
facile  weapon,  taxation.  St.  Francis  no 
longer  takes  the  open  road  bent  upon 
errands  of  mercy.  He  light-heartedly 
boards  a  tram  for  the  Halls  of  Legisla- 
tion. That  is  the  simplest  way  'to  fix 
the  matter  up.'  Instead  of  helping  our 
neighbor  in  the  old-fashioned  way, 
modern  philanthropy  is  more  construc- 
tive. It  is  teaching  him  to  go  to  the 
public  treasury  and  help  himself. 

Mind  you,  there  is  nothing  indeco- 
rous about  these  newer  interests,  — 
none  of  the  rough  scrambling  for  con- 
cessions as  among  the  old  money  barons 
under  the  robust  regime  of  plutocracy. 
All  is  courteous  and  generous-minded. 
The  advocates  of  the  six-hour  day  for 
workingmen  graciously  wave  forward 
the  advocates  of  the  eight-hour  day 
with,  'After  you.  There  is  enough  to  go 
round  and  plenty  for  everybody.' 

Any  theory  is  harmless  so  long  as  it 
good-naturedly  submits,  to  the  law  of 


814 


BROWNING  AND  THE  SPECIAL  INTERESTS 


the  survival  of  the  fittest.  That  is  the 
real  gospel  of  Democracy.  Everybody 
given  a  chance,  and  everybody  a  good 
listener.  Since  religion  accepted  these 
terms,  it  has  been  getting  along  ami- 
cably with  its  neighbors.  We  have 
abolished  the  rack,  and  instituted  the 
religious  quarterly  and  Parliaments  of 
Religion.  Conflicting  theories  can  fight 
the  matter  out  in  debate  till  every- 
body is  convinced  or  bored  and  no  par- 
ticular harm  is  done.  It  is  the  subsidized 
theory  which  is  dangerous.  If,  for  ex- 
ample, Comparative  Religion  were  to 
add  to  its  arrogant  demeanor  the  an- 
cient weapon  of  the  law,  we  should 
think  it  highly  predatory.  Fortunate- 
ly Schwartzenburg  has  not  gone  into 
politics. 

We  must  treat  some  of  the  preten- 
tious chivalry  of  the  Special  Interests 
with  restrained  admiration.  There  is  a 
skeleton  in  their  closet.  Brotherly  love, 
on  which  the  Public-Service  sciences 
are  builded,  presupposes  sacrifice.  But 
'love,  justice,  self-sacrifice/  as  Nietz- 
sche points  out,  *  are  generally  praised 
by  the  wrong  people.  You  talk  of  self- 
sacrifice,'  he  exclaims  to  his  contempo- 
raries, *  but  you  have  nothing  to  sacri- 
fice. You  are  weak  persons  who  desire 
that  others  should  sacrifice  themselves 
to  you.' 

Heretofore  the  Millennium  has  been 
deemed  a  spiritual  task.  It  involved  a 
cross.  Religion  has,  in  the  past,  bred 
men  and  women  extravagantly  willing 
to  pay  for  their  unselfish  dream  out  of 
their  own  earnings.  Martyr's  blood  has 
enriched  the  programme  of  the  saints. 
But  the  Millennium  is  now  in  the  hands 
of  less  robust  teachers.  It  is  no  longer 


the  gospel  of  sacrifice,  but  a  dexterous 
triumph  of  legislation. 

There  is  many  a  facile  programme 
for  bringing  in  the  kingdom  of  happi- 
ness here  on  earth.  We  are  persuaded 
that  if  only  we  can  get  more  —  more 
health,  more  money  for  our  labor,  more 
comforts  and  play  —  we  shall  have 
solved  our  problems  and  supplied  our 
moral  deficiencies.  But,  despite  our 
restless  efforts  for  the  common  good, 
we  are  not  made  brothers.  The  dis- 
integrating forces  of  envy  and  suspi- 
cion are  tearing  at  the  heart  of  life. 
The  special  interests  of  the  *  have-nots ' 
do  battle  with  the  special  interests  of 
the  'haves,'  and  while  both  are  'cajol- 
ing and  cudgeling  the  state '  into  grant- 
ing concessions,  they  cleave  us  further 
asunder. 

'The  atmosphere  of  a  common  will' 
can  come  not  by  the  monopoly  of  any 
special  interest  nor  yet  by  magnani- 
mous concessions  to  pity,  but  by  the 
regenerating  power  of  a  great  idea. 
Religion  claims  this  power.  But  she 
too,  in  the  lean  seasons  of  her  loy- 
alty, became  a  special  interest.  Then 
Humanitarianism  undertook  the  ne- 
glected task.  Because  her  chivalrous 
intention  led  us  to  expect  the  best, 
we  will  not  accept  from  her  a  meagre 
millennium  of  loaves  and  fishes  for  the 
poor. 

We  have  lately  seen  how,  in  England, 
a  new  patriotism  inspired  by  the  war 
has  welded  together  the  dissenting  and 
predatory  groups  into  self-forgetful 
servants  of  the  state.  Religion,  if  we 
despair  not  of  her,  will  yet  again  lift  us 
out  of  our  separate  interests  and  make 
us  partners  in  the  tasks  of  life. 


CHANGELING 

I* 

BY  FANNIE   STEARNS  GIFFORD 

I  HAVE  two  horns  upon  my  head. 
They  please  me,  being  garlanded 
With  creepy  pine,  and  berries  red 
From  some  old  secret  hawthorn  tree. 

I  have  two  horns,  and  hoofs  also: 
Brown  questing  hoofs,  that  clip  and  go 
Over  the  mountain,  high  and  low, 
From  sky-crack  to  the  droning  sea. 

My  mother  would  have  shame  of  me 
If  she  could  see  —  if  she  could  see  — 
Those  horns  and  hoofs  that  make  too  free 
With  what  she  bore  and  bred  so  straight. 

She  taught  me  to  be  still  and  good; 
To  walk  demure  as  maidens  should; 
Wear  dainty  slippers,  silken  snood, 
And  not  come  loitering  home  too  late. 

But  now  I  dance,  I  dance  all  night, 
By  faint  starlight  or  fierce  moonlight, 
Over  the  mountain,  till  the  white 
Dumb  dawn  comes  fingering,  soothing  me. 

With  whom  I  dance,  with  whom  I  sing, 
My  mother  need  not  know  this  thing.  — 
In  my  green  chamber  slumbering 
She  finds  me  sweet  and  white,  when  she 

Strokes  down  my  curls.   She  does  not  know 
Two  horns  beneath  her  fingers  grow: 
Rough  horns :  and  I  have  hoofs  also, 
Not  feet  like  pale  flow'rs  on  the  floor. 


816 


CHANGELING 


Oh,  if  you  met  me  on  the  hill, 
Moon-maddened,  dancing  to  my  fill,  — 
Oh,  Mother,  could  you  love  me  still,  — 
This  wild-heart  Thing  you  never  bore? 


AN  ESTIMATE  OF  GERMAN  SCIENTIFIC   CULTURE 


BY   JOHN   TROWBRIDGE 


GERMANY'S  claim  to  preeminence  in 
culture  is  upheld  by  the  largest  body  of 
professors  in  the  world,  and  there  is  a 
tendency  in  America,  a  neutral  country, 
to  accept  it.  But  is  Germany  preemi- 
nent in  science? 

In  my  discussion  of  this  claim,  I 
shall  concede  that  the  Germans  lead  in 
the  subject  of  organic  chemistry,  which 
demands  patient  industry  and  the  assi- 
duous collection  of  facts,  and  which  has 
not  yet  been  absorbed  by  the  subject 
of  electrodynamics,  which  is  so  rapidly 
becoming  all-embracing;  I  shall  confine 
my  discussion  to  physical  science,  — 
which  treats  of  those  fundamental  sub- 
jects, light,  heat,  electricity,  and  mag- 
netism, —  and  to  mathematics  and 
physical  chemistry. 

Physics  may  be  called  the  subject  of 
energy,  upon  the  ramifications  of  which 
all  life  depends.  Achievement  in  it 
demands  the  highest  powers  of  the 
human  mind  —  imagination,  mathe- 
matical knowledge,  and  the  philosophi- 
cal insight  to  plan  crucial  experiments. 
It  is  my  contention  that  the  Anglo- 
Saxons  have  shown  these  powers  to  the 
greatest  degree;  that  in  the  exhibition 
of  scientific  culture  England  and  France 
lead  Germany;  and  moreover,  that  un- 
der the  Empire,  since  the  Franco-Prus- 


sian war,  Germany  has  fallen  to  the 
third  place  in  physics.  The  question 
whether  this  deterioration  has  been 
due  to  militarism  and  commercialism 
I  leave  to  the  psychologists. 

Let  us  consider  the  history  of  phys- 
ical science.  The  subject  did  not  exist 
until,  in  the  thirteenth  century,  Roger 
Bacon  advocated  the  necessity  of  ex- 
perimental science  and  wrote  his  Opus 
Majus,  which  is  full  of  philosophical 
and  scientific  insight.  Bacon  also  out- 
lined the  principle  of  the  telescope. 
Four  hundred  years  later,  Francis  Ba- 
con, enlarging  upon  the  work  of  his 
predecessor  and  namesake,  established 
the  doctrine  of  inductive  reasoning 
pursued  to-day  in  all  laboratories. 

Sir  Isaac  Newton,  taking  Kepler's 
carefully  ascertained  principles  con- 
cerning planetary  motions,  established 
the  law  of  gravitation.  In  doing  so,  he 
manifested  the  peculiar  strength  of  the 
British  mind  in  scientific  generaliza- 
tion. It  is  probable  that  no  man  ever 
combined  the  demonstrative  and  in- 
ductive faculties  in  such  a  high  degree 
as  Newton.  The  Germans  claim  that 
Leibnitz  anticipated  Newton  in  the 
great  mathematical  discovery  of  dif- 
ferential and  integral  calculus;  a  study 
of  the  minds  of  the  two  men,  however, 


AN  ESTIMATE  OF   GERMAN   SCIENTIFIC  CULTURE       817 


brings  out  forcibly  the  preeminence  of 
the  Englishman's  culture. 

While  Huygens  of  Holland,  as  well 
as  Newton,  contributed  greatly  to  our 
knowledge  of  optics,  it  may  be  said  that 
the  undulatory  theory  was  established 
by  Thomas  Young.  Young's  reasoning 
upon  the  phenomena  of  interference  of 
light  was  one  of  the  greatest  contribu- 
tions ever  made  to  science;  the  inter- 
ference of  waves  of  light  has  long  since 
been  recognized  as  an  incontrovertible 
fact. 

It  was  Count  Rumford,  an  Anglo- 
American,  who  measured  the  heat  de- 
veloped in  boring  a  cannon,  compared 
it  with  the  amount  of  work  done,  and 
thereby  proved  that  heat  has  its  exact 
equivalent  in  motion.  Here  was  ex- 
hibited the  Anglo-Saxon  power  of  trying 
crucial  experiments.  Rumford's  philo- 
sophical views  were  tersely  expressed 
in  the  words,  *  I  hope  to  live  to  see  the 
day  when  phlogiston  and  caloric  will  be 
buried  in  the  same  grave.'  Phlogiston 
was  the  supposed  agent  in  supporting 
fire,  and  caloric  was  the  essence  of  heat. 
Priestly,  who  proved  that  combustion 
was  supported  by  oxygen,  contributed 
with  Rumford  to  make  the  burial  a  fact. 
The  labors  of  these  two  men,  together 
with  the  contributions  of  Lavoisier, 
Regnault,  and  a  great  number  of  other 
distinguished  Frenchmen,  laid  the 
foundations  of  chemistry  in  the  subject 
of  energy.  Hydrogen  was  discovered 
by  Cavendish  in  England,  which  thus 
gave  to  the  world  the  knowledge  of  both 
oxygen  and  hydrogen. 

In  the  field  of  electricity,  too,  Caven- 
dish was  a  leader,  being  the  forerunner 
of  Faraday  in  researches  concerning 
the  behavior  of  electricity  toward  in- 
sulators, or  in  other  words  concerning 
its  specific  capacity;  these  researches 
were  of  great  importance  to  ocean  tele- 
graphy. He  also  anticipated  Ohm  in 
the  fundamental  law  which  connects 
the  strength  of  an  electrical  current 

VOL.  114- NO.  6 


with  electromotive  force  and  the  resist- 
ance of  the  circuit.  Sir  Humphry  Davy 
contributed,  besides  the  discovery  of 
chlorine,  that  of  the  effect  of  strong  elec- 
tric currents  in  decomposing  earths  and 
alkalis,  —  a  discovery  which  has  led  to 
the  establishment  of  great  metallurgi- 
cal works  in  Germany  and  also  in  Amer- 
ica, notably  the  great  plant  at  Niagara 
Falls. 

Michael  Faraday  proved  the  fun- 
damental law  that  the  amount  of  de- 
composition of  fluids  is  proportioned 
to  the  amount  of  electricity  employed. 
He  was  also  the  father  of  all  the  great 
practical  employments  of  electricity; 
his  experiments  and  reasoning  led  to 
the  invention  of  the  dynamo,  the  tele- 
phone, and  the  apparatus  employed  in 
wireless  telegraphy.  We  can  imagine 
with  what  elation  of  spirit  he  wrote  to 
a  friend,  during  his  experiments  on  in- 
duction, saying'that  he  had  caught  hold 
of  a  fish  which  might  prove  a  large 
one!  Faraday's  reasoning  was  said 
by  Maxwell,  the  author  of  the  greatest 
physical  hypothesis  since  the  time  of 
the  Franco-Prussian  War,  to  be  essen- 
tially mathematical. 

De  Candolle,  a  distinguished  Swiss 
scientist,  gives  in  an  interesting  book 
entitled  Histoire  des  Sciences  et  des  Sa- 
vants pendant  deux  Siecles  some  sugges- 
tive statistics  with  regard  to  the  foreign 
membership  in  the  French  Academy 
from  its  inception  in  1666  to  1883.  De 
Candolle's  list  offers  an  interesting  ba- 
sis for  a  comparison  of  English  and 
German  scientific  culture.  In  phys- 
ics, mathematics,  and  chemistry  I  find 
the  following  Englishmen:  Cavendish, 
Watt  (the  inventor  of  the  steam-en- 
gine) ,  Davy,  Young,  Faraday,  Brewster 
(distinguished  in  optics),  Wheatstone 
(a  pioneer  in  telegraphy),  Lord  Kelvin, 
Franklin,  Rumford,  and  Newton.  These 
men  were  the  movers  of  the  world.  The 
Germans  in  the  same  subjects  were 
Leibnitz,  Gauss,  Olbers,  Dirichlet,  and 


818       AN  ESTIMATE  OF  GERMAN   SCIENTIFIC   CULTURE 


Bunsen,  the  latter  being,  with  Kirch- 
hoff,  the  discoverer  of  spectrum  analy- 
sis. (Helmholtz,  who  is  not  in  De  Can- 
dolte's  list,  was  probably  elected  later. 
It  is  interesting,  by  the  way,  to  note 
that  Helmholtz 's  mother  was  partly 
Anglo-Saxon;  she  was  a  lineal  descend- 
ant of  William  Penn,  the  Quaker.) 
There  are  in  De  Candolle's  list  eleven 
Englishmen  and  seven  Germans. 

It  is  worth  remarking  as  well  that  the 
rise  of  scientific  culture  in  England 
came  largely  at  the  time  when  peace 
and  liberty  prevailed  over  the  pursuit 
of  war.  That  this  culture  cannot  flour- 
ish to  the  highest  degree  in  a  country 
given  over  to  militarism  is  an  incon- 
testable fact.  De  Candolle  remarks,  in 
his  book  above  mentioned,  that  science 
was  at  a  low  ebb  in  England  and  Scot- 
land during  the  period  of  unrest,  of  dis- 
sensions, and  of  wars  in  the  eighteenth 
century.  His  words  are  especially  in- 
teresting as  he  continues :  *  Later,  after 
fifty  or  sixty  years  of  completely  estab- 
lished security,  the  torch  of  science 
burst  into  fresh  flame  in  the  hands 
of  Hunter,  Priestly,  and  Hutton,  and 
eventually  when  the  social  order  was 
still  more  solidly  organized,  the  world 
beheld  the  great  epoch  of  Anglo-Scot- 
tish science  represented  at  the  close  of 
the  eighteenth  and  the  beginning  of  the 
nineteenth  centuries  by  Cavendish, 
Davy,  Wollaston,  Brewster,  Herschell, 
Robert  Brown,  Dalton,  Faraday,  Mur- 
chison,  and  the  rest.' 

The  comparative  peace  which  pre- 
vailed in  Europe  between  1840  and 
1870  had  probably  much  to  do  with 
Germany's  scientific  advance  during 
that  period.  She  went  far  ahead  of  all 
other  nations  in  building  and  equipping 
laboratories.  She  developed  by  patient 
routine  work  the  general  subject  of  phy- 
sics. Yet  although  there  was  a  marked 
increase  during  this  period  in  the  num- 
ber of  Germans  admitted  to  the  French 
Academy,  her  work  in  general  failed  to 


show  those  qualities  which  I  have  as- 
cribed to  the  British.  It  is  a  fact  that 
the  great  physical  hypotheses  have  been 
Anglo-Saxon  in  origin.  And  culture  is 
noticeably  lacking  in  German  scientific 
literature.  For  clearness  of  expression 
and  style  we  must  go  to  the  French. 

Since  Sedan,  Germany  has  fallen  into 
third  place  in  the  subjects  I  have  men- 
tioned; England  and  France  have  led 
her.  It  is  significant  that  with  the 
growth  of  militarism  Germany's  un- 
doubted genius  for  science  has  been 
repressed.  Meanwhile  England  has 
supplied  her  with  mental  food  by  Max- 
well's electrodynamic  theory  of  light, 
which  postulates  that  light  and  heat 
are  electrical  phenomena,  and  that  elec- 
tric waves  differ  from  light  waves  only 
in  length,  —  a  theory  which  makes 
electricity  the  most  important  physical 
agent  in  the  world.  Then,  too,  England 
and  France  together  have  laid  the 
foundations  of  the  new  great  subject  of 
radioactivity,  which  is  based  upon  the 
action  of  the  electron.  The  electron, 
the  smallest  particle  known  to  science, 
being  one  thousandth  the  size  of  the 
hydrogen  atom,  was  discovered  and 
measured  in  England.  Its  discovery 
was  not  accidental,  but  was  due  to  the 
methodical  application  of  the  mathe- 
matical work  of  Stokes  in  regard  to 
the  internal  friction  of  gases,  or  what 
is  termed  viscosity. 

It  is  true  that  the  discovery  of  the 
X-rays  in  Germany — a  fortunate  acci- 
dent, by  the  way  —  enabled  the  Eng- 
lish to  make  the  crucial  experiment 
which  measured  the  electron;  but  the 
phenomenon  of  the  X-rays  remained 
an  isolated  one  until  the  English  ap- 
plied it  to  the  theory  of  radioactivity. 
This  theory  is  at  present  the  leading 
one  in  physical  science,  and  England 
may  be  said  to  have  made  it  her  own. 
It  received  its  name  from  the  discov- 
ery of  radium  by  Professor  Curie  and 
Madame  Curie,  in  Paris.  The  centre  of 


AN  ESTIMATE  OF  GERMAN  SCIENTIFIC    CULTURE      819 


investigation  in  this  subject  is  now 
Cambridge,  England,  and  American 
students  flock  there  in  preference  to 
going  to  Germany. 

The  epoch-making  isolation  of  the 
electron  is  profoundly  modifying  our 
views  of  the  constitution  of  matter.  At 
present  English  thought  is  grappling 
with  the  idea  of  intricate  motions  even 
within  the  atom.  Think  of  the  concep- 
tion of  what  may  be  called  planetary 
motions  in  a  particle  so  minute  that  it 
is  forever  invisible  to  human  eyes!  The 
world  has  never  seen  such  an  exhibi- 
tion of  scientific  imagination.  Long 
before  the  discovery  of  the  electron 
an  English  poet  wrote  these  lines  in 
Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After:  — 

Sees  the  shadow  of  Himself,  the  boundless,  thro' 
the  human  soul; 

Boundless  inward,  in  the  atom,  boundless  out- 
ward, in  the  Whole. 

Tennyson's  parallel  is  apt;  in  their  spec- 
ulation upon  motions  within  the  atom, 
English  scientists  have  pushed  into  a 
region  apparently  as  impenetrable  as 
the  space  beyond  the  fixed  stars. 

Germany  is  strongest  in  chemical  sci- 
ence. But  what  achievement  in  chem- 
ical science  in  Germany  equals  Lord 
Rayleigh's  contribution  of  argon,  which 
led  to  the  discovery  of  neon  and  cryp- 
ton  and  other  gases  by  Ramsay;  or  can 
compare  with  Ramsay's  discovery  of 
the  change  of  radium  into  helium,  —  a 
fact  which  profoundly  modifies  our 
views  of  the  constitution  of  matter? 

There  is  always  a  chance  for  parti- 
sans in  science  to  argue  that  So-and-so, 
when  he  made  his  great  discovery,  was 
merely  acting  on  a  previous  worker's 
suggestion.  I  suppose  that  if  Demo- 
critus  and  Lucretius  should  come  back 
to  earth  to-day,  national  pride  would 
lead  them  to  claim  the  origin  of  both  the 
molecular  hypothesis  and  the  electron 
theory.  Germany  can  reasonably  claim 
that  Hittorf  anticipated  the  English- 
man Crookes  in  his  discovery  of  the 


cathode  rays.  Hertz  may  be  said  to 
have  led  the  way  to  wireless  telegraphy. 
But  the  facts  serve  to  show  that  Hertz 
was  working  on  Maxwell's  electrody- 
namic  theory  of  electric  waves;  that 
Marconi  had  probably  not  read  Hertz's 
work  before  he  made  his  great  inven- 
tion; and  that  the  discovery  was  made 
possible  by  Branly,  a  Frenchman,  who 
discovered  the  first  receiver  of  electric 

« 

waves,  the  so-called  coherer,  —  a  col- 
lection of  magnetic  particles  in  a  tube 
which  becomes  an  electrical  conductor 
under  the  influence  of  these  waves. 
And  American  experimenters  have  now 
contributed  still  more  sensitive  receiv- 
ers. Altogether  the  German  share  in 
the  work  is  not  so  very  great  after 
all. 

Those  Americans  who  are  loudest  in 
their  praise  of  German  culture  often 
argue  from  an  imperfect  knowledge  of 
the  history  of  science.  How  many 
Americans  realize  the  importance  of 
the  work  of  their  own  countrymen? 
Josiah  Willard  Gibbs  of  Yale  Univer- 
sity gave  German  chemists  a  physical 
foundation  for  their  facts.  Langley's 
work  in  aerodynamics  led  to  the  inven- 
tion of  the  aeroplane.  Michelson  and 
Rowland  have  made  the  greatest  ad- 
vances in  the  subject  of  optics  since 
the  Franco-Prussian  War.  The  Anglo- 
Saxons  invented  the  telephone,  which 
has  profoundly  modified  and  enlarged 
our  views  of  electrical  induction,  and 
has  made  possible  wireless  telegraphy. 
America  has  lighted  the  world.  It  is 
only  too  easy  for  Americans  to  over- 
look these  facts;  and  it  is  equally  cer- 
tain that  we  are  too  likely  to  under- 
estimate England's  achievements  in 
science. 

In  scientific  culture,  exemplified  by 
the  use  of  imagination,  by  mathemati- 
cal knowledge,  and  by  philosophical 
insight  leading  to  the  performance 
of  crucial  experiments,  Great  Britain 
stands  first. 


THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


BY   G.   LOWES   DICKINSON 


To  put  myself  right  with  the  reader 
at  the  outset,  I  begin  by  stating  that 
this  is  not  a  'stop  the  war*  paper.  Be- 
ing in  this  war,  I  think,  as  all  English- 
men think,  that  we  must  go  on  fighting 
until  we  can  emerge  from  it  with  our 
territory  and  security  intact,  and  with 
the  future  peace  of  Europe  assured,  so 
far  as  human  wisdom  can  assure  it. 
Nor  do  I  here  discuss  the  question 
whether  or  not  it  was  necessary  for  us 
to  enter  into  the  war.  Nor  whether  the 
direct  and  immediate  responsibility  for 
it  rests  mainly  with  Austria,  Germany, 
or  Russia.  My  point  is  a  different  one. 
I  believe  that  this  war,  like  all  wars  for 
many  centuries  in  Europe,  was  brought 
about  by  governments,  without  the 
connivance  and  against  the  desires  and 
the  interests  of  peoples;  that  it  is  a 
calamity  to  civilization  unequaled,  un- 
exampled, perhaps  irremediable;  and 
that  the  only  good  that  can  come  out 
of  it  is  a  clearer  comprehension  by  ordi- 
nary men  and  women  of  how  wars  are 
brought  about,  and  a  determination 
on  their  part  to  put  a  stop  to  them. 

If  any  one,  having  read  so  far,  is  clear 
that  he  has  no  interest  in  this  point  of 
view,  or  that  he  is  hostile  to  it,  I  hope 
that  he  will  throw  the  article  aside. 
For  it  is  not  an  exercise  in  dialectics  or 
a  theme  for  exasperated  argument.  It 
is  an  act  performed  in  what  I  believe  to 
be  the  interest  of  civilization;  and  it  is 
meant  to  bear  fruit.  I  am  suggesting  a 
way  in  which  Europe  may  be  saved  in 
the  future  from  such  wars  as  that  in 

820  l  Copyright,  1914,  by  the 


which  we  are  involved.  It  is  a  way  not 
for  England  alone,  but  for  all  coun- 
tries, and  it  is  possible  only  if  all  coun- 
tries accept  it.  But  for  the  moment  it  is 
only  Englishmen  and  Americans  whom 
I  can  address.  I  address  them,  to  the 
best  of  my  ability,  without  prejudice, 
without  sophistry,  without  rhetoric. 

My  intention  is  not  to  carry  away, 
but  to  convince;  and  I  ask  the  reader 
only  to  give  me  a  hearing  and  to  judge 
for  himself.  For  on  that  individual 
judgment  of  his,  on  its  clearness,  its 
tenacity,  its  conviction,  will  depend  his 
contribution  to  the  future  of  civiliza- 
tion. Public  opinion  has  weight  only 
in  proportion  to  the  number  of  con- 
vinced individuals  who  compose  it. 
And  public  opinion  alone  can  save 
what  is  to  be  saved  of  Europe,  when 
this  cataclysm  has  passed  by. 

The  position  1  intend  to  put  forward 
and  defend  is  this :  War  is  made  —  this 
war  has  been  made  —  not  by  any 
necessity  of  nature,  any  law  beyond 
human  control,  any  fate  to  which  men 
must  passively  bow;  it  is  made  be- 
cause certain  men  who  have  immediate 
power  over  other  men  are  possessed  by 
a  certain  theory.  Sometimes  they  are 
fully  conscious  of  this  theory.  More 
often,  perhaps,  it  works  in  them  uncon- 
sciously. But  it  is  there,  the  dominat- 
ing influence  in  international  politics. 
I  shall  call  it  the  governmental  theory, 
because  it  is  among  governing  persons 

—  emperors,    kings,     ministers,    and 
their  diplomatic  and  military  advisers 

—  that  its  influence  is  most  conspicu- 
ous and  most  disastrous.  But  it  is  sup- 
Atlantic  Monthly  Company, 


THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


821 


ported  also  by  historians,  journalists, 
and  publicists,  and  it  is  only  too  read- 
ily adopted  by  the  ordinary  man,  when 
he  turns  from  the  real  things  he  knows 
and  habitually  handles  to  consider  the 
unknown  field  of  foreign  affairs. 

Very  briefly,  and,  therefore,  crudely 
expressed,  the  theory  is  this:  'The 
world  is  divided,  politically,  into 
states.  These  states  are  a  kind  of  ab- 
stract beings,  distinct  from  the  men, 
women,  and  children  who  inhabit  them. 
They  are  in  perpetual  and  inevitable 
antagonism  to  one  another;  and  though 
they  may  group  themselves  in  alli- 
ances, that  can  be  only  for  temporary 
purposes  to  meet  some  other  alliance  or 
single  power.  For  states  are  bound  by 
a  moral  or  physical  obligation  to  ex- 
pand indefinitely,  each  at  the  cost  of  the 
others.  They  are  natural  enemies,  they 
always  have  been  so,  and  they  always 
will  b§;  and  force  is  the  only  arbiter 
between  them.  That  being  so,  war  is 
an  eternal  necessity.  As  a  necessity,  it 
should  be  accepted,  if  not  welcomed, 
by  all  sound-thinking  and  right-feeling 
men.  Pacifists  are  men  at  once  weak 
and  dangerous.  They  deny  a  fact  as 
fundamental  as  any  of  the  facts  of  the 
natural  world.  And  their  influence,  if 
they  have  any,  can  only  be  disastrous 
to  their  state  in  its  ceaseless  and  inevi- 
table contest  with  other  states/ 

Stated  thus  briefly,  and  in  its  most 
uncompromising  terms,  this  is  what  I 
have  called  the  governmental  theory. 
I  propose  to  criticize  it  in  detail.  But 
before  doing  so,  I  will  ask  the  reader  to 
compare  with  it  the  ordinary  attitude 
of  the  plain  men  and  women  who  in- 
habit these  states,  and  who  have  to 
bear  the  burden  of  the  wars  in  which 
the  theory  involves  them.  These  ordi- 
nary people,  in  the  course  of  their  daily 
lives,  do  not  think  at  all  in  terms  of  the 
state.  They  think  about  the  people 
they  come  in  contact  with,  about  their 
business,  their  friends,  and  their  fami- 


lies. When  they  come  across  foreigners, 
as  many  of  them  do,  in  business  or  in 
travel,  they  may  like  or  dislike  them, 
but  they  do  not  regard  them  as  pre- 
destined enemies.  On  the  contrary,  if 
they  are  intelligent,  they  know  them- 
selves to  be  cooperating  with  them  in 
innumerable  complicated  ways,  imply- 
ing mutual  advantage.  Differences  of 
language  and  of  social  habit  make  it 
easier  for  most  people  to  associate  with 
their  fellow  countrymen  than  with  for- 
eigners. But  that  is  all.  There  are,  of 
course,  among  these  men  and  women, 
real  enmities  and  spontaneous  quarrels. 
But  these  do  not  occur  because  men 
belong  to  different  states.  They  occur 
because  they  really  have  injured  one 
another,  or  hate  one  another;  and  they 
occur,  naturally,  for  the  most  part,  be- 
tween men  of  the  same  state,  because 
it  is  these  who  most  often  come  into 
direct  contact  with  one  another.  It  is 
not,  therefore,  these  enmities  of  ordi- 
nary men  that  give  rise  to  wars. 

Wars  are  made  by  governments,  act- 
ing under  the  influence  of  the  govern- 
mental theory.  And  of  this  fact  —  for 
a  fact  it  is  among  civilized  Western 
peoples  in  modern  times  —  no  better 
example  could  be  given  than  the  pres- 
ent war.  Before  it  broke  out  nobody 
outside  governmental  and  journalistic 
circles  was  expecting  it.  Nobody  de- 
sired it.  And  though,  now  that  it  is 
being  waged,  all  the  nations  concerned 
are  passionately  interested  in  it,  and 
all  believe  themselves  to  be  fighting  in 
a  righteous  cause,  yet  no  ordinary  citi- 
zen, in  the  days  preceding  its  outbreak, 
would  have  maintained  that  there  was 
any  good  reason  for  war,  and  few  even 
knew  what  the  reasons  alleged  were 
or  might  be.  Even  now  the  different 
nations  have  quite  opposite  views  as 
to  which  government  was  responsible. 
We  believe  it  was  the  German  govern- 
ment; and  with  equal  conviction  Ger- 
mans believe  it  was  the  British.  But 


822 


THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


nobody  believes  that  it  was  the  mass  of 
the  people  in  any  nation.  The  millions 
who  are  carrying  on  the  war,  at  the 
cost  of  incalculable  suffering,  would 
never  have  made  it  if  the  decision  had 
rested  with  them.  That  is  the  one  in- 
disputable fact.  How  can  such  a  fact 
occur?  How  is  it  possible  for  govern- 
ments to  drag  into  war  peoples  who  did 
not  desire  war  and  who  have  no  quar- 
rel with  one  another? 

The  immediate  answer  is  simple 
enough.  In  no  country  is  there  any 
effective  control  by  the  people  over 
foreign  policy.  That  is  clear  in  the 
case  of  the  great  military  empires.  But 
it  is  true  also  of  France  and  of  Eng- 
land, where,  in  other  respects,  govern- 
ment is  more  or  less  under  popular  con- 
trol. The  country  has  no  real  choice, 
for  it  gets  its  information  only  after  the 
decisive  action  has  been  taken.  That 
is  an  important  truth  which  ought  to 
lead  to  important  changes  in  our  meth- 
ods of  conducting  foreign  affairs.  But 
it  is  only  part  of  the  truth.  For  we  have 
now  to  notice  this  further  fact,  that  in 
all  countries,  in  Germany  no  less  than 
in  England  and  France,  no  sooner  is 
the  war  declared  than  it  is  supported 
by  the  whole  nation.  The  voice  of  criti- 
cism is  silenced,  and  every  one,  what- 
ever his  opinion  about  the  origin  of  the 
war,  gives  his  help  to  see  it  through. 
Why  is  that?  The  reason  is  obvious. 
As  soon  as  war  is  made,  the  people  of 
one  country,  conscious,  just  before,  of 
no  cause  of  enmity,  do  really  become 
enemies  of  the  people  of  another  coun- 
try; for  armed  populations  are  march- 
ing on  armed  populations  to  massacre 
them.  Everybody,  therefore,  is  bound 
to  fight  in  self-defense.  It  is  too  late  to 
ask  whether  there  was  any  real  cause 
of  quarrel;  for,  quarrel  or  no,  there  is 
real  and  imminent  danger.  To  meet  that 
danger  becomes,  therefore,  the  imme- 
diate necessity  which  overbears  every 
other  consideration.  And  that  is  the 


deepest  reason  why  wars  made  by  gov- 
ernments without,  and  even  against, 
the  will  of  peoples,  will  always  be  sup- 
ported by  peoples. 

But  though  that  is  the  most  power- 
ful reason,  it  is  not  the  only  one.  There 
is  a  further  fact.  The  ordinary  man, 
though  he  does  not  live  under  the  ob- 
session of  the  governmental  theory,  is 
not  protected  against  it  by  any  know- 
ledge or  reflection.  As  far  as  he  is  con- 
cerned, he  knows  no  reason  for  war, 
and,  left  to  himself,  would  never  make 
it.  But  he  has  a  blank  mind  open  to 
suggestion;  and  he  has  passions  and 
instincts  which  it  is  easy  to  enlist  on 
the  side  of  the  governmental  theory. 
He  has  been  busy  all  his  life;  and  he 
has  no  education,  or  one  that  is  worse 
than  none,  about  those  issues  which,  in 
a  crisis  like  that  which  has  come  upon 
us,  suddenly  reveal  themselves  as  the 
issues  of  life  and  death.  History,  no 
doubt,  should  have  informed  him.  But 
history,  for  the  most  part,  is  written 
without  intelligence  or  conviction.  It 
is  mere  narrative,  devoid  of  instruc- 
tion, and  seasoned,  if  at  all,  by  some 
trivial,  habitual,  and  second-hand  pre- 
judice of  the  author.  History  has  never 
been  understood,  though  it  has  often 
been  misunderstood.  To  understand 
it  is  perhaps  beyond  the  power  of  the 
human  intellect.  But  the  attempt  even 
has  hardly  begun  to  be  made. 

Deprived,  then,  of  this  source  of  en- 
lightenment, the  ordinary  man  falls 
back  upon  the  press.  But  the  press  is 
either  an  agent  of  the  very  govern- 
ments it  should  exist  to  criticize  (it  is 
so  notoriously  and  admittedly  on  the 
Continent,  and,  to  an  extent  which  we 
cannot  measure,  also  in  England),  or 
else  it  is  (with  a  few  honorable  excep- 
tions) an  instrument  to  make  money 
for  certain  individuals  or  syndicates. 
But  the  easiest  way  for  the  press  to 
make  money  is  to  appeal  to  the  most 
facile  emotions  and  the  most  super- 


THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


823 


ficial  ideas  of  the  reader;  and  these  can 
easily  be  made  to  respond  to  the  sug- 
gestion that  this  or  that  foreign  state  is 
our  natural  and  inevitable  enemy.  The 
strong  instincts  of  pugnacity  and  self- 
approbation,  the  nobler  sentiment  of 
patriotism,  a  vague  and  unanalyzed 
impression  of  the  course  of  history, 
these  and  other  factors  combine  to 
produce  this  result.  And  the  irony  is 
that  they  may  be  directed  indifferently 
against  any  state.  In  England,  for  in- 
stance, a  hundred  years  ago,  it  was 
France  against  whom  they  were  mar- 
shaled; sixty  years  ago  it  was  Russia; 
thirty  years  ago  it  was  France  again; 
now  it  is  Germany;  presently,  if  gov- 
ernments have  their  way,  it  will  be 
Russia  again. 

The  foreign  offices  and  the  press 
do  with  nations  what  they  like.  And 
they  will  continue  to  do  so  until  or- 
dinary people  acquire  right  ideas  and 
a  machinery  to  make  them  effective. 
To  contribute  to  that  result  is  the  ob- 
ject of  this  article.  I  propose  to  show, 
first,  that  the  governmental  theory  is 
false;  secondly,  that  a  settlement  of 
Europe  is  desirable  and  possible  which 
will  make  that  theory  impotent  in  the 
future.  I  now  proceed  to  the  first  of 
these  points. 

ii 

The  governmental  theory  holds  that 
states  are  the  great  realities,  and  that 
they  are  natural  enemies.  My  reply  is 
that  states  are  unreal  abstractions; 
that  the  reality  is  the  men  and  women 
and  children  who  are  the  members  of 
the  states;  and  that  as  soon  as  you 
substitute  real  people  for  the  abstract 
idea  that  symbolizes  them  you  find 
that  they  have  no  cause  of  quarrel,  no 
interests  or  desires  of  a  kind  to  jus- 
tify or  necessitate  aggressive  war.  And, 
if  there  were  no  aggressive  war,  there 
could,  of  course,  be  no  cause  for  defen- 
sive war.  I  shall  try  to  show  this  in 


detail,  taking  as  my  illustrations  the 
principal  points  which  are  said  to  un- 
derlie and  justify  the  present  war. 

I  will  begin  with  an  example  suffi- 
ciently removed  from  immediate  Eng- 
lish and  American  concern  for  us  to  be 
able  to  examine  it  without  prejudice. 
Let  us  take  the  relations  of  the  Ger- 
man and  Russian  governments  and 
the  German  and  Russian  peoples  in 
the  present  war.  The  official  case  of  the 
German  government,  as  laid  before 
the  Reichstag,  puts  it  that  they  were 
driven  into  this  war  by  Russian  aggres- 
sion. Russia  was  preparing  to  attack 
them;  so,  in  self-defense,  they  were 
obliged  to  attack  Russia.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  official  case  of  the  Russian 
government  states  that  Austria-Hun- 
gary, supported  by  Germany,  was  pre- 
paring to  attack  Russia,  and  that 
Russia  was  acting  in  self-defense. 
Whichever  of  these  views  may  be  the 
true  one,  it  is  certain  that  it  was  ag- 
gression, or  fear  of  aggression,  by  Rus- 
sia, or  by  the  German  powers,  that 
brought  on  the  war. 

Now,  to  the  governmental  mind,  this 
appears  as  an  inevitable  conflict.  It  is 
labeled  'the  conflict  of  Slav  and  Teu- 
ton,' and  is  the  theme  of  many  learn- 
ed lucubrations.  But  why  should  there 
be  a  conflict  of  Slav  and  Teuton? 
And  what  is  there  inevitable  about 
it?  If  all  that  is  meant  be  that,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  the  Russian  gov- 
ernment was  intending  to  attack  the 
German  government,  or  the  German 
government  to  attack  the  Russian, 
that  is  merely  to  accept  my  contention 
that  governments  make  war  without 
rhyme  or  reason.  But  what  is  meant  is, 
of  course,  something  more  than  this. 
It  is  meant  that  there  are  certain  vital 
interests  of  the  peoples  of  Germany 
and  of  Russia  which  governments  un- 
derstand but  peoples  do  not,  and  for 
which  it  is  worth  while  to  go  to  war. 
What  can  these  be? 


824 


THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


Let  me  quote  from  an  author  who 
has  acquired  of  late  a  deserved  and 
sinister  reputation,  and  who  is  a  master 
of  the  theory  and  practice  of  the  gov- 
ernmental mind.  'The  requirements 
of  the  mighty  Empire,'  so  General 
Bernhardi  writes  of  Russia,  *  irresist- 
ibly compel  an  expansion  toward  the 
sea,  whether  in  the  Far  East,  where 
it  hopes  to  gain  ice-free  harbors,  or  in 
the  direction  of  the  Mediterranean, 
where  the  Crescent  still  glitters  on  the 
dome  of  St.  Sophia.  After  a  successful 
war,  Russia  would  hardly  hesitate  to 
seize  the  mouth  of  the  Vistula,  at  the 
possession  of  which  she  has  long  aimed, 
and  thus  to  strengthen  appreciably  her 
position  in  the  Baltic.  Supremacy  in 
the  Balkan  Peninsula,  free  entrance 
into  the  Mediterranean,  and  a  strong 
position  on  the  Baltic,  are  the  goals  to 
which  the  European  policy  of  Russia 
has  long  been  directed.  She  feels  her- 
self also  the  leading  power  of  the  Sla- 
vonic races,  and  has  for  many  years 
been  busy  in  encouraging  and  extend- 
ing the  spread  of  this  element  into 
Central  Europe.' 

Let  us  take  it  from  General  Bern- 
hardi —  I  think  we  may  safely  do  so  — 
that  these  really  are  the  purposes  of 
the  Russian  government.  Those  which 
concern  the  Far  East  let  us  leave  aside, 
for  they  bring  Russia  into  conflict  with 
the  English,  the  Chinese,  and  the  Jap- 
anese, rather  than  with  Germany.  Let 
us  take  the  points  that  immediately 
concern  Germany.  Russia,  we  are 
told,  wants  to  acquire  the  mouth  of 
the  Vistula.  I  have  no  doubt  she  does. 
She  has,  I  am  told  on  good  authority, 
actually  published  in  her  official  organ 
her  intention  to  take  the  whole  shore 
of  the  Baltic  up  to  and  including  the 
Kiel  Canal,  if,  by  the  help  of  French 
and  English  arms,  she  is  victorious  in 
this  war.  It  is  that  danger  that  Ger- 
many fears,  and,  so  far  as  Russia  is 
concerned,  I  believe  Germany  to  be  on 


the  defensive.  Let  us  admit,  then,  that 
this  is  the  aim  of  the  Russian  govern- 
ment, entangled  in  the  traditional 
idea  that  the  Russian  state  is  a  being 
demanding  expansion  of  territory. 

Now  let  us  turn  to  look  at  the  Rus- 
sian people.  The  immense  mass  of 
these  are  peasants  living  in  villages,  as 
they  have  lived  from  time  immemorial. 
They  have  one  interest,  and  one  only, 
the  land.  To  own  sufficient  land,  to 
live  on  it  in  comfort,  to  work  on  it  free 
from  interruption  and  free  from  extor- 
tion, to  continue  in  their  traditional 
routine,  that  and  that  only  is  what 
they  want.  They  probably  do  not  know, 
most  of  them,  what  and  where  the 
Baltic  is.  They  have  probably,  most  of 
them,  never  met  a  German.  If  they 
did  meet  one,  they  would  probably  feel 
the  antagonism  all  ignorant  and  inex- 
perienced men  feel  for  strangers  who 
cannot  speak  their  language.  But  what 
interest  have  these  peasants  in  the  ac- 
quisition of  the  coast  of  the  Baltic? 
How  would  they  be  better  off?  Do 
they  want  to  colonize  it?  Not  at  all. 
The  region  of  colonization  for  Russia  is 
the  vast,  almost  uninhabited  territory 
of  the  East. 

No  Russian  peasant  would  be  the 
happier,  the  richer,  the  better,  if  the 
Russian  government  fulfilled  its  am- 
bition on  the  Baltic.  Yet,  that  it  may 
fulfill  that  ambition,  they  have  been 
torn  from  their  homes  by  millions, 
leaving  the  harvest  unreaped,  leaving 
their  accustomed  work  on  the  soil  of 
their  fathers,  leaving  weeping  wives 
and  starving  children,  to  kill  and  to  be 
killed  by  men  of  whom  they  have  never 
heard,  and  in  whom  they  have  no  in- 
terest either  to  hate  or  to  love  them, 
men  living  in  countries  of  which  they 
know  and  care  nothing,  men  who  on 
their  part  have  no  quarrel  with  them 
and  no  wish  to  attack  them.  And  all 
this  they  are  to  do,  and  are  doing,  be- 
cause a  few  men  of  the  military  and 


THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


825 


diplomatic  caste  have  a  theory  about 
states,  their  interests  and  destinies. 

But  the  peasants  are  ignorant  men! 
True,  they  are  almost  the  whole  of  the 
population  of  Russia.  True,  they  com- 
pose almost  the  whole  of  the  army. 
True,  upon  them  falls  almost  the  whole 
of  the  loss  and  the  suffering.  But  they 
are  ignorant  men !  They  do  not  count ! 
Let  us  turn,  then,  to  the  intellectual 
class.  What  about  these  brilliant  men 
and  women,  known  to  us  through  a 
literature  unequaled  in  the  annals  of 
mankind  for  its  poignancy,  its  subtlety, 
its  breadth,  its  profundity?  What 
about  the  intellectuals?  Is  it  the  Baltic 
they  are  thinking  of?  Is  it  the  Balkan 
Peninsula?  No!  Since  there  has  been 
in  Russia  a  class  of  thinkers  and  of 
writers,  that  class  has  given  all  its  en- 
ergy to  destroy  the  power  and  discredit 
the  ideas  of  the  Russian  government. 
Persecuted  with  a  horror  of  persecution 
of  which  we  can  form  but  the  palest 
image  (for  such  experiences  lie  outside 
our  ken),  exiled,  imprisoned,  tortured, 
by  hundreds  and  by  thousands,  they 
have  never  ceased  to  protest,  in  season 
and  out  of  season,  against  the  whole 
conception  of  the  state  which  animates 
the  soulless  bureaucracy  of  Russia. 

Shall  I  be  told  that,  in  spite  of  all 
this,  the  Russian  people  have  an  inter- 
est in  the  acquisition  by  the  Russian 
government  of  the  coast  of  the  Baltic, 
because  they  will  then  be  in  a  position 
to  send  ships  of  war  safely  and  easily 
into  the  North  Sea?  Yes,  indeed!  If 
somewhere  in  the  North  Sea,  or  be- 
yond, there  are  ships  of  war  bent  on 
destroying  Russian  ships  and  Russian 
trade.  But  why  should  there  be,  except 
because  some  other  government,  pos- 
sessed by  the  same  illusion  of  power, 
wants  to  expand  at  the  cost  of  Russia? 
And  we  have  only  to  begin  our  argu- 
ment over  again  against  that  govern- 
ment and  its  aims  and  ideas.  It  is, 
indeed,  the  very  irony  of  the  whole 


situation,  that  every  government  will 
protest  that  it  is  innocent,  it  is  harm- 
less, it  has  no  ambitions  contrary  to  the 
interest  of  any  other  state;  but  that 
these  other  states  have  ambitions  con- 
trary to  its  own.  Every  government, 
we  are  told,  is  on  its  defense  —  against 
another  government  on  its  defense! 
Was  ever  folly  so  disastrous?  Or  else 
hypocrisy  so  base? 

What  has  been  said  of  the  Baltic 
applies  equally  to  the  Balkans,  the 
other  cause  of  the  war  between  Russia 
and  the  German  powers.  Here  both 
Austria  and  Russia  wish  to  predomi- 
nate. That  was  the  immediate  cause 
of  this  war.  And  here,  too,  so  far  as 
mere  power  and  expansion  is  concerned, 
no  plain  man  or  woman  in  either  coun- 
try will  be  the  better  for  success  in  such 
a  cause,  or  the  worse  for  defeat.  But 
here  there  comes  in  another  factor, 
deeper  and  more  capable  of  making  a 
genuine  appeal  to  real  people.  The 
Balkan  States  have  been  for  centuries 
an  example,  the  most  salient  and  the 
most  terrible,  of  the  results  of  that  pol- 
icy of  expansion  and  conquest  which 
dominates  the  governmental  mind. 
The  Turks  have  maintained  for  cen- 
turies in  those  unhappy  lands  the  rule 
of  Hell.  No  law  has  been  known  but 
the  law  of  force.  And  the  peoples  sub- 
jected to  that  law  have  accepted  it  as 
their  own.  The  expulsion  of  the  Turks 
has  meant  only  the  application  of  the 
methods  of  the  Turks  by  each  nation- 
ality to  every  other.  But  now  among 
the  inhabitants  of  these  states  are  a 
number  of  Serbs,  and  Serbs  are  Slavs, 
racially  akin  to  the  Russians ;  and  some 
of  these  Serbs,  those  included  in  Bosnia 
and  Herzegovina,  have  been  brought 
by  force,  in  the  usual  way  and  on  the 
usual  principle,  into  the  Austrian  Em- 
pire. The  Russian  government  desires 
to  bring  these  Serbs  into  its  own  sys- 
tem. And  that  desire  brings  it  into 
conflict  with  the  Austrian  government. 


826 


THE  WAR  AND   THE   WAY  OUT 


Now,  in  this  conflict,  no  doubt,  both 
governments  are  moved  only  by  the 
ordinary  superstition  of  the  govern- 
mental mind.  But  it  is  possible  that, 
in  issues  like  this,  the  people  of  a  coun- 
try may  be  inspired  by  a  genuine  inter- 
est of  an  ideal  kind.  The  Austrian  peo- 
ple, of  course,  cannot  feel  this,  for 
there  are  not,  in  the  Balkan  States,  any 
Germans  or  Hungarians  oppressed  by 
other  powers.  But  some  Russians,  of 
those  who  are  educated,  intelligent, 
and  sympathetic,  may  feel  inclined  to 
support  their  government  in  a  policy 
which  can  be  represented  as  aiming  at 
the  deliverance  of  people  of  a  kindred 
race  from  the  oppression  of  an  alien 
government.  That  such  an  appeal 
may  be  genuinely  felt  and  genuinely 
responded  to,  those  of  my  readers  will 
understand  who  remember  on  what 
grounds  England  was  invited  to  inter- 
vene by  force  in  South  Africa,  and  the 
response,  not  all  unreal  and  hypocrit- 
ical, which  that  appeal  evoked  among 
the  English.  Some  Russians,  therefore, 
outside  of  governmental  circles,  may 
think,  and  think  sincerely,  that  an  in- 
terest of  an  ideal  kind  requires  them  to 
go  to  war  with  Austria  to  help  Servia. 

But  now,  mark!  This  situation  has 
arisen  because  Austria  has  incorpor- 
ated against  their  will  some  of  these 
Serbs  in  her  Empire,  and  desires  to  in- 
corporate the  rest.  And,  further,  be- 
cause the  Russian  government  is  not 
aiming  merely  at  the  deliverance  of  the 
Serbs,  but  at  their  incorporation  in  her 
own  system.  That  races  with  a  natural 
homogeneity,  races  desirous  of  govern- 
ing themselves,  should  be  allowed  to  do 
so  without  interference,  is  a  real  inter- 
est of  peoples,  and  one  which  the  new 
statecraft  of  Europe  must  recognize. 
But  that  principle,  honestly  applied  in 
the  Balkans,  could  never  lead  to  war 
between  Austria  and  Russia.  For  the 
true  solution,  on  that  principle,  would 
be  a  referendum  to  the  Slav  peoples 


included  in  the  Austrian  Empire  on  the 
point  whether  they  wish  to  remain 
under  Austria  or  to  join  Servia,  or  to 
come  as  a  separate  unit  into  a  Balkan 
federation.  And  nothing  prevents  this 
solution,  except  the  fact  that  govern- 
ments are  possessed  by  false  ideas  and 
bad  ambitions.  Thus  we  are  confront- 
ed once  more]  by  the  conception  of 
the  abstract  state  over-riding  the  true 
aims,  interests  and  ideals  of  peoples. 
That,  and  that  only,  has  caused  this 
war.  That,  and  that  only,  will  cause 
future  wars. 

There  remains  the  point  of  the  pos- 
session of  Constantinople.  Russia  is 
supposed  to  aim  at  this,  and  for  many 
years  British  policy  aimed  at  thwart- 
ing her.  But  why  did,  or  does,  Russia 
want  Constantinople?  And  what  in- 
terest has  England  in  the  matter?  So 
far  as  I  have  ever  been  able  to  learn,  the 
interest  here  is  purely  a  war  interest. 
Russia  wants  to  be  able  to  send  war- 
ships through  the  Dardanelles.  Eng- 
land, and  some  other  powers,  object, 
for  fear  her  ships  should  threaten  their 
possessions.  It  is  the  old  obsession 
again,  that  states  are  natural  enemies. 
For  all  purposes  of  trade,  for  all  peace 
purposes,  the  Dardanelles  are  open,  and 
it  is  the  interest  of  all  nations  alike 
that  they  should  remain  so.  But  no 
real  interest  of  any  people  would  be 
served  by  the  possession  of  Constanti- 
nople, once  the  supposed  war  interest 
is  set  aside.  At  every  point  we  meet 
the  same  illusion.  Everywhere  and  al- 
ways, fear  in  every  state  of  aggression 
on  the  part  of  every  other.  And  never 
any  reason  for  the  aggression  feared 
that  can  be  stated  in  terms  of  the  trtie 
values  of  human  life. 


in 

Let  us  turn  now  from  the  situation 
between  the  German  powers  and  Rus- 
sia to  the  situation  between  Germany 


THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


827 


and  France.  Behind  this  is  a  long  his- 
tory, and  it  is,  as  always,  a  history  of 
the  aggression  of  the  state.  The  per- 
petual and  futile  wars,  so  disastrous 
to  France,  which  occupied  the  reign  of 
Louis  XIV,  were  wars  to  secure  for  the 
French  state  the  hegemony  of  Europe. 
They  had  no  reference  to  any  real  inter- 
ests of  the  French  people;  and  they  left 
that  people,  after  years  of  unsuccess- 
ful struggle,  decimated  and  exhausted. 
The  enterprise  was  taken  up  again  by 
Napoleon.  It  failed  again;  but  if  it  had 
succeeded,  no  advantage  would  have 
accrued  to  the  French  people.  They 
would  have  been  neither  wealthier, 
healthier,  nor  happier;  and  no  one 
can  say  they  would  have  been  better, 
except  those  who  hold  —  as  General 
Bernhardi  and  his  followers  hold,  but 
as,  I  hope,  no  Englishman  or  American 
holds  -  -  that  the  arrogant  temper  of  a 
dominant  race  is  a  good  thing  in  itself, 
and  worth  wasting,  to  secure  it,  the 
lives,  the  fortunes,  and  the  happiness 
of  millions. 

The  years  went  on,  and  during  the 
period  from  1859  to  1866  the  first  great 
steps  were  made  toward  German  un- 
ion. The  German  state  had  come  into 
being;  and  instantly  the  French  state 
took  the  alarm.  To  the  governmental 
mind,  on  either  side  of  the  frontier,  the 
greatness  and  prosperity  of  the  one 
people  involved  the  ruin  of  the  other. 
War  became  what  is  called  inevitable; 
and  both  governments  manoeuvred  for 
it.  It  duly  came;  the  French  were 
crushed;  Alsace  and  Lorraine  were 
taken  from  them;  and  there  began 
another  period  of  preparation  for  an- 
other war. 

During  that  period  new  ideas  pene- 
trated the  French  people.  They  be- 
came more  and  more  what  is  contemp- 
tuously called  *  pacifist';  that  is  to  say, 
they  began  consciously  to  care  for  the 
real  interests  of  civilization,  for  social 
justice,  for  science,  for  art,  and  for  a 


religion  that  should  worship  some  other 
god  than  the  God  of  War.  Similar  in- 
fluences and  tendencies  became  pre- 
dominant in  all  other  countries,  and 
especially  among  the  great  mass  of  the 
German  people,  represented  by  the 
Social  Democrats.  But  the  philosophy 
of  the  state  remained  unchanged.  The 
idea  of  dominating  Europe  obsessed 
the  governing  caste  in  Germany.  The 
French,  in  fear,  only  too  well  justified, 
of  what  might  happen,  made  alliance 
with  a  power  as  military  as  Germany, 
and  as  alien  to  all  the  purposes  for 
which  France  has  fought  through  a 
century  of  revolutions.  This  unnatural 
alliance  is  the  main  root  of  the  tragedy 
in  which  the  British  are  involved.  For 
it  was  that  which  brought  France  into 
the  war,  and  that  which  brought  in 
England.  But,  observe,  what  was 
really  responsible  for  all  this  was  the 
obsession  of  the  governmental  mind. 
That  the  German  state,  being  great, 
must  become  greater  at  the  cost  of  the 
French  state;  that  the  French  state, 
having  been  weakened,  must  strength- 
en itself  again  at  the  cost  of  the  Ger- 
man state;  these  are  the  presupposi- 
tions of  the  conflict.  And  so  long  as 
those  presuppositions  are  held  by  the 
few  men  who  have  power  to  determine 
policy,  so  long  they  are  and  will  be  a 
menace  to  peace  and  a  menace  to  civil- 
ization. But,  once  more,  they  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  real  interests, 
desires  or  convictions  of  the  millions  of 
Germans  and  the  millions  of  French- 
men. 

Ask  any  of  these  men  who,  without  a 
word  of  warning,  have  been  torn  sud- 
denly from  their  homes,  their  occupa- 
tions, their  friends  and  wives  and  chil- 
dren, whether  they  would  choose,  if  the 
decision  rested  with  them,  to  sacrifice 
all  that  they  hold  dear  and  to  destroy, 
so  far  as  in  them  lies,  all  that  is  held 
dear  by  all  the  people  of  a  neighboring 
nation,  in  order  to  aggrandize  the 


828 


THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


French  or  the  German  state  —  ask 
them  this,  and  what  answer  would  you 
get?  But  it  is  not  so  that  the  matter 
is  presented  them.  *  March,'  they  are 
told,  'in  defense  of  your  homes  and 
your  dear  ones/  What!  And  those 
against  whom  they  are  to  march  are 
marching  also  to  defend  theirs!  What 
ghastly  irony  is  this !  What  net,  woven 
not  by  Fate,  but  by  human  folly  and 
illusion !  And  let  us  not  idly  think  that 
that  folly  and  that  illusion  lies  all  at 
the  door  of  one  government.  It  lies  at 
the  door  of  every  government,  and  of 
every  man  who  holds  the  governmental 
theory  and  thinks  with  the  govern- 
mental mind. 


IV 

I  pass,  lastly,  to  the  relation  between 
Germany  and  England.  It  is  the  same 
story.  Germany  is  great;  the  British 
Empire  is  great;  there  is  not  room  for 
them  both;  and  therefore  one  of  them 
must  smash  the  other.  That  is  the 
main  position;  the  rest  is  a  question 
of  choosing  the  appropriate  moment. 
Such,  for  many  years  past,  has  been 
the  attitude  of  British  and  of  German 
Imperialists.  I  do  not  propose  to  at- 
tempt the  idle  and  hopeless  task  of 
apportioning  the  blame  between  them. 
That,  if  it  can  be  done  at  all,  will  be 
better  done  by  one  who  does  not  be- 
long to  either  nation.  I  will  only  reiter- 
ate that  no  Englishman  and  no  Ger- 
man has  any  interest,  material  or 
ideal,  in  the  destruction  of  the  empire 
of  the  other. 

Let  me  illustrate;  and  if,  in  so  doing, 
I  take  as  my  text  the  ambitions  of  the 
German  rather  than  of  the  British 
government,  that  is  not  because  I  hold 
the  latter  innocent.  I  believe  it  to  be 
true  that,  as  Germans  complain,  at 
every  point  the  British  have  thrown 
themselves  across  the  German  enter- 
prises, under  the  influence  of  jealousy 


and  fear.  But  the  ambition  of  the  Brit- 
ish being  satiated  by  the  acquisition  in 
the  past  of  more  territory  than  they 
well  know  how  to  handle,  they  have 
been  acting  on  the  defensive.  It  is  from 
German,  not  from  British  ambition 
that  the  conflict  has  arisen;  German 
ambition,  of  course,  being  now  pre- 
cisely what  British  ambition  has  been 
in  the  past.  The  German  government, 
then,  is  credited  with  the  intention  to 
gain  a  colonial  empire  at  our  cost. 
Why?  Let  us  inquire.  What  interests 
of  German  men  and  women  are  to  be 
served  by  this  policy? 

We  are  told  by  the  advocates  of  a 
colonial  policy  in  Germany  that  Ger- 
mans who  emigrate  settle  in  non- 
German  countries  and  are  '  lost '  to  the 
German  state.  Well,  what  of  it?  What 
does  that  matter  to  the  Germans  who 
go  abroad,  and  who  find  themselves  so 
much  at  home  in  the  new  country  of 
their  choice  that  the  second  generation 
of  Germans  in  America  are  more  Amer- 
ican than  the  Americans,  and  the  sec- 
ond generation  of  Germans  in  England 
more  English  than  the  English?  And 
what  does  it  matter  to  the  Germans 
who  remain  at  home?  Are  they  less 
happy,  less  prosperous,  less  cultured, 
less  good,  less  German?  The  question 
answers  itself.  Or  will  it  be  said  that 
the  Germans  at  home  are  poorer  be- 
cause other  Germans  go  to  America 
instead  of  to  German  colonies? 

I  cannot  here  touch  upon  the  eco- 
nomic arguments  which  have  been 
so  ably  developed  in  recent  years 
by  Mr.  Norman  Angell.  If  he  and 
his  followers  cannot  convince  the  read- 
er that,  from  an  economic  point  of 
view,  the  prosperity  of  one  nation 
implies  and  enhances  that  of  another, 
and  that  political  power  is  a  consid- 
eration irrelevant  to  economic  pow- 
er, I  cannot  hope  to  convince  him. 
But  I  will  put  this  point.  It  has  been 
held,  apparently,  by  the  German  Jm- 


THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


829 


perialists  that  it  is  worth  while  to  go  to 
war  with  us  in  order  to  acquire  colo- 
nies. Have  they  ever  tried  to  balance 
the  cost  of  war  against  the  supposed 
advantage  to  trade?  Have  they  ever 
tried  to  strike  the  economic  balance? 
Has  the  governmental  mind  anywhere 
ever  made  such  an  attempt?  And  is 
there  the  smallest  presumption  that,  if 
it  were  made,  the  balance  would  be  in 
favor  of  war? 

That,  however,  after  all,  is  but  the 
smallest  point.  What  may  be  gained  or 
lost  in  war  economically  —  and  I  be- 
lieve that  all  competent  judges  would 
agree  that  the  loss  must  exceed  the 
gain  —  is  but  one  and  the  least  import- 
ant consideration.  To  go  to  war  to 
gain  wealth,  even  if  you  could  gain  it, 
is  like  murdering  a  man  to  pick  his 
pockets.  To  the  governmental  mind, 
with  its  cynicism,  its  blindness,  its  lack 
of  touch  with  realities,  such  a  proce- 
dure may  seem  right  and  normal.  But 
go  to  the  plain  man  and  woman,  and 
put  it  to  them  in  time  of  peace:  *  Would 
you  think  it  right  to  sacrifice  lives  by 
tens  of  thousands,  and  to  leave  to  the 
world  a  legacy  of  hate,  so  that  you  or 
your  descendants  may  gain  wealth?' 
and  what  answer  will  you  get?  Go  to 
them  in  time  of  war,  say  to  the  mother 
weeping  for  her  son,  say  to  the  wife 
weeping  for  her  husband,  *  We  asked  of 
you  this  sacrifice  that  Englishmen  or 
Germans  may  have  more  money  to 
spend*  —  what  answer  will  you  get? 
Yet  that,  and  that  only,  is  what  you 
can  say,  you  who  make  war  for  the 
sake  of  trade.  Yes!  and  the  same  peo- 
ple will  be  accusing  pacifists  of  sordid 
materialism!  Reader,  will  you  laugh  or 
will  you  weep? 

There  remains,  however,  another 
possible  plea  for  the  seizure  of  colonies 
by  force.  The  possession,  it  may  be 
urged,  of  dominions  beyond  the  seas, 
inhabited  by  a  population  of  a  lower 
stage  of  culture,  gives  to  a  people  a 


larger  horizon,  a  nobler  task,  than  can 
be  supplied  by  domestic  activities. 
And  a  strong  and  growing  nation 
should  not  consent  to  be  deprived  of 
this  outlet  for  its  energies.  That  there 
may  be  some  truth  in  this  view  of  co- 
lonial dominions  I  am  not  concerned 
to  deny.  The  possession  of  their  In- 
dian dependencies  by  the  British  and 
the  Dutch  has  set  those  nations  many 
difficult  problems  which,  after  many 
discreditable  failures,  they  have  par- 
tially solved.  Some  fine  men  in  both 
countries  have  found  in  such  work  op- 
portunity for  their  talents.  But,  speak- 
ing as  an  Englishman,  I  have  never 
been  able  to  see  that  the  English  na- 
tional consciousness,  the  habitual  state 
of  mind  of  the  ordinary  citizens,  and 
even  of  the  ordinary  politicians,  is 
affected,  one  way  or  the  other,  by  the 
possession  of  India.  The  nation  lives, 
and  always  has  lived,  in  profound 
ignorance  of  and  indifference  to  the 
problems  of  Indian  government.  They 
rarely  raise  in  Parliament  even  the 
most  perfunctory  debate.  To  the  mass 
of  the  people  they  are  utterly  unknown 
and  utterly  uninteresting.  And,  if  we 
lost  India  to-morrow,  I  do  not  believe 
there  would  be  any  perceptible  change, 
after  the  first  shock,  in  our  national 
consciousness. 

Even,  however,  if  the  possession  of 
foreign  dominions  really  made  more 
difference  than  I  believe  it  does  to 
what  may  be  called  the  spiritual  life 
of  a  nation,  and  even  if  that  differ- 
ence were  all  to  the  good,  —  an  im- 
mense assumption,  —  will  it  be  main- 
tained that  it  is  justifiable  for  one 
state  to  go  to  war  with  another  in  order 
to  deprive  that  state  of  this  kind  of 
activity  and  appropriate  it  to  itself? 
The  governmental  mind,  no  doubt, 
will  answer  this  question  in  the  affirma- 
tive. But  ask  the  individual  German, 
man  or  woman,  those  who  carry  on  the 
life  of  the  country,  who  create  its 


£30 


THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


wealth  and  sustain  its  culture,  ask 
them,  one  by  one,  in  their  calm  and 
sane  moments,  what  they  think  of 
plunging  Europe  into  war  in  order  to 
appropriate  territory  now  British;  and 
what  will  these,  the  real  people  who 
have  to  bear  the  brunt  of  war,  reply? 
The  proposition  is,  in  fact,  to  all  plain 
sense,  to  all  simple  human  feeling, 
preposterous.  To  none  but  the  gov- 
ernmental mind  could  it  appear  self- 
evident. 

But  I  shall  be  told,  and  this  especi- 
ally by  Germans,  —  for  there  are  some 
absurdities  the  English  do  not  allow 
themselves, — that  the  *  culture '  of  a  na- 
tion depends  upon  its  political  power. 
The  larger  the  empire,  the  better  its 
science,  its  literature,  its  art,  and,  I 
suppose  it  will  be  added,  the  purer  its 
religion.  This  is,  in  fact,  the  contention 
of  General  Bernhardi  in  his  notorious 
book.  Yet  it  is  the  plain  fact  that,  alike 
in  religion,  in  literature,  in  art,  in  phil- 
osophy, in  everything  except  science, 
whatever  has  done  honor  to  the  Ger- 
man name  was  produced  before  there 
was  a  Germany ;  and  that  since  1870  the 
prestige,  the  influence,  and  the  value  of 
German  culture  have  declined. 

What  German  names  stand  so  high 
as  those  of  Luther,  Kant,  Goethe, 
Bach,  Mozart,  Beethoven?  And  was 
Germany  an  empire  when  these  men 
lived  and  worked?  General  Bernhardi 
quotes  again  and  again  in  the  course  of 
his  book,  and  as  though  he  were  quot- 
ing a  supporter,  the  works  of  that 
Goethe  whom  I,  too,  put  among  the 
greatest  of  mankind.  But  what  was 
Goethe?  A  poet  who  passed  all  his  long 
life  at  a  tiny  German  court,  in  a  Ger- 
many divided  against  itself;  a  poet  so 
notoriously  indifferent  to  politics,  to 
nationality,  to  war,  that  German  patri- 
ots, from  that  time  to  this,  have  sought 
excuses  in  vain  for  his  attitude  in  the 
war  of  liberation;  a  man  who  was  so 
good  a  European  that  he  could  not  be 


a  good  German,  and  who  made  no 
attempt  to  conceal  his  admiration  of 
Napoleon,  at  the  moment  when  all 
Germany  was  prostrate  at  his  feet. 
This  is  the  general's  witness  to  the 
truth  that  great  literature  is  founded 
on  great  political  power!  On  the  same 
view,  the  literature,  the  philosophy, 
the  art  of  Rome  must  have  been 
greater  than  that  of  Greece!  The  idea 
of  the  state  must  be  hard  put  to  it  in- 
deed if  it  is  to  such  arguments  that  it 
has  recourse! 

And  when  one  turns  to  science  the 
argument  is  even  more  absurd.  No  na- 
tion has  done  greater  service  to  science 
than  the  German.  And  the  world  of 
science,  which  is  cosmopolitan,  not  na- 
tional, gladly  and  freely  recognizes  it. 
But  does  any  one  who  knows  any- 
thing of  the  conditions  of  scientific 
work,  suppose  that  that  work  would 
not  have  been  done  by  Germans  un- 
less there  had  been  a  German  Empire? 
To  state  the  notion  is  to  refute  it.  A 
man  of  science  may  be  a  patriot,  but 
his  patriotism  has  nothing  to  do  with 
his  science.  He  goes  to  learn  where  he 
can  learn  best,  and  to  work  where  he 
can  work  best;  and  the  result  of  his 
work  is  a  treasure,  not  for  his  coun- 
try alone  but  for  mankind. 

Nothing  that  is  included  under  what 
the  Germans  call  *  culture'  is  or  can 
be  developed  or  enhanced  by  the  pur- 
suit of  political  dominion.  Those  in- 
fluences spread  by  imitation  and  con- 
tact, regardless  of  the  country  of  their 
origin  or  of  its  place  in  the  system  of 
states.  What  German  dramatist  of 
our  time  has,  or  deserves,  a  reputa- 
tion equal  to  that  of  Ibsen,  the  citizen 
of  politically  insignificant  Norway? 
What  German  critic  can  stand  beside 
the  Dane  Brandes?  What  German 
saint  of  the  last  century  ranks  with 
that  Rabindranath  Tagore  whose  coun- 
try is  subject  to  an  alien  domination? 
Indeed,  if  religion  be  taken  as  the  test, 


THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


831 


it  may  be  questioned  whether  between 
that  and  empire  there  is  not,  in  the 
nature  of  things,  a  sheer  antagonism. 
Between  Christianity  and  empire  that 
is  so,  beyond  all  question.  General 
Bernhardi  purports  to  be  a  Christian. 
I  will  not  argue  the  point  with  him. 
But  if  there  should  come  that  last  reck- 
oning in  which  he  must  be  supposed 
to  believe,  and  if  he,  with  the  others 
who  have  made  this  war,  should  stand 
before  the  judgment  seat  of  Christ, 
I  would  wish  to  see  the  look  that  would 
be  turned  upon  them  there  by  the  Man 
who  died  on  the  Cross  to  bring  peace 
to  mankind. 

I  have  dwelt  upon  this  point  of  cul- 
ture at  greater  length  than  its  plausi- 
bility merits,  because  it  is  the  kind  of 
point  that  appeals  to  generous  minds 
who  are  revolted  otherwise  by  the  sheer 
brutality  of  the  governmental  attitude. 
But  it  is  all  relevant  to  my  main  con- 
tention. 

Culture  in  that  wide  sense  in  which 
the  Germans  use  the  word,  in  the  sense 
of  the  intellectual,  aesthetic,  and  spir- 
itual life,  is  not  only  an  interest  of 
real  men  and  women,  it  is  their  main 
interest.  Everything  else  exists  for  the 
sake  of  it.  But  it  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  state,  as  the  governmental 
mind  conceives  it.  No  aggrandizement 
of  the  state  can  help  it,  no  diminution 
of  it  can  hinder.  Government  may  or 
may  not  wisely  foster  it;  but  the  exten- 
sion of  political  power,  with  or  without 
war,  cannot  foster  it.  Here,  too,  and  in 
this  highest  field,  the  supposed  interest 
of  the  state  and  the  real  interests  of 
men  and  women  stand  out  of  all  rela- 
tion to  one  another.  And  a  war  waged 
in  defense  of  culture  is  even  more  pre- 
posterous than  a  war  waged  in  the  pur- 
suit of  wealth. 

But  there  remains  yet  one  point 
which  the  reader  may  expect  me  to  deal 
with.  The  expansion  of  a  state,  it  may 
be  urged,  even  if  it  does  not  imply  the 


expansion  of  its  culture,  does  imply 
the  expansion  of  its  political  system. 
And  if  any  one  holds  the  political 
system  of  his  state  to  be  better  than 
that  of  other  states  he  is  right  to  will 
the  expansion  of  his  state  even  by  war. 
It  is  on  these  lines  that  the  existence 
and  extension  of  the  British  Empire  is 
sometimes  justified;  and  on  the  same 
grounds,  it  may  be  assumed,  some  Ger- 
mans would  justify  the  extension  of 
theirs. 

This  view  is  less  brutally  selfish  than 
most  of  the  views  which  attempt  to 
defend  conquest.  But,  as  applied  to 
the  case  we  are  considering,  the  colo- 
nial rivalry  of  Germany  and  England, 
it  has  no  relevance.  For  no  sane  and 
instructed  German  can  really  suppose 
that  German  administrative  methods 
are  so  much  better  than  British  that  it 
would  be  good  for  hundreds  of  millions 
of  British  Indians,  or  of  native  Afri- 
cans, to  be  transferred  by  force,  at  the 
cost  of  a  bloody  war,  from  British  to 
German  rule.  And  if  —  which  I  do  not 
for  a  moment  believe  —  any  German 
has  supposed  that  any  British  domin- 
ion was  crying  out  for  German  deliver- 
ance from  British  tyranny,  the  events 
of  the  last  few  weeks  must  have  unde- 
ceived him.  What  India  wants  is  more 
self-government,  not  an  exchange  of 
masters.  What  the  great  native  pro- 
tectorates and  colonies  in  Africa  need 
is  sympathetic  and  skilled  administra- 
tion in  the  interest  of  the  natives.  And 
this,  to  put  it  moderately,  they  are  at 
least  as  likely  to  obtain  from  the  Brit- 
ish, with  their  long  experience,  as  from 
the  untried  methods  of  Germany.  As 
to  the  self-governing  dominions,  they 
do  not  enter  into  this  question.  They 
are,  and  intend  to  remain,  self-govern- 
ing. And  I  do  not  suppose  that  the 
wildest  advocate  of  German  expan- 
sion ever  dreamed  that  Germany  could 
germanize  them.  There  is  no  sense  in 
the  notion  that,  at  this  stage  in  the 


832 


THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


world's  history,  any  part  of  the  world 
now  under  British  control  could  benefit 
by  a  transference  to  German  control. 

What  every  people  needs  is  self-gov- 
ernment, as  and  when  it  becomes  cap- 
able of  it.  And  that  cause  is  the  last 
that  is  likely  to  be  served  by  the  pre- 
sent German  government  and  its  pre- 
sent methods. 

Look  at  it,  then,  which  way  we  will, 
we  find  no  justification  for  the  sup- 
posed policy  of  the  German  govern- 
ment to  create  a  colonial  dominion  at 
the  cost  of  the  British  Empire.  This 
may  be  said  without  making  any  arro- 
gant pretensions  about  that  Empire, 
without  idealizing  it,  without  justify- 
ing the  methods  by  which  it  was  ac- 
quired. With  all  that  controversy  I  am 
not  now  concerned.  I  am  concerned 
only  to  press  home  what  I  believe  to  be 
the  unassailable  contention  that  the 
German  people  have  no  interest  in  the 
supposed  policy  of  their  government 
to  create  a  colonial  empire  at  the  cost 
of  the  British  by  war. 

But  equally  I  do  not  believe  the  Eng- 
lish people  have  any  interest  in  thwart- 
ing the  expansion  of  Germany  where  it 
can  be  obtained  without  war,  and  is 
likely  to  extend  the  general  interest  of 
civilization.  It  does  not  appear  that 
the  British  Foreign  Office  can  be  held 
guiltless  of  doing  this.  But  all  such 
action  rests  on  the  superstition  I  am 
combating  —  the  superstition  of  the 
state,  expanding  by  an  inevitable  law, 
at  the  cost  of  other  states,  by  means  of 
war.  That,  and  that  alone,  on  both 
sides,  is  the  bottom  of  the  rivalry  be- 
tween Germany  and  England.  And 
that  is  simply  an  illusion. 


I  have  now  reviewed,  as  fully  as  is 
possible  within  the  limits  of  a  single 
article,  the  main  causes  which,  accord- 
ing to  the  governmental  theory,  may 


be  held  to  have  necessitated  and  to  jus- 
tify the  present  war.  It  is  nothing  to 
the  purpose  to  reply  that  the  English 
are  fighting  a  defensive  war,  for  every 
nation  says  the  same,  and  with  the 
same  conviction.  Somewhere,  every- 
body admits,  there  must  have  been 
aggression,  although  everybody  puts 
it  in  a  different  place.  And  wherever 
there  has  been  aggression  it  has  been 
due  to  the  governmental  theory  pos- 
sessing the  minds  of  rulers  and  states- 
men, and  imposed  by  them,  by  sugges- 
tion, persuasion,  or  otherwise,  upon 
ordinary  men. 

I  ask  the  reader  to  consider  very 
seriously  what  I  have  laid  before  him, 
and  to  extend  and  apply  it  further  for 
himself,  whenever  and  wherever  he  is 
met  by  the  kind  of  arguments  I  have 
been  endeavoring  to  refute.  For  until 
he  has  convinced  himself  that  the 
causes  which  make  war  do  not  lie  in  the 
nature  of  things,  and  need  not  persist, 
he  will  not  take  seriously  proposals  for 
drastic  remedies.  And  it  is  only  with 
a  view  to  those  remedies  that  I  have 
written  these  pages.  I  am  asking  the 
reader  not  merely  to  condemn  the  past 
—  let  the  dead  bury  their  dead !  —  but 
to  help  to  mould  the  future.  And,  be- 
lieve me,  it  cannot  be  moulded  to  any 
good  purpose  unless  the  plain  men  and 
women,  workers  with  their  hands  and 
workers  with  their  brains,  in  England 
and  in  Germany  and  in  all  countries, 
get  together  and  say  to  the  people  who 
have  led  them  into  this  catastrophe, 
and  who  will  lead  them  into  such  again 
and  again,  'No  more!  No  more!  And 
never  again!  You  rulers,  you  soldiers, 
you  diplomats,  you  who  through  all 
the  long  agony  of  history  have  con- 
ducted the  destinies  of  mankind  and 
conducted  them  to  hell,  we  do  now  re- 
pudiate you.  Our  labor  and  our  blood 
have  been  at  your  disposal.  They  shall 
be  so  no  more.  You  shall  not  make  the 
peace  as  you  have  made  the  war.  The 


\ 
THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


833 


Europe  that  shall  come  out  of  this  war 
shall  be  our  Europe.  And  it  shall  be 
one  in  which  another  European  war 
shall  be  never  possible/ 

Let  us  turn,  then,  from  the  past  to 
the  future  and  ask,  first,  what  the  gov- 
ernmental mind,  left  to  itself,  is  likely 
to  make  of  Europe  when  the  war  is 
finished;  secondly,  what  we,  on  our 
part,  want  and  mean  to  make  of  it. 

What  the  diplomats  will  make  of  it  is 
written  large  on  every  page  of  history. 
Again  and  again  they  have  'settled' 
Europe,  and  always  in  such  a  way  as  to 
leave  roots  for  the  growth  of  new  wars. 
For  always  they  have  settled  it  from 
the  point  of  view  of  states,  instead  of 
from  the  point  of  view  of  human  life. 
How  one  *  Power '  may  be  aggrandized 
and  another  curtailed,  how  the  spoils 
may  be  divided  among  the  victors,  how 
the  'balance'  may  be  arranged,  these 
kinds  of  considerations  and  these  alone 
have  influenced  their  minds.  The  de- 
sires of  peoples,  the  interests  of  peoples, 
that  sense  of  nationality  which  is  as 
real  a  thing  as  the  state  is  fictitious,  — 
to  all  that  they  have  been  indifferent. 

Take,  as  an  example,  the  settlement 
made  by  the  diplomats  a  hundred 
years  ago,  after  the  Napoleonic  wars. 
What  did  they  do?  They  forced  back 
on  France  the  dynasty  whose  works 
and  whose  ideas  the  revolution  had 
been  made  to  destroy,  and  involved 
her  in  a  century  of  civil  strife.  They 
put  back  Italy  under  the  heel  of  Aus- 
tria and  necessitated  the  war  of  1859. 
They  reimposed  upon  Spain  the  infa- 
mous regime  of  the  Bourbons  and  the 
priests,  and  opened  there  too  the  long 
vista  of  civil  war.  They  united  Bel- 
gium with  Holland  in  defiance  of  racial 
distinction,  and  Sweden  with  Norway 
in  defiance  of  history.  Everywhere 
they  left  untended  wounds,  unnatural 
conjunctions,  reactionary  tyrants  in 
power,  and  peoples  divided,  broken, 

VOL.  114 -NO.  6 


and  enslaved.  With  the  result  that 
their  house  of  cards  had  hardly  been 
completed  when  it  began  to  collapse; 
and  the  history  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury is  one  continuous  record  of  inter- 
nal revolution  and  international  war. 
What  such  men  have  done  before,  be 
assured  they  will  do  again.  They  work 
still  with  the  same  conceptions.  They 
are  as  barren  as  ever  of  imagination,  of 
humanity,  of  sense  for  real  life. 

What  the  issue  of  this  war  may  be 
at  this  moment  of  my  writing  no  one 
can  foresee.  But  what  can  be  foreseen 
with  certainty  is,  that  if  the  peace  is 
to  be  made  by  the  same  men  who 
made  the  war,  it  will  be  so  made  that 
in  another  quarter  of  a  century  there 
will  be  another  war  on  as  gigantic  a 
scale. 

Let  us  suppose  that  the  German 
powers  win.  We  know  well  enough 
what  kind  of  peace  they  will  impose, 
for  they  have  been  at  no  pains  to  con- 
ceal their  ambitions.  'France  must  be 
so  completely  crushed  that  she  can 
never  again  come  across  our  path.'  So 
General  Bernhardi,  voicing,  it  may  be 
presumed,  the  policy  of  the  military 
caste  that  is  master  of  Germany.  The 
same,  of  course,  applies  to  England. 
She  shall  be  shorn  of  her  empire,  of  her 
command  of  the  seas,  of  all  that  the 
German  state  has  envied  and  hated  in 
the  British  state.  Italy  and  the  Bal- 
kans will  be  pillaged  to  the  benefit 
of  Austria,  and  Russia  rolled  back  — 
though  that  would  be  all  to  the  good 
—  from  her  ambition  to  expand  in  the 
west.  At  the  same  time  every  demo- 
cratic movement  in  every  country  will 
be  discouraged  or  annihilated.  The 
principle  of  a  brutal  military  domina- 
tion will  be  established  as  the  principle 
of  Europe.  The  countries  that  are  not 
militarist  will  become  so.  And  another 
period  of  armed  peace  will  begin,  in 
which  every  genuine  interest  of  civil- 
ization, all  the  true  life  of  men  and 


834 


THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


women,  will  be  sacrificed  to  the  desper- 
ate effort  of  the  defeated  nations  to 
recover  their  position,  and  of  the  vic- 
torious ones  to  maintain  theirs. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Allies 
should  win,  the  outlook  is  no  more 
promising,  if  the  diplomats  are  to  have 
their  way.  The  Allies,  in  that  case,  will 
endeavor  finally  to  crush  the  German 
powers,  as  the  latter  are  determined 
finally  to  crush  the  Allies.  The  English 
and  the  French  will  divide  the  Ger- 
man colonies.  Russia  will  dominate  the 
Balkans,  and  probably  appropriate 
Constantinople,  and  a  great  slice  of 
German  territory.  And  France  and 
England  will  be  left  face  to  face  with 
what  they  will  regard  as  the  new  menace 
of  the  Slav.  With  the  result  that,  in  an- 
other quarter  of  a  century,  or  less,  they 
will  combine  with  their  present  ene- 
mies to  resist  the  advance  of  their  pre- 
sent ally. 

In  either  case,  the  state  of  Europe 
will  be  the  old  bad  state :  the  piling  up 
of  armaments,  at  the  cost  of  the  con- 
tinued poverty  and  degradation  of 
the  mass  of  the  people;  the  destruc- 
tion of  all  hope  and  effort  toward 
radical  social  reform;  and,  when  the 
time  comes,  as  in  this  case  it  infalli- 
bly will,  the  new  war,  the  new  mas- 
sacre, the  new  impoverishment,  —  the 
perpetual  and  intolerable  agony  of  a 
civilization  forever  struggling  to  the 
light,  forever  flung  back  by  its  own 
stupidity  and  wickedness  into  the  hell 
in  which  at  this  moment  it  is  writhing. 

Lord,  how  long,  how  long? 

Till  such  time  as  we,  the  plain  peo- 
ple of  every  nation,  say  we  will  endure 
it  no  longer.  And  let  that  time  be  now! 
When  this  war  is  over  Europe  might  be 
settled,  then  and  there,  if  the  peoples 
willed  it,  and  made  their  will  effective, 
in  such  a  way  that  there  would  never 
again  be  a  European  war.  To  do  this 
it  is  only  necessary  to  change  our  ideas. 
Or,  rather,  to  make  clear  to  ourselves 


the  ideas  we  really  have,  the  purposes 
we  really  will,  and  impose  them  on 
those  who  are  to  act  for  us. 


VI 

We  will  to  perpetuate  European 
peace.  How  are  we  to  accomplish  it? 
By  keeping  in  view  and  putting  into 
effect  certain  clear  principles. 

First,  the  whole  idea  of  aggrandizing 
one  nation  and  humiliating  another 
must  be  set  aside.  What  we  are  aiming 
at  is,  not  that  this  or  that  group  of 
states  should  dominate  the  others,  but 
that  none  should  in  future  have  any 
desire  or  motive  to  dominate.  With 
that  view,  we  must  leave  behind  the 
fewest  possible  sores,  the  least  possible 
sense  of  grievance,  the  least  possible 
humiliation.  The  defeated  states, 
therefore,  must  not  be  dismembered  in 
the  hope  of  making  or  keeping  them 
weak;  and  that  means,  in  detail,  that, 
if  the  allies  win,  the  English  and  the 
French  must  not  take  the  German  colo- 
nies, or  the  Russians  the  Baltic  coast, 
the  Balkans,  or  Constantinople;  and 
that,  if  Germany  wins,  she  must  not 
dismember  or  subordinate  to  her  sys- 
tem France  or  England  or  the  neutral 
powers.  That  is  the  first  clear  condi- 
tion of  the  future  peace  of  Europe. 

Secondly,  in  rearranging  the  bound- 
aries of  states  —  and  clearly  they  must 
be  rearranged  —  one  point,  and  one 
only,  must  be  kept  in  mind :  to  give  to 
all  peoples  suffering  and  protesting 
under  alien  rule  the  right  to  decide 
whether  they  will  become  an  autono- 
mous unit,  or  will  join  the  political  sys- 
tem of  some  other  nation.  Thus,  for 
example,  the  people  of  Alsace-Lorraine 
should  be  allowed  to  choose  whether 
they  will  remain  under  Germany,  or 
become  an  autonomous  community, 
or  be  included  in  France.  The  same 
principle  should  be  applied  to  the 
Poles.  The  same  to  Schleswig-Holstein, 


THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


835 


The  same  to  the  Balkan  states.  The 
same  to  the  Slav  communities  includ- 
ed in  Austria-Hungary.  There  would 
arise,  of  course,  difficulties  in  carrying 
this  principle  through.  For,  in  the  Bal- 
kan states,  in  Bohemia,  and  elsewhere, 
there  is  an  almost  inextricable  tangle  of 
nationalities.  But  with  good  will  these 
difficulties  could  be  at  least  partially 
met. 

Even  the  wholesale  transference  of 
peoples  of  one  nationality  from  one  lo- 
cation to  another  is  a  possibility;  and 
indeed  it  is  now  going  on.  In  any  case 
the  principle  itself  is  clear.  Political 
rule  must  cease  to  be  imposed  on  peo- 
ples against  their  will  in  the  supposed 
interest  of  that  great  idol,  the  abstract 
state.  Let  the  Germans,  who  belong 
together,  live  together  under  the  same 
government,  pursuing  in  independence 
their  national  ideal  and  their  national 
culture.  But  let  them  not  impose  that 
ideal  and  that  culture  on  reluctant 
Poles  and  Slavs  and  Danes.  So,  too, 
let  Russia  develop  her  own  life  over  the 
huge  territory  where  Russians  live. 
But  let  her  not  impose  that  life  on  un- 
willing Poles  and  Finns.  The  English, 
in  history,  have  been  as  guilty  as  other 
nations  of  sacrificing  nationality  to  the 
supposed  exigencies  of  the  state.  But 
of  late  they  have  been  learning  their 
lesson.  Let  them  learn  it  to  the  end. 
Let  no  community  be  coerced  under 
British  rule  that  wants  to  be  self-gov- 
erning. The  British  have  had  the  cour- 
age, though  late,  to  apply  this  principle 
to  South  Africa  and  Ireland.  There  re- 
mains their  greatest  act  of  courage  and 
wisdom  —  to  apply  it  to  India. 

A  Europe  thus  rearranged,  as  it 
might  be  at  the  peace,  on  a  basis  of 
real  nationality  instead  of  on  a  basis 
of  states,  would  be  a  Europe  ripe  for 
a  permanent  league.  And  by  such  a 
league  only,  in  my  judgment,  can  its 
future  peace,  prosperity,  happiness, 
goodness,  and  greatness  be  assured. 


There  must  be  an  end  to  the  waste 
upon  armaments  of  resources  too 
scanty,  at  the  best,  to  give  to  all  men 
and  women  in  all  countries  the  mater- 
ial basis  for  a  good  life.  But  if  states 
are  left  with  the  power  to  arm  against 
one  another  they  will  do  so,  each  assert- 
ing, and  perhaps  with  truth,  that  it  is 
arming  in  defense  against  the  imag- 
ined aggression  of  the  others.  If  all  are 
arming,  all  will  spend  progressively 
more  and  more  on  their  armaments,  for 
each  will  be  afraid  of  being  outstripped 
by  the  others.  This  circle  is  fatal,  as 
we  have  seen  in  the  last  quarter  of  a 
century. 

To  secure  the  peace  of  Europe  the 
peoples  of  Europe  must  hand  over 
their  armaments,  and  the  use  of  them, 
for  any  purpose  except  internal  police, 
to  an  international  authority.  This 
authority  must  determine  what  force  is 
required  for  Europe  as  a  whole,  acting 
as  a  whole  in  the  still  possible  case  of 
war  against  powers  not  belonging  to 
the  League.  It  must  apportion  the 
quota  of  armaments  between  the  differ- 
ent nations  according  to  their  wealth, 
population,  resources,  and  geographi- 
cal position.  And  it,  and  it  alone,  must 
carry  on,  and  carry  on  in  public,  ne- 
gotiations with  powers  outside  the 
League.  All  disputes  that  may  arise 
between  members  of  the  League  must 
be  settled  by  judicial  process.  And 
none  of  the  forces  of  the  League  must 
be  available  for  purposes  of  aggression 
by  any  member  against  any  other. 

With  such  a  League  of  Europe  con- 
stituted, the  problem  of  reduction  of 
armaments  would  be  automatically 
solved.  Whatever  force  a  united  Eu- 
rope might  suppose  itself  to  require 
for  possible  defense  would  clearly  be 
far  less  than  the  sum  of  the  existing 
armaments  of  the  separate  states.  Im- 
mense resources  would  be  set  free  for 
the  general  purposes  of  civilization, 
and  especially  for  those  costly  social 


836 


THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


reforms  on  the  accomplishment  of 
which  depends  the  right  of  any  nation 
to  call  itself  civilized  at  all.  And  if  any 
one  insists  on  looking  at  the  settlement 
from  the  point  of  view  of  material  ad- 
vantage —  and  that  point  of  view  will 
and  must  be  taken  —  it  may  be  urged, 
without  a  shadow  of  doubt,  that  any 
and  every  nation,  the  conquerors  no 
less  than  the  conquered,  would  gain 
from  a  reduction  of  armaments  far 
more  than  they  could  possibly  gain  by 
pecuniary  indemnities  or  cessions  of 
territory  which  would  leave  every  na- 
tion still  arming  against  the  others 
with  a  view  to  a  future  squandering  of 
resources  in  another  great  war.  This  is 
sheer  common  sense  of  the  most  mat- 
ter-of-fact kind. 

A  League  of  Europe  is  not  Utopia. 
It  is  sound  business.  :5 

•* 

Such  a  league,  it  is  true,  could  hard- 
ly come  into  being  immediately  at  the 
peace.  There  must  be  preparation  of 
opinion  first;  and  not  less  important, 
there  must  be  such  changes  in  the  gov- 
ernment of  the  monarchic  states  as 
will  insure  the  control  of  their  policy  by 
popular  opinion;  otherwise,  we  might 
get  a  league  in  which  the  preponder- 
ating influence  would  be  with  auto- 
cratic emperors.  But  in  making  peace 
the  future  league  must  be  kept  in  view. 
Everything  must  be  done  that  will  fur- 
ther it,  and  nothing  that  will  hinder  it. 
And  what  would  hinder  it  most  would 
be  a  peace  by  which  either  there  should 
be  a  return  to  the  conditions  before  the 
war  —  but  of  that  there  is  little  fear  — 
or  by  which  any  one  power,  or  group 
of  powers,  should  be  given  a  hegemony 
over  the  others.  For  that  would  mean 
a  future  war  for  the  rehabilitation  of 
the  vanquished. 

The  mood,  therefore,  which  seems  to 
be  growing  in  England,  that  the  British 
must  'punish '  Germany  by  annihilating 
her  as  a  political  force;  the  mood  which 
seems  to  be  growing  in  Germany,  that 


she  must  annihilate  the  British  as  the 
great  disturbers  of  the  peace,  —  all 
such  moods  must  be  resolutely  discour- 
aged. For  on  those  lines  no  permanent 
peace  can  be  made.  Militarism  must 
be  destroyed,  not  only  in  Germany  but 
everywhere.  Limitation  of  armaments 
must  be  general,  not  imposed  only  on 
the  vanquished  by  victors  who  propose 
themselves  to  remain  fully  armed.  The 
view  of  peoples  must  be  substituted 
once  for  all  for  the  view  of  govern- 
ments; and  the  view  of  peoples  is  no 
domination,  and,  therefore,  no  war, 
but  a  union  of  nations  developing  free- 
ly on  their  own  lines,  and  settling  all 
disputes  by  arbitration. 


VII 

I  have  thus  laid  before  the  reader,  as 
clearly  as  I  can  in  a  brief  space,  both 
what  I  believe  to  be  the  deepest  cause 
of  war,  and  what  I  believe  to  be  its  only 
cure.  At  this  moment  it  is  only  Eng- 
lishmen and  Americans  that  can  be  ad- 
dressed in  this  sense,  for  on  the  Conti- 
nent there  is  martial  law,  and  every 
man,  Socialists  and  Pacifists  as  well 
as  others,  is  at  the  front.  But,  of  course, 
the  opinion  that  can  influence  the  re- 
sult must  be  international.  And  that 
such  weight  of  international  opinion 
can  be  elicited  and  made  effective  in  a 
short  time,  as  soon  as  agitation  can 
begin,  I  myself  have  little  doubt.  The 
considerations  I  have  laid  before  the 
reader,  if  they  be  as  valid  and  import- 
ant as  I  believe  them  to  be,  are  valid 
and  important  for  every  one,  irrespec- 
tive of  nationality.  What  is  imperative 
is  to  get  them  stated  in  such  a  way  that 
they  come  home  with  real  conviction 
to  a  vast  number  of  individuals. 

This  paper  of  mine  is  but  a  forerunner 
of  what  I  hope  will  be  a  general  and  act- 
ive propaganda.  But  the  only  end  and 
purpose  of  all  such  propaganda  is  to 
produce  a  quiet,  firm,  unassailable  con- 


THE  WAR  AND  THE  WAY  OUT 


837 


viction,  in  one  after  another  individual 
mind,  heart,  and  will.  For  the  moment, 
the  voice  is  mine,  and  the  listener  that 
one  person  who  at  any  moment,  in  any 
place,  may  peruse  these  lines.  I  do  not 
aim  at  sweeping  him  away  by  frothy 
rhetoric.  I  appeal  to  his  common  sense, 
his  reason,  his  conscience,  and  his 
heart.  And  I  ask  him,  whoever  he  be, 
laborer  with  the  hand,  laborer  with  the 
head,  man  of  business,  or  thinker,  to 
make  up  his  mind  for  himself  in  the 
terrible  and  lurid  glare  of  the  events 
actually  passing  before  him. 

I  ask  him  first  to  realize  what  war 
means.  If  he  has  been  at  the  front,  he 
knows  from  personal  experience.  Let 
him  realize,  again  and  again,  without 
ceasing,  till  it  is  burned  upon  his  soul, 
what  that  experience  has  been.  If  he 
has  not  been  there,  let  him  try  to  realize 
it  through  such  detailed  accounts  of 
what  has  been  happening  as  filter 
through  the  press. 

Then  when  the  horror  has  possessed 
his  soul,  let  him  ask  himself,  Why  all 
this?  And  let  him  not  be  put  off  and 
satisfied  by  such  answers  as  '  the  inva- 
sion of  Belgium,'  *  the  ambition  of  Ger- 
many.' These  may  be  causes  why 
England  went  into  this  particular  war. 
They  are  not  causes  why  the  war  hap- 
pened. The  war  happened  because  the 
governmental  theory  was  held  and  ap- 
plied by  those  few  men  who  control 
policy  and  armaments;  and  because 
the  ordinary  people,  whom  this  war  is 
massacring  and  ruining  by  hundreds  of 
thousands,  had  neither  the  knowledge, 
nor  the  education  of  heart  and  mind, 
nor  the  organization,  to  control  those 
men.  That  is  what  we  have  to  alter. 
And  we  must  begin  by  discrediting  the 
governmental  theory. 

I  have  endeavored  to  show,  by  ex- 
amples relevant  to  this  war,  how  the 
reasons  it  puts  forward  break  down  in 
the  light  of  mere  common  sense  and 
mere  decent  human  feeling.  Let  the 


reader  practice  and  pursue  that  meth- 
od in  dealing  with  every  book  and  with 
every  press  article  that  he  comes  across 
in  which  the  fallacy  is  maintained.  Let 
him  ask  himself  always,  when  there 
is  talk  of  power,  of  prestige,  of  markets, 
of  expansion,  and  all  the  other  shibbo- 
leths, —  what  exactly  do  these  things 
mean  in  terms  of  the  life  of  men  and 
women.  And  if  sometimes  he  detects 
among  the  objects  aimed  at  by  govern- 
ments one  that  seems  to  imply  a  real 
benefit  to  real  people,  let  him  then  ask 
himself,  'Is  it  tolerable  for  a  decent 
human  being  to  pursue  this  advantage 
at  the  cost  of  other  human  beings,  by 
means  of  war,  as  war  has  now  been 
freshly  and  vividly  revealed  to  me?' 

If  he  perseveres  in  this  course  I  be- 
lieve that  he  will  come  to  agree  with  me 
that  the  world  is  being  controlled  by 
men  who  are  the  victims  of  sheer  illu- 
sion; whether  it  be  defect  of  mind,  of 
heart,  or  of  soul  that  has  fastened  the 
illusion  upon  them.  And  then,  if  he 
gets  so  far,  let  him  ask  the  further 
and  crucial  question,  How  is  it  that 
such  men,  victims  of  illusion,  have 
been  able  to  involve  millions  and  mil- 
lions of  men  in  universal  massacre;  to 
waste  their  labor  on  instruments  of 
destruction;  to  keep  them  starved  of 
spiritual,  even  of  material  sustenance, 
for  the  purpose  of  piling  up  armaments 
and  waging  war  for  no  purposes  rele- 
vant to  life  at  all? 

He  will  then  have  come  to  the  point 
at  which  action  for  him  begins.  For 
then  he  must  get  together  with  all 
others  who  think  and  feel  as  he  does, 
not  in  England  and  America  only,  but 
everywhere  throughout  the  world,  to 
stop  this  thing  by  any  and  every  means. 
For,  let  him  remember,  the  power  that 
rulers  have  is  the  power  of  the  assent 
of  the  ruled,  an  assent  almost  always 
purely  passive.  That  passive  assent 
on  his  part  must  stop.  He  is  an  active 
soldier  now  in  the  cause  of  peace. 


GERMAN  METHODS  OF  CONDUCTING  THE  WAR 


BY   HEINRICH   FR.   ALBERT 


THE  present  war,  in  which  many 
millions  of  men  are  engaged,  has  opened 
up  a  great  variety  of  new  problems  of 
organization  and  of  military  technique; 
and  these  in  turn  have  influenced  the 
methods  of  warfare.  Wireless  teleg- 
raphy, submarines,  and  airships  have 
created  new  and  terrifying  possibilities 
in  the  conduct  of  war  which  have 
shocked  the  public  sensibilities.  Add- 
ed to  the  charges  arising  from  the  use  of 
these  new  weapons  are  the  old  charges 
of  atrocity  and  cruelty  which  every 
war  brings.  Many  of  these  charges  are 
willful  falsifications,  many  of  them  are 
of  psychopathic  origin,  and  many  are 
mythical. 

Admitting  that,  in  the  passion  engen- 
dered by  war,  brutal  instincts  may  be 
let  loose  and  occasional  atrocities  be 
committed  by  individuals  on  either  side, 
a  German  may  be  permitted  to  point 
out  in  reference  to  the  army  of  his  own 
country  that  it  is  inconceivable  that 
the  iron  discipline  of  German  troops, 
whose  efficiency  in  every  other  direc- 
tion is  recognized,  should  have  broken 
down  here. 

Omitting,  then,  a  discussion  of  these 
atrocity  charges,  and  confining  itself, 
as  far  as  possible,  to  admitted  facts  and 
uncontested  reports,  this  article  will 
examine  the  methods  of  warfare  em- 
ployed by  Germany  and  her  adver- 
saries in  the  present  conflict,  under 
three  main  heads :  — 

i.  Methods  of  Warfare  in  the  Air. 
n.  Methods  of  Warfare  on  Land. 

in.  Methods  of  Warfare  at  Sea. 
838 


I.  METHODS  OF  WARFARE  IN  THE  AIR 

In  this  connection  the  first  things  to 
be  considered  are  the  attacks  of  air- 
craft and  the  throwing  of  bombs  from 
them.  Many  have  believed  this  meth- 
od of  warfare  to  be  a  violation  of  inter- 
national law;  while  others,  who  made 
no  such  claim,  declared  it  to  be  inhu- 
man and  absolutely  useless. 

Let  us  first  look  at  the  legal  aspect. 
Even  the  first  conference  at  The  Hague 
in  the  year  1899  considered  this  ques- 
tion. The  second  conference,  in  1907, 
practically  confirmed  the  findings  of 
the  first  with  a  few  exceptions.  In 
one  of  the  declarations  made  at  this 
conference,  it  was  laid  down  that  the 
'contracting  powers  agree  to  prohibit 
for  a  period  extending  to  the  close  of 
the  third  peace  conference,  the  dis- 
charge of  projectiles  and  explosives 
from  balloons  or  by  other  new  methods 
of  similar  nature/  This  declaration 
was  signed  by  the  representatives  of 
twenty-seven  states  out  of  the  forty- 
four  present. 

Among  the  seventeen  states  which 
did  not  sign  were  France,  Italy,  Rou- 
mania,  Russia,  Servia,  and  Germany. 
Thus  practically  all  the  big  military 
powers  at  the  convention,  with  the 
exception  of  Austria-Hungary,  failed 
to  sign  this  agreement,  and  for  a  very 
good  reason;  for  if  ever  war  has  to 
be  made,  which  is  regretted  by  none 
more  than  by  Germany,  there  is  no 
reason  why  the  latest  technical  inven- 
tions should  not  be  made  use  of.  It 
will  be  observed  that  none  of  the  big 


GERMAN  METHODS  OF  CONDUCTING  THE  WAR 


839 


military  powers  which  are  in  possession 
of  airships  signed  this  declaration. 

It  is  easily  understood  why  England 
signed  this  declaration,  and  was  the 
only  power  to  ratify  it:  her  interests 
lay  in  such  a  declaration,  for  her  insu- 
lar safety  is  threatened  by  attacks  from 
the  air.  Furthermore,  every  attempt 
in  England  to  develop  an  effective  type 
of  airship  has  been  a  failure.  The  air- 
ships which  England  built  had  all  sorts 
of  other  good  points,  but  either  they 
were  not  able  to  fly  or  they  collapsed 
after  the  first  few  attempts.  Only  of 
late  has  England  had  any  conspicuous 
successes  in  aviation.  England's  inter- 
est therefore  is  quite  different  from 
that  of  the  nations  which  have  had  air- 
ships for  a  long  time,  especially  France 
and  Germany. 

According  to  recognized  interna- 
tional practice,  Germany  is  not  bound 
to  abide  by  this  declaration,  since,  like 
the  seventeen  other  states,  she  did  not 
sign  it.  The  bombardment  from  air- 
ships and  flying  machines  therefore 
is  not  forbidden  by  any  international 
agreements,  and  Germany  is  altogeth- 
er within  her  rights  in  making  use  of 
this  new  weapon  in  which  she  is  so 
far  superior  to  the  Allies.  Internation- 
al agreements  of  this  kind  are  not  and 
cannot  be  ideal.  They  are  compro- 
mises in  which  each  side  makes  con- 
cessions. 

It  cannot  even  be  shown  that  the 
throwing  of  bombs  from  airships  is  an 
especially  inhuman  method  of  warfare. 
There  is  no  difference  between  such 
bomb- throwing  and  a  bombardment 
from  land.  It  is  impossible  to  arrange 
any  bombardment  so  that  non-com- 
batants will  not  be  struck,  or  so  that 
some  of  the  shots  will  not  strike  other 
places  than  those  aimed  at  and  often 
destroy  private  property.  Private 
property  damaged  in  war  on  land  is 
no  different  from  private  property  des- 
troyed and  captured  on  the  high  seas, 


as,  for  instance,  by  the  superior  Brit- 
ish fleet.  One  is  just  as  justifiable  as 
the  other.  It  is  well  known  that  Ger- 
many tried  repeatedly  in  the  Hague 
Peace  Conference  to  put  an  end  to  the 
confiscation  of  private  property  on  the 
high  seas,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
Germany's  interest  lay  in  such  an  in- 
ternational pact,  owing  to  the  fact  that 
its  navy  is  very  much  smaller  than  the 
British.  Germany  would  have  been 
willing  to  offset  such  a  concession  with 
an  agreement  not  to  throw  bombs  from 
the  air,  but  England's  interests  were 
opposed.  This  fact  is  not  stated  here 
in  the  sense  of  rebuking  England;  but 
it  is  only  just  that  if  Germany  does  not 
object  to  Great  Britain  using  her  means 
of  warfare  as  best  she  can,  Germany 
on  the  other  hand  should  not  be  criti- 
cized for  making  the  best  use  of  her 
weapons. 

Now,  however,  the  objection  is 
raised,  and  this  at  first  glance  seems  to 
be  a  point  well  taken,  that  the  throw- 
ing of  bombs  from  airships  is  really  a 
waste  of  effort,  as  it  accomplishes  no- 
thing. The  American  is  apt  to  ask  what 
is  the  use  of  throwing  bombs  into  a 
city  that  is  not  even  being  besieged  at 
the  time.  This  seems  senseless  to  him, 
and  especially  inhuman  when  a  Ger- 
man airman  throws  bombs  into  Paris, 
or  when  a  Zeppelin  sends  projectiles  of 
a  similar  kind  into  Antwerp  before  the 
city  is  even  invested.  A  calm  and  ju- 
dicial consideration,  however,  will  show 
that  this  view  is  not  justified.  The  air- 
man over  Paris  did  not  aim  at  the  un- 
fortunate woman  and  the  unhappy  chil- 
dren who  became  the  innocent  victims 
of  war  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the 
Eiffel  Tower;  the  bombs  were  meant 
for  the  wireless  station  on  the  Eiffel 
Tower.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  ex- 
plain how  enormously  important  the 
destruction  of  this  station  would  have 
been. 

When  one  realizes  that  modern  war- 


840 


GERMAN  METHODS  OF  CONDUCTING  THE  WAR 


fare  is  conducted,  not  only  by  the 
physical  strength  and  endurance  of 
the  troops,  but  above  all  by  the  inven- 
tions of  mechanical  genius  and  the 
proper  use  of  modern  appliances,  one 
easily  sees  the  enormous  importance 
of  the  Eiffel  Tower  wireless  station. 
It  distributes  the  orders  of  the  French 
War  Office  to  the  armies  in  the  field. 
From  it  news  is  sent  out  over  the  en- 
tire world.  Instructions  to  the  French 
fleet  are  *  wirelessed.'  The  communi- 
cation between  the  Allies  —  between 
the  British  and  French  governments, 
between  the  allied  fleets  and  the  arm- 
ies in  the  field  —  is  conducted  from  this 
station.  The  destruction  of  this  means 
of  communication  under  the  circum- 
stances would  be  more  important  than 
that  of  an  entire  army  corps.  If  the 
airman  missed  his  target  and  unfortun- 
ately struck  non-combatants,  such  is 
the  inevitable  risk  of  war.  He  can  be 
reproached  for  what  he  did  no  more 
than  Germany  has  reproached  the  Brit- 
ish for  the  brave  but  unsuccessful  at- 
tempts of  the  English  flyers  to  destroy 
German  Zeppelin  sheds  and  Zeppelins 
at  Dusseldorf  and  other  unfortified 
towns. 

Attacks  by  airships  are  even  more 
useful  than  those  by  aeroplanes,  ac- 
cording to  the  general  opinion  of  mili- 
tary experts.  There  is  no  doubt  what- 
ever of  the  fact  that  the  prompt  aid 
rendered  by  the  £eppelins  above  Liege 
contributed  greatly  toward  hastening 
the  fall  of  that  fortress.  If  one  wishes 
to  judge  rightly  the  value  of  Zeppelin 
attacks  upon  Antwerp  even  before  its 
investment,  one  must  have  in  mind 
the  immense  complicated  organization 
of  such  a  modern  fortress.  Defense  of 
a  modern  fortress  no  longer  consists 
merely  in  leading  the  troops  to  the 
walls  where  guns  are  placed  and  then 
firing  at  the  attacking  enemy.  Even 
more  important  than  the  bravery  and 
deeds  of  the  troops  is  the  technical  or- 


ganization. One  look  at  the  map  of  the 
fortifications  of  Antwerp  shows  clearly 
how  such  an  organization  works. 

The  far-extended  double  line  of  forts 
demands  a  careful  organization  of  the 
railroad  system,  with  every  detail  so 
thoroughly  regulated  that  troops  can  at 
a  moment's  notice  be  taken  from  pla- 
ces where  they  are  not  needed  and  be 
thrown  into  other  positions  where  the 
enemy's  attack  is  the  stronger.  There 
must  be  complicated  machinery  for 
properly  placing  heavy  artillery  mate- 
rial, for  moving  ammunition,  for  trans- 
porting the  wounded,  for  operating 
canals  and  sluices  in  order  to  flood  cer- 
tain districts.  In  short,  it  is  necessary 
to  operate  a  large  technical  apparatus 
which  must  work  with  the  precision 
of  a  clock;  and  the  threads  connecting 
the  various  parts  of  such  an  apparatus 
run  together  at  a  few  points.  These 
points  may  be  likened  to  the  brain, 
with  which  the  outer  members  of  the 
body  are  connected  by  nerves.  If  this 
brain  is  injured,  the  entire  body  is 
made  useless,  and  the  greatest  bravery 
cannot  offset  destruction  of  the  inner 
mechanism.  To  this  must  be  added 
the  importance  of  arsenals,  of  maga- 
zines for  ammunition,  of  oil-tanks,  of 
grain-elevators,  the  importance  of  the 
headquarters  of  the  chief  commander, 
the  general  staff,  and  so  forth. 

The  destruction  of  the  central  points 
must  hasten  the  surrender  of  such 
a  fortress  by  weeks.  Their  destruc- 
tion through  bombs  thrown  from  air- 
ships may  therefore  be  a  much  more 
humane  method  of  warfare  than  the 
destruction  of  the  entire  fortress  by  a 
bombardment  from  all  sides  could  pos- 
sibly be.  At  all  events,  this  more  mod- 
ern warfare  —  which  paralyzes  the 
body  of  a  fortress  through  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  central  nervous  system,  and 
thus  forces  the  fortress  to  surrender  — 
may  spare  many  thousands  of  lives 
and  property  of  incalculable  value. 


GERMAN  METHODS  OF  CONDUCTING   THE  WAR 


841 


II.    METHODS  OF  WARFARE  ON  LAND 

1.  The  fundamental  rules  for  the 
conduct  of  war  on  land  are  laid  down 
in  the  'Convention  Concerning  Laws 
and  Customs  of  War  on  Land '  which 
forms  part  of  the  conferences  at  The 
Hague  of  the  years  1899  and  1907.  The 
source  of  this  convention  is,  as  is  well 
known,  an  American  authority,  name- 
ly, the  'Instructions  for  government 
of  armies  of  the  United  States  in  the 
field,  drawn  up  by  Dr.  Francis  Lieber 
and  revised  by  a  Board  of  Officers  of 
the  United  States  army  at  the  instiga- 
tion of  President  Lincoln,  and  issued 
from  the  office  of  the  Adjutant  General 
to  the  army  in  General  Order  No.  100 
of  1863.' 

These  instructions  have  been  justly 
called  'a  deed  of  great  moment  in 
the  history  of  international  law  and 
of  civilization.'  They  have  formed  a 
basis  for  similar  work  on  the  part  of 
France,  England,  and  Germany,  and 
have  been  incorporated,  in  spirit  at 
least,  into  the  Hague  Conventions. 
These  conventions  must  be  considered 
valid,  because  the  Convention  of  1907 
was,  so  far  as  the  warfare  on  land  is 
concerned,  only  a  revision  of  the  Con- 
vention of  1899,  which  is  binding  by 
reason  of  ratifications  deposited  by  all 
the  nations  now  at  war.  At  any  rate, 
the  Peace  Foundation  is  right  in  stat- 
ing that  instructions  in  the  form  of  gen- 
eral orders  are  issued  to  the  different 
armies  having  all  the  force  of  the  sanc- 
tions of  martial  law  behind  them.  The 
German  code  of  1870-71  was  entire- 
ly based  on  the  American  document, 
the  terms  of  which  were  in  part  almost 
verbally  followed.  The  new  instruc- 
tions are  practically  the  same  in  a  mod- 
ernized form. 

2.  The  Conventions  of  1899  and  1907 
are  amplified  by  a  number  of  special 
declarations,  of  which  one  concerns 
the  use  of  shells  containing  asphyxiat- 


ing or  deleterious  gases,1  and  another 
refers  to  expanding  bullets.'  Charges 
have  been  made  that  the  French  have 
used  such  shells,  and  both  sides  have 
charged  the  use  of  expanding  bullets 
by  the  enemy.  We  shall  not  enter  here 
into  the  question  whether  this  viola- 
tion of  the  laws  of  nations  has  been 
practiced. 

3.  The  greatest  discussion  has  been 
roused  by  the  methods  of  war  used  by 
Germany  in  Belgium  for  the  suppres- 
sion of  sniping,  and  in  the  treatment  of 
an  enemy's  territory  occupied  during 
war,  such  as  the  treatment  of  non- 
combatants  who  have  been  found  with 
weapons  in  their  hands,  the  taking  of 
hostages  in  towns  and  villages,  the  de- 
struction of  houses  in  various  places, 
the  levy  of  war  contributions,  and  so 
forth. 

What  is  sniping?  Sniping  is  the  par- 
ticipation in  the  hostilities  of  non-com- 
batants of  a  territory  invaded  or  occu- 
pied by  the  enemy.  Non-combatants 
are  all  people  not  belonging  to  the  ar- 
my. As  Belgium  has  a  standing  army, 
volunteering  forces  are  admitted  only 
under  the  conditions  of  Article  I.2  The 
fundamental  principle  is  that  the  vol- 

1  'The  contracting  powers  agree  to  abstain 
from  the  use  of  bullets  which  expand  or  flatten 
easily  within  the  human  body,  such  as  bullets 
with  a  hard  envelope  which  does  not  entirely 
cover  the  core  but  is  pierced  with  incisions.' 

2  Annex  to  Convention  IV  of  the  Hague  Con- 
ference of  1907,  Regulations  respecting  the  Laws 
and  Customs  of  War  on  Land;  Section  I,  Chap- 
ter I,  Art.  I  :  'The  laws,  right,  and  duties  of  war 
apply  not  only  to  the  army  but  also  to  the  militia 
and  corps  of  volunteers  fulfilling  the  following 
conditions:  — 

1.  That  of  being  commanded  by  a  person  re- 
sponsible for  his  subordinates; 

2.  That  of  having  a  distinctive  emblem  fixed 
and  recognizable  at  a  distance; 

3.  That  of  carrying  arms  openly;  and 

4.  That  of  conducting  their  operations  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  laws  and  customs  of  war. 

In  countries  where  militia  or  corps  of  volunteers 
constitute  the  army,  or  form  part  of  it,  they  are 
included  under  the  denomination  'army.' 


842 


GERMAN  METHODS  OF  CONDUCTING  THE  WAR 


unteers  must  be  recognizable  as  soldiers 
and  must  carry  on  the  war  openly. 

In  Belgium  the  German  troops  have 
been  attacked  by  non-combatants,  not 
belonging  to  any  military  organiza- 
tion. The  question  of  recognizing  the 
*  Garde  Civique'  as  lawful  has  never 
been  raised.  But  the  Belgian  popula- 
tion took  part  in  the  fight  without  hav- 
ing any  distinctive  or  recognizable 
emblem,  without  openly  carrying  arms, 
or  otherwise  conforming  with  the  fore- 
going article.  The  attacks  upon  the 
Germans  were  made  from  ambush,  from 
houses,  and  so  forth,  in  places  where  the 
population,  at  the  time  of  the  occupa- 
tion by  German  troops,  had  appeared 
to  be  peaceable.  They  had  hidden 
their  weapons  to  produce  them  later. 
Snipers'  warfare  has  been  carried  on  in 
Belgium  with  all  the  horrors  of  a  guer- 
rilla campaign,  and  has  even  been  glo- 
rified by  French  and  English  papers 
as  something  heroic.1  Whether  this 
franc-tireur  war  was  waged  by  the 
people  at  the  behest  of  their  govern- 
ment or  not,  may  be  left  undecided. 

The  suppression  of  sniping  has  been 
recognized  by  all  nations  as  a  dire 
necessity.  All  military  instructions  in 
regard  to  it  have  been  with  the  object 
of  assuring  the  greatest  efficiency  in 
suppression.  The  most  vigorous  meth- 
ods are  undoubtedly  the  most  humane 
ones  in  this  respect,  for  they  act  as  a 
preventive.  During  the  Boer  War,  for 
instance,  Lord  Roberts  issued  the  fol- 
lowing army  order :  — 

*  Wherever  any  attempt  has  been 
made  to  destroy  the  railroad  line,  all 
the  farms  and  residences  within  a  cir- 

1  In  The  Sphere,  London,  of  August  22,  1914, 
there  is  a  picture  which  shows  a  woman  sur- 
rounded by  her  children  shooting  at  Uhlans  from 
the  opening  of  the  door.  Another  picture  shows 
armed  workmen  defending  their  homes  with 
scythes,  hoes,  and  cudgels. 

The  French  paper  L'Avenir  Reims  pictures  in 
an  article  the  heroic  defense  of  Herstal  by  the 
women. 


cumference  of  ten  miles  must  be  de- 
stroyed, cattle  and  all  provisions  taken 
away,  and  the  residents  driven  away 
without  food  or  shelter.' 

The  reason  for  such  Draconian 
measures  against  sniping  is  the  im- 
mense danger  it  means  to  the  army. 
Of  what  particular  importance  it  is  to 
Germany  in  this  struggle  that  the  oc- 
cupied territory  of  Belgium  should  be 
kept  quiet  is  evident.  Communication 
with  the  German  front  from  Verdun 
to  Rheims,  Roye,  Arras,  Lille,  and 
Ostend  depends  absolutely  upon  the 
Belgian  railway  system  and  roads.  De- 
struction of  this  line  of  communica- 
tion would  endanger  the  provisioning 
of  the  army,  the  bringing  up  of  ammu- 
nition and  supplies,  the  transportation 
home  of  the  wounded  and  of  prisoners 
of  war,  and  in  case  of  defeat  —  which 
every  commander- in- chief  must  in- 
clude in  the  possibilities —  would  lead 
to  the  complete  destruction  of  the  Ger- 
man army. 

Under  these  circumstances,  even  the 
most  criticized  act,  the  so-called  de- 
struction of  Louvain,  will  gain  quite 
a  different  aspect  from  that  which  it 
had  in  the  discussion  in  the  press.  What 
are  the  facts?  The  occupation  of  Lou- 
vain  had  taken  place  in  an  entirely 
peaceful  manner.  In  order  to  be  as 
impartial  as  possible,  I  take  as  basis, 
not  the  official  German  report,  most 
unfavorable  to  Belgium,  but  the  re- 
port of  a  neutral,  the  Dutch  corre- 
spondent of  the  Niew  Rotterdamsche 
Courant.'1  He  states:  'The  city  was  oc- 
cupied in  the  regular  way  by  compar- 
atively few  soldiers.  Suddenly  a  shot 
was  fired  out  of  the  house  opposite  to 
the  headquarters  of  the  staff.  Imme- 
diately afterwards  a  number  of  shots 
were  fired  from  houses  nearby,  and  in 
a  moment  this  shooting  spread  from 
house  to  house,  from  street  to  street, 
with  such  a  speed  that  the  German  sol- 
i  August  30,  1914. 


GERMAN  METHODS  OF  CONDUCTING  THE  WAR 


843 


diers  fell  in  great  numbers;  many  were 
wounded.  The  horses  of  the  train  were 
killed  or  bolted.  A  general  confusion 
was  the  result/  During  this  fighting 
fires  broke  out  which  spread  with  ter- 
rific speed  over  the  city. 

It  is  evident  that  in  such  a  fight  no 
distinction  between  public  and  private 
buildings  could  be  made,  as  artillery 
had  to  be  used  in  the  most  endanger- 
ed places,  especially  against  buildings 
from  which  shots  were  fired.  All  the 
same,  the  German  troops  did  all  they 
could  to  save  works  of  art.  Lieuten- 
ant Thelemann,  in  private  life  a  high 
official  of  the  Prussian  Ministry  of  Pub- 
lic Works,  attempted,  together  with 
a  number  of  soldiers,  to  save  works 
of  art  endangered  by  flames.  While 
he  was  engaged  in  doing  this,  he  was 
shot  at  from  ambush  by  non-combatant 
residents  of  Lou  vain,  and  was  severely 
wounded.  In  the  face  of  such  facts,  no 
claim  can  be  made  that  architectural 
monuments  of  art  and  of  historical 
value  were  wantonly  destroyed  or  at- 
tacked. Whenever  any  such  buildings 
were  struck,  it  was  in  self-defense,  or 
was  an  absolute  military  necessity. 
Herein  a  number  of  the  foremost  Amer- 
ican correspondents  are  unanimous. 
Their  reports  are  confirmed  by  the  Vice- 
Regent  of  the  University  of  Louvain, 
Dr.  Coenrad. 

The  treatment  of  Louvain  was  an 
act  of  self-defense,  and  cannot  be  stig- 
matized as  a  barbarous  method  of  war. 
Besides,  the  damage  done  must  be 
calmly  judged,  without  undue  exag- 
geration. The  well-known  director  of 
the  German  Bank  in  Berlin,  Dr.  Helff- 
erich,  who  was  in  Louvain  shortly  af- 
ter the  above  occurrences,  writes:  'It 
is  quite  absurd  to  speak  of  a  total  de- 
struction of  the  town.  Only  the  east- 
ern quarter,  whence,  after  the  appar- 
ently peaceful  surrender  of  the  town, 
our  troops  were  in  a  treacherous  man- 
ner persistently  and  systematically 


fired  at,  and  also  the  streets  leading 
from  the  railway  station  and  from  the 
direction  of  Tirlemont  into  the  interior 
of  the  town,  have  had  to  be  shelled  and 
burned  down.  All  the  houses  and  walls 
in  those  streets  are  thickly  strewn  with 
bullet  marks,  which  bear  evidence  that 
every  single  quarter  in  those  streets 
had  to  be  taken  by  storm. 

*On  the  other  hand,  the  whole  of 
the  southern  half  of  the  town  and 
also  part  of  the  west  have  remained 
almost  completely  intact.  Numerous 
houses  there  bear  inscriptions,  such  as 
'Good  people  in  this  house,  please 
spare,'  and  the  like.  The  Town  Hall, 
the  pearl  of  Louvain,  is  preserved  in 
its  entirety.  It  was  saved  by  our 
troops.  Officers  who  took  part  in  the 
street  fighting  at  Louvain  relate  that 
our  soldiers  applied  the  steam  hose,  in 
order  to  extinguish  the  fire  in  the  build- 
ings close  to  the  Town  Hall  and  thus 
to  save  this  architectural  jewel  from 
destruction.  They  never  stopped  in 
this  work  of  preservation,  although 
they  were,  in  the  very  act  of  rescue,  in- 
cessantly fired  at  by  the  citizens  of 
Louvain.  Unfortunately  it  was  not 
found  possible  to  preserve  the  valuable 
library  of  the  University.  A  tower  of 
the  Cathedral  has  tumbled  down  while 
the  nave  is  unimpaired.' 

In  the  meantime  the  report  of  the 
German  Art  Commission  *  appointed 
to  investigate  these  charges  has  been 
received  in  the  United  States.  The  re- 
port confirms  the  statements  of  Dr. 
Helfferich. 

It  has  seemed  necessary  to  treat  the 
destruction  of  Louvain  somewhat  in 
detail,  as  it  is  characteristic  of  the  ex- 
aggeration of  all  such  reports. 

The  destruction  of  cities  and  other 
places  is  only  the  climax  of  measures 
necessary  for  the  suppression  of  snip- 
ing; as  a  rule,  fortunately,  less  vigorous 
measures  are  sufficient  for  this  pur- 
1  New  York  Sun,  October  16,  1914. 


844 


GERMAN   METHODS  OF  CONDUCTING  THE   WAR 


pose.  Among  these  are  the  searching 
of  towns  or  villages  for  weapons  hidden 
by  non-combatants.  Only  people  who, 
upon  order  of  the  occupying  troops,  do 
not  deliver  whatever  arms  they  have 
in  their  possession,  or  are  later  found 
with  them,  or  have  made  use  of  them, 
are  doomed  to  death.  Sometimes 
hostages  are  taken  to  insure  the  quiet 
behavior  of  the  population  of  occu- 
pied places.  Only  if  this  measure 
proves  insufficient  and  the  attacks  up- 
on the  occupying  troops  are  renewed 
by  non-combatants,  is  no  other  course 
left  to  the  occupying  army  than  to  de- 
stroy such  places. 

There  is  one  method  of  war  which 
particularly  has  been  much  misunder- 
stood: the  levying  of  contributions. 
It  will,  however,  be  conceded  that  the 
levying  of  contributions  as  a  preven- 
tive measure  against  sniping  is,  com- 
pared with  the  other  methods,  the 
mildest.  Instead  of  taking  life,  it  takes 
only  property;  for  this  reason  it  may, 
however,  be  perhaps  most  effective. 
Articles  48,  49,  and  50  of  the  Hague 
Conferences 1  cannot  be  applied,  so  far 
as  sniping  is  concerned.  The  instruc- 
tions to  the  various  armies  do  not  con- 
tain these  rules,  so  far  as  the  writer 
has  had  the  opportunity  to  study  them. 
They  hold,  on  the  contrary,  the  whole 
population  responsible  for  acts  of  snip- 

1  Article  48.  If,  in  the  territory  occupied,  the 
occupant  collects  taxes,  dues  and  tolls,  imposed 
for  the  benefit  of  the  State,  he  shall  do  it,  as  far  as 
possible,  in  accordance  with  the  rules  in  existence 
and  the  assessment  in  force,  and  will  in  conse- 
quence be  bound  to  defray  the  expenses  of  the 
administration  of  the  occupied  territory  on  the 
same  scale  as  that  to  which  the  legitimate  Gov- 
ernment was  bound. 

Article  49.  If,  besides  the  taxes  referred  to  in 
the  preceding  Article,  the  occupant  levies  other 
money  contributions  in  the  occupied  territory, 
this  can  only  be  for  military  necessities  or  the  ad- 
ministration of  such  territory. 

Article  50.  No  general  penalty,  pecuniary,  or 
otherwise,  can  be  inflicted  on  the  population  on 
account  of  the  acts  of  individuals,  for  which  it 
cannot  be  regarded  as  collectively  responsible. 


ing  and  allow  the  infliction  of  pecuni- 
ary exactions  from  the  point  of  view 
of  prevention  and  military  necessity. 
But  it  may  be  pointed  out  that  war 
contributions  have  been  levied  in  Bel- 
gium, not  only  for  the  purpose  of  dis- 
couraging sniping  but  also,  as  the 
writer  has  been  informed,  for  use  in  the 
administration  of  occupied  territory. 

According  to  the  Articles  quoted,  the 
levying  of  war  contributions  '  for  mili- 
tary necessities'  and  'the  administra- 
tion of  such  territory '  are  common  and 
are  expressly  permitted.  Belgium  is 
at  the  present  time  practically  admin- 
istered by  Germany,  and  the  situation 
has  brought  forward  military  necessi- 
ties to  be  met  by  contributions.  If  the 
estimate  as  to  their  amount  is  some- 
what summary  and  roughly  based  on 
the  existing  Belgian  methods  of  taxa- 
tion, who  will  reproach  an  administra- 
tion organized  with  the  utmost  speed 
and  kept  up  in  good  working  shape 
within  a  few  miles  of  the  firing  lines? 

4.  Public  opinion  in  the  United 
States  has,  furthermore,  been  greatly 
concerned  with  the  bombardment  of 
cities  and  villages  in  the  north  of 
France,  during  which  were  struck  build- 
ings of  historical  and  artistic  value,  de- 
voted to  religion  and  art.  Not  all  cases 
can  be  mentioned  here.  Therefore,  the 
writer  proposes  to  discuss  only  the 
bombardment  of  Rheims,  as  the  most 
conspicuous  example.  It  must  first  be 
established  that  according  to  Article 
25  of  the  Hague  Convention  of  1899, 
*  the  attack  or  bombardment  of  towns, 
villages,  hospitals  or  buildings  which 
are  not  defended  is  forbidden/  If,  there- 
fore, the  French  placed  weight  upon  the 
preservation  of  such  cities  as  Rheims, 
Lille,  Arras,  and  so  forth,  they  should 
not  have  been  occupied  by  military 
forces.  The  French,  however,  made 
Rheims  a  main  pivot  of  their  artillery 
position,  and,  according  to  the  testi- 
mony of  English  and  American  corre- 


GERMAN  METHODS  OF  CONDUCTING  THE  WAR 


845 


spondents,  massed  enormous  quanti- 
ties of  artillery  in  direct  proximity  to 
the  cathedral.  The  French  occupied 
Rheims  for  military  purposes,  that  is, 
to  secure  for  themselves  the  strategic 
advantages  offered  by  such  places  for 
the  movement  of  troops,  —  the  easier 
method  of  quartering  them,  greater 
protection,  quicker  disposition,  and  so 
forth.  This,  of  course,  obliges  the  op- 
ponent to  take  such  places  by  force, 
and  possibly  even  destroy  them  by 
bombardment.  Germany  has  done  so 
even  with  towns  of  her  own;  with 
Soldau,  for  instance,  an  unfortified 
place  in  East  Prussia,  when  it  was 
occupied  by  the  Russians.  Soldau  has 
been  completely  destroyed. 

During  such  bombardment  it  is  not 
always  possible  to  spare  historical  build- 
ings, devoted  to  religion,  art,  science, 
and  charity.  The  particular  rule  of 
the  Hague  Peace  Conference  of  1899, 
Article  27, 1  decrees  that  such  protec- 
tion should  go  'as  far  as  possible,'  and 
makes  this  subject  to  the  provision 
that  'they  are  not  used  for  military 
purposes.'  This  view  fits  the  actual 
conditions.  During  a  bombardment  it 
is  not  possible  to  prevent  accidental 
shots  from  striking  such  buildings.  Let 
us  recall  that  the  English,  during  the 
bombardment  and  storming  of  Delhi  in 
1857,  did  not  respect  monuments  of  art, 
nor  could  they  have  done  so.  During 
the  siege  of  Rome  by  the  Garibaldians, 
Nino  Bixio  even  considered  the  can- 
nonading of  the  entire  Vatican. 

It  is  important  to  state  again  that 
the  bombardment  of  the  Cathedral  of 
Rheims  was  a  military  necessity.  The 
official  report  of  the  Headquarters  of 
the  German  army  is  as  follows :  — 

1  Article  27.  In  sieges  and  bombardments 
all  necessary  steps  should  be  taken  to  spare, 
as  far  as  possible,  buildings  devoted  to  religion, 
art,  science  and  charity,  hospitals  and  places 
where  the  sick  and  wounded  are  collected,  pro- 
vided they  are  not  used  at  the  same  time  for  mili- 
tary purposes. 


(OFFICIAL) 
ARMY  HEADQUARTERS, 

September  22,  1914. 
After  the  French,  through  the  build- 
ing of  heavy  fortifications,  had  made 
Rheims  the  main  stronghold  of  their 
defense,  they  themselves  forced  us  to 
attack  the  city  with  all  available  means. 
The  German  Army  Commander- in- 
Chief  gave  orders  to  spare  the  Cathe- 
dral, so  long  as  the  enemy  refrained 
from  using  it  to  his  advantage.  On 
September  20th,  the  white  flag  was 
raised  on  the  Cathedral  and  respected 
by  us.  In  spite  of  this  we  were  able  to 
locate  a  military  observer  on  the  tower 
of  the  edifice,  which  explained  the  effec- 
tiveness of  the  enemy's  artillery  against 
our  attacking  infantry.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  dislodge  him.  This  was  accom- 
plished with  shrapnel  fire  by  our  field 
artillery.  Our  heavy  artillery  was  even 
then  not  allowed,  and  firing  was  stopped 
as  soon  as  the  observer  was  dislodged. 
We  are  able  to  state  that  the  tower  and 
the  exterior  are  standing  intact.  The 
roof  burst  into  flames.  The  attacking 
forces  therefore  have  gone  only  as  far 
as  they  were  absolutely  compelled  to 
go.  The  responsibility  rests  with  the 
enemy,  who  attempted  to  misuse  a 
monument  of  architectural  art  under 
the  protection  of  the  white  flag. 

For  a  German  the  fact  that  an  offi- 
cial communication  is  issued  by  the 
army  headquarters  is  proof  sufficient 
of  its  absolute  truth  to  facts;  and  the 
truthfulness  of  this  German  official  an- 
nouncement is  beginning  to  be  recog- 
nized in  the  United  States  as  well. 

It  may  be  noted,  by  the  way,  that 
the  French,  by  establishing  an  obser- 
vation station  in  the  tower,  compelled 
the  Germans  to  fire  upon  and  damage 
the  'Muenster '  in  Strassburg,  the  most 
famous  monument  of  German  Gothic 
architectural  art  and  a  document  of 
old  German  history. 


846 


GERMAN  METHODS  OF  CONDUCTING  THE  WAR 


III.     METHODS   OF  WARFARE  AT   SEA 

The  methods  of  war  on  land  have 
been  discussed  chiefly  in  connection 
with  German  warfare,  but  now  the 
methods  of  war  at  sea  bring  us  in  more 
intimate  touch  with  English  warfare. 
Here  also  only  the  most  important  facts 
can  be  taken  into  consideration,  the 
field  of  controversy  being  too  large  to 
be  dealt  with  in  one  article.  Minor 
questions,  therefore,  like  the  sinking 
of  the  German  auxiliary  cruiser  Kai- 
ser Wilhelm  der  Grosse  within  the 
three-mile  zone  on  the  coast  of  Span- 
ish possessions;  the  chasing  of  German 
ships  within  the  three-mile  zone  right 
into  the  mouth  of  New  York  Harbor 
itself;  the  taking  of  German  and  Aus- 
trian reservists,  on  the  way  to  their 
colors,  off  neutral  ships,  —  a  method 
by  which  New  York  Harbor  has  for  a 
long  time  been  blockaded  by  British 
cruisers  like  a  harbor  of  a  belligerent 
nation;  the  searching  and  destroying 
of  German  mails  on  neutral  steamers,1 
and  a  series  of  other  alleged  infrac- 
tions of  international  law,  may  be  alto- 
gether omitted  from  this  discussion. 
.  The  main  feature  of  English  methods 
of  warfare  at  sea  is  the  seizure  of  food- 
stuffs, destined  for  and  shipped  to  Ger- 
many, as  contraband  of  war.  The  in- 
tention is  to  bring  Germany  to  her 
knees  by  starving  her  out.  I  do  not 
wish  to  raise  the  question  whether  this 
method  of  warfare  is  a  very  humane 
one.  It  cannot  be  compared  with  the 
starving  out  of  a  fortress,  inasmuch  as 
non-combatants  are  permitted  to  leave 
a  fortress  before  its  investment, 

1  International  Peace  Conference,  1907.  Re- 
strictions on  Capture  in  Maritime  War,  Chapter 
1,  Postal  Correspondence,  Art.  1 :  — 

The  postal  correspondence  of  neutrals  or  bel- 
ligerents, whether  official  or  private  in  character, 
which  may  be  found  on  board  a  neutral  or  enemy 
ship  at  sea,  is  inviolable.  If  the  ship  is  detained 
the  correspondence  is  forwarded  by  the  captor 
with  the  least  possible  delay. 


whereas  the  non-combatant  popula- 
tion of  fifty-seven  million  people  can 
hardly  leave  Germany.  Besides,  as  a 
practical  measure,  this  method  is  of  no 
avail  in  this  war.  Germany  is  self-sup- 
porting, as  has  been  shown  in  detail 
by  Dr.  Dernburg,  the  former  German 
Colonial  Secretary,  in  the  Review  of 
Reviews.2  Furthermore,  it  is  doubtful, 
even  if  Germany  were  not,  whether 
England  would  be  able  to  carry  out 
such  a  plan.  Germany  has  occupied 
Belgian  and  French  territory.  There 
seem  to  be  plans  under  consideration 
by  the  German  government  to  feed  the 
Belgian  population  by  importing  food- 
stuff. Certainly  Germany  will  not  op- 
pose this  measure,  so  long  as  she  her- 
self has  sufficient  food  to  live  on.  But 
if  the  aforesaid  method  of  England 
should  cause  a  real  shortage  of  food  in 
Germany,  no  one  could  expect  Ger- 
many to  treat  the  residents  of  the  occu- 
pied territory  differently  from  her  own 
people  at  home.  So  England  would  be 
starving  out  not  only  the  Germans,  but 
the  Belgians  and  many  of  the  French. 
In  this  article  the  question  of  starv- 
ing out  a  country  will  be  discussed  only 
from  the  general  aspect  of  the  justifi- 
cation of  such  a  method  of  war.  The 
legal  basis  for  the  theory  is  the  ques- 
tion of  contraband  of  war.  It  is  deter- 
mined by  the  *  Declaration  of  London 
of  1909  concerning  the  Laws  of  Naval 
War.'  To  be  sure,  the  Declaration  of 
London  has  not  been  ratified  up  to  the 
present  time,  and  is,  therefore,  not  for- 
mally binding.  But  as  all  the  contract- 
ing nations  have  assented  to  and  signed 
the  convention,  England  herself  hav- 
ing invited  the  conference  and  the  dis- 
cussions having  been  carried  on  in  Lon- 
don, the  Declaration  forms  the  moral 
and  written  code  of  the  nations.  Fur- 
thermore, Great  Britain  has  recog- 
nized the  principle  of  the  Declaration 
in  former  wars.  Having  accepted  the 
2  November,  1914. 


GERMAN  METHODS  OP  CONDUCTING  THE  WAR         847 


law  as  binding  when  it  was  to  her  own 
advantage,  she  should  accept  it  now, 
even  though  it  favors  others. 

So  far  as  the  legal  foundation  is  con- 
cerned, Article  24,  in  connection  with 
Article  33,  of  the  aforesaid  Declaration 
is  decisive.1  According  to  Article  24 
conditional  contraband  includes  food- 
stuffs. But  according  to  Article  33, 
conditional  contraband  is  liable  to  seiz- 
ure only  if  it  is  shown  to  be  destined 
for  the  use  of  the  armed  forces,  or  for 
a  government  department  of  the  ene- 
my's state.  Foodstuffs,  therefore,  can- 
not be  confiscated  as  contraband  so 
long  as  they  are  intended  for  the  sus- 
tenance of  non-combatants  and  con- 
signed to  private  parties.  The  taking 
away  of  all  foodstuffs  sent  to  a  nation 
at  war  is  certainly  not  permissible.  The 
intention  of  starving  out  a  nation  — 
leaving  the  human  side  out  of  the  ques- 
tion -  -  can,  in  compliance  with  interna- 
tional law,  be  carried  out  only  by  an 
effective  blockade.  But  the  German 
ports  are  for  very  good  reasons  (sub- 
marines) not  effectively  blockaded. 

This  method,  employed  at  present 
in  regard  to  foodstuffs,  is  also  opposed 
to  former  British  practice.  The  same 
question  was  raised  between  the  United 
States  and  Great  Britain,  during  the 
recent  Boer  War,  in  connection  with 
the  seizure  of  the  vessels  Beatrix, 
Maria,  and  Mashona,  which  were  taken 
by  British  cruisers  to  Delagoa  Bay. 
In  the  course  of  the  correspondence, 
Lord  Salisbury  thus  defined  the  posi- 
tion of  the  British  government  on 

1  Article  24.  The  following  articles,  susceptible 
of  use  in  war  as  well  as  for  purposes  of  peace,  may, 
without  notice,  be  treated  as  contraband  of  war, 
under  the  name  of  conditional  contraband:  —  (1) 
Foodstuffs.  (2)  etc. 

Article  33.  Conditional  contraband  is  liable  to 
capture  if  it  is  shown  to  be  destined  for  the  use  of 
the  armed  forces  or  of  a  government  department 
of  the  enemy  State,  unless  in  this  latter  case  the 
circumstances  show  that  the  goods  cannot  in  fact 
be  used  for  the  purposes  of  the  war  in  progress. 


the  question  of  contraband:  —  *  Food- 
stuffs with  a  hostile  destination  can  be 
considered  contraband  of  war  only  if 
they  are  supplies  for  the  enemy's  forces. 
It  is  not  sufficient  that  they  are  capable 
of  being  so  used.  It  must  be  shown  that 
this  was  in  fact  their  destination  at  the 
time  of  seizure.9  2  This  statement  by 
Lord  Salisbury  is  in  harmony  with 
what  is  laid  down  in  Holland's  Man- 
ual of  Naval  Prize  Law,  issued  by  the 
British  administration  in  1888. 

In  the  war  between  Russia  and  Ja- 
pan, the  Russian  government  issued 
to  its  naval  officers  instructions  in 
which  foodstuffs  were  designated  as 
contraband  of  war.  The  British  gov- 
ernment protested  against  this  prohi- 
bition, which  included  rice  and  pro- 
visions as  unconditional  contraband, 
this  being  regarded  as  *  inconsistent 
with  the  law  and  policy  of  nations.' 
The  British  government,  it  was  de- 
clared, did  not  contest  that,  *  in  partic- 
ular circumstances,  provisions  may  ac- 
quire a  contraband  character,  as,  for 
instance,  if  they  should  be  consigned 
direct  to  the  army  or  fleet  of  a  belliger- 
ent, or  to  a  port  where  such  fleet  may 
be  lying';  but  it  could  not  admit  that 
'if  such  provisions  were  consigned  to 
the  port  of  a  belligerent  (even  though 
it  should  be  a  port  of  naval  equipment) 
they  should  therefore  be  necessarily 
regarded  as  contraband  of  war.'  The 
true  test  appeared  to  be  *  whether  there 
are  circumstances  relating  to  any  par- 
ticular cargo  to  show  that  it  is  destined 
for  military  or  naval  use.' 2 

The  same  position  was  taken  by  the 
United  States  during  the  Russian- 
Japanese  War,  and  the  result  of  the 
British  and  American  protests  was  that 
rice  and  provisions  were  regarded  as 
contraband  '  if  destined  for  a  belliger- 
ent government,  its  administration, 
army,  navy,  fortresses,  naval  ports,  or 
purveyors,'  but  not  if  *  addressed  to 

2  John  Bassett  Moore,  Contraband  of  War,  p.  35. 


848         GERMAN  METHODS  OF  CONDUCTING  THE   WAR 


private  individuals/  As  to  proof  of 
destination,  the  doctrine  of  continuous 
voyage  is  not  applicable  to  conditional 
contraband.  Such  cargoes  should  there- 
fore not  be  in  jeopardy  when  sent  to  a 
neutral  port. 

The  interpretation  of  the  British 
government  went  even  further.  On  the 
29th  of  March,  1909,  considerable  dis- 
cussion took  place  in  the  House  of 
Commons  with  reference  to  the  word 
*  enemy '  in  Article  34  of  the  Declaration 
of  London,  1909,  Declaration  concern- 
ing the  Laws  of  Naval  War,  according 
to  which  goods  are  considered  as  con- 
ditional contraband  for  the  use  of  the 
armed  forces  or  for  a  government  of 
the  enemy  state  if  they  are  consigned 
to  a  contractor  who  supplies  articles 
of  this  kind  to  the  *  enemy.'  On  this 
occasion  the  Under-Secretary  for  For- 
eign Affairs,  Mr.  Mackinnon  Wood, 
stated  that  the  word  'contractor'  in 
this  article  *  cannot  possibly  apply  to 
a  mere  merchant  who  supplies  goods  to 
the  general  public/  and  the  Secretary 
for  Foreign  Affairs,  Sir  Edward  Grey, 
on  April  5,  1909,  in  answer  to  a  ques- 
tion on  the  divergence  between  the 
terms  of  Article  34  and  the  General 
Report,  replied  as  follows:  'For  the 
reasons  already  given,  I  cannot  admit 
that  there  is  any  ambiguity  as  to  the 
meaning  of  Article  34. 1  It  is  made 
clear,  both  by  Article  33,  on  which 
Article  34  is  dependent,  and  by  the 

1  The  destination  referred  to  in  Article  33  is 
presumed  to  exist  if  the  goods  are  consigned  to 
enemy  authorities,  or  to  a  contractor  established 
in  the  enemy  country  who,  as  a  matter  of  common 
knowledge,  supplies  articles  of  this  kind  to  the 
enemy.  A  similar  presumption  arises  if  the  goods 
are  consigned  to  a  fortified  place  belonging  to  the 
enemy,  or  other  place  serving  as  a  base  for  the 
armed  forces  of  the  enemy.  No  such  presump- 
tion, however,  arises  in  the  case  of  a  merchant 
vessel  bound  for  one  of  these  places  if  it  is  sought 
to  prove  that  she  herself  is  contraband.  In  cases 
where  the  above  presumptions  do  not  arise,  the 
destination  is  presumed  to  be  innocent.  The  pre- 
sumption set  up  by  this  Article  may  be  rebutted. 


general  official  report  of  the  Confer- 
ence, that  the  word  "enemy"  in  Art- 
icle 34  can  only  mean  the  enemy  gov- 
ernment. It  is  evident,  however,  that 
if  the  point  had  been  raised  at  the  time 
it  would  have  been  made  perfectly  clear 
in  the  drafting,  and  we  therefore  pro- 
pose to  make  a  declaration,  at  the  time 
of  the  ratification,  that  the  word  "  ene- 
my' in  Article  34  means  the  govern- 
ment of  the  enemy.' 

Notwithstanding  those  statements, 
there  is  no  doubt  that  in  the  present 
war  the  practice  of  Great  Britain  is 
entirely  different.  Foodstuffs  are  con- 
stantly being  seized,  on  neutral  ships, 
although  the  neutral  flag  should  be  a 
perfect  protection  against  seizure;  and 
the  rules  of  Articles  33  and  34,  quali- 
fying goods  as  conditional  contraband 
only  if  their  destination  is  the  enemy's 
government  or  armed  forces,  are,  by 
the  English  starving-out  system,  as  ut- 
terly disregarded  as  the  formal  decla- 
rations of  the  representatives  of  the 
British  government  and  of  Sir  Edward 
Grey  himself.  It  is  evident  how  much 
this  method  of  war  interferes  with  the 
trade  of  the  small  countries,  like  Nor- 
way, Sweden,  Holland,  Denmark,  so 
dear  to  the  big  heart  of  Great  Britain, 
and  with  the  production  and  export 
even  of  the  United  States.  The  author 
still  earnestly  hopes  that  the  govern- 
ment of  the  United  States  will  perceive 
the  great  importance  of  construing  its 
neutrality  in  the  present  war  as  it  did 
during  the  Russian-Japanese  War,  not 
so  much  in  the  interest  of  Germany, 
which,  as  has  been  said,  is  self-support- 
ing, but  because  of  the  danger  involved 
in  establishing  a  different  precedent; 
because  thus  only  can  the  sanctity  and 
validity  of  former  international  prac- 
tice, and  of  signed,  although  not  yet 
ratified,  treaties  be  safeguarded;  and 
because  of  the  immense,  just,  and  mate- 
rial rights  of  American  citizens,  which 
a  contrary  course  so  gravely  menaces. 


THE  CHIMES  OF  TERMONDE 

BY   GRACE   HAZARD   CONKLING 

THE  groping  spires  have  lost  the  sky, 

That  reach  from  Termonde  town : 
There  are  no  bells  to  travel  by, 

The  minster  chimes  are  down. 
It's  forth  we  must,  alone,  alone, 

And  try  to  find  the  way; 
The  bells  that  we  have  always  known, 

War  broke  their  hearts  to-day. 

They  used  to  call  the  morning 
Along  the  gilded  street, 

And  then  their  rhymes  were  laughter. 
And  all  their  notes  were  sweet. 

I  heard  them  stumble  down  the  air 

Like  seraphim  betrayed; 
God  must  have  heard  their  broken  prayer 

That  made  my  soul  afraid. 
The  Termonde  bells  are  gone,  are  gone, 

And  what  is  left  to  say? 
It 's  forth  we  must,  by  bitter  dawn, 

To  try  to  find  the  way. 

They  used  to  call  the  children 
To  go  to  sleep  at  night; 

And  then  their  songs  were  tender 
And  drowsy  with  delight. 

i 

The  wind  will  look  for  them  in  vain 
Within  the  empty  tower. 


VOL.  114- NO.  6 


850 


THE  CHIMES  OF  TERMONDE 


We  shall  not  hear  them  sing  again 
At  dawn  or  twilight  hour. 

It 's  forth  we  must,  away,  away, 
And  far  from  Termonde  town, 

But  this  is  all  I  know  to-day  — 
The  chimes,  the  chimes  are  down ! 


They  used  to  ring  at  evening 
To  help  the  people  pray, 

Who  wander  now  bewildered 
And  cannot  find  the  way. 


THE  CHOP  OUT  OF  THE  WINDOW 


BY   FRANKLIN   JAMES 


THERE  is  a  legend  in  Rome  that  an 
American  lady,  with  that  tact  which 
endears  us  to  foreigners,  once  remark- 
ed, 'All  you  have  to  do  if  you  want 
Roman  Society  to  come  to  you  is  to 
hang  a  chop  out  of  the  window.'  This 
may  be  all  very  well  for  a  simple  little 
community  like  Rome,  but  in  New 
York  the  problem  is  more  difficult,  for 
both  hostess  and  diner-out.  It  is  as 
one  of  the  latter  that  I  wish  to  protest 
against  the  way  such  things  are  at  pre- 
sent conducted,  and  to  enter  a  plea  for 
social  eupepsia. 

As  for  my  qualifications,  I  may 
preface  my  discussion  with  the  frank 
and  modest  statement  that  I  am  an 
accomplished  diner-out,  and  have  prac- 
tised this  art  in  many  climes  and  for 
many  years.  In  Arabia  I  have  dined 
in  state  with  hawk- faced  sheiks,  expres- 
sing my  pleasure,  in  strict  accordance 
with  the  local  etiquette,  by  eructa- 


tions that  drew  expressions  of  unstint- 
ed admiration  from  my  Syrian  drago- 
man. I  have  dipped  both  hands  in  the 
common  bowl  of  pilaf,  have  had  gob- 
bets of  sheep  popped  into  my  mouth 
by  aged,  dark -brown,  crime-stained 
fingers,  and  have  nozzled  my  coffee  in 
a  way  that  would  draw  tears  of  jeal- 
ousy from  the  noisiest  geyser. 

But  enough  of  these  more  recondite 
phases.  Let  me  swoop  nearer  home  and 
explain  the  chief  difficulty  which  be- 
sets the  average  diner-out;  and  after 
stating  the  problem,  let  me  offer  what 
I  believe  to  be  its  triumphant,  its  only 
rational,  solution. 

The  problem  is  this,  —  and  I  ask 
you  to  consider  the  folly  of  society  on 
this  point.  You  get  a  card  from  Mrs. 
Gramercy  telling  you  that  she  is  to  be 
at  home  on  Thursday  the  seventeenth 
from  half-past  four  until  seven.  At 
the  end  of  the  invitation  she  gives  you 


THE  CHOP  OUT  OF  THE  WINDOW 


851 


some  indication  of  what  you  are  in  for: 
*  Dancing, '  or,  'Miss  Vesta  Tilley  will 
recite.'  Mrs.  Bronx  asks  you  to  come 
on  after  dinner,  and  adds,  'To  meet 
Prince  Jinglepencil,'  or,  *  Auction,'  or, 
again, '  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Castle  will  dance.' 
Mrs.  Lexington  is  to  be  in  a  hospitable 
frame  of  mind  Sunday  evening  at  ten, 
and  thoughtfully  adds,  *  Music.'  All 
these  good  ladies  feel  obliged  to  tell 
you  at  the  end  of  engraved  or  written 
cards  just  what  wares  they  are  tempt- 
ing you  with.  And  yet  when  you  are 
asked  to  dine,  a  much  more  important 
matter,  you  have  n't  the  remotest  idea 
what  you  are  going  to  have  to  eat.  You 
may,  to  be  sure,  be  told  that  the  point 
of  the  dinner  is  that  you  are  to  meet 
the  Duchess  of  Axminster.  But  you 
can't  eat  the  Duchess  of  Axminster  and 
probably  would  n't  care  to  if  you  could, 
most  great  ladies  nowadays  being,  well, 
far  from  tender. 

I  myself  seem  to  be  peculiarly  un- 
fortunate in  this  culinary  blind-man's- 
buff.  Last  Sunday  night  I  dined  at  the 
Wainwarings',  and  the  roast  was  a 
variety  of  sheep  —  selle  d'agneau  a  la 
bergere;  Monday,  at  the  Veneerings', 
we  again  had  sheep  —  cotelettes  d'agn- 
eau  aux  cepes;  Tuesday,  at  the  Bunt- 
ings', of  course,  gigot  de  mouton,  sauce 
aigrelette.  And  this  will  be  just  my  luck 
the  rest  of  the  week.  Give  it  any  festal 
name  you  please,  the  fact  remains  that 
sheep  is  sheep,  beef  is  beef,  and  so  on. 

Now,  to  return  to  my  mutton,  I 
really  like  sheep,  but  do  you  suppose 
for  a  moment  that  if,  a  week  before, 
I  had  known  what  was  in  store  for  me 
I  should  have  accepted  these  three  in- 
vitations? Not  at  all:  the  Sunday  one, 
probably,  the  Tuesday  one,  perhaps; 
but  the  simplest  consideration  of  eu- 
pepsia  would  have  made  me  omit  at 
least  the  second  of  the  series.  Again, 
I  'm  dining  out  Thursday,  Friday,  and 
Saturday;  now,  as  I've  no  idea  what 
I  'm  to  be  fed  these  nights,  how,  in  the 


name  of  reason,  can  I  intelligently  or- 
der my  luncheon  down  town  or  at  my 
club  for  these  days?  If,  let  us  say 
Thursday,  I  order  half  a  grilled  chicken, 
it 's  a  three-to-one  shot  that  Mrs.  Pop- 
ham  will  give  me  a  chicken  Perigord 
that  night  at  dinner,  and  I  shall  have 
to  root  out  the  truffles  and  confine  my- 
self to  them. 

This  it  is  that  drives  so  many  agree- 
able men  to  the  brink  of  indigestion, 
and  leads  them  seriously  to  contem- 
plate the  horrors  of  a  diurnal  luncheon 
of  sour  milk.  Another  feature  of  the 
whole  affair  that  leads  to  the  same  re- 
sults is  the  lack  of  variety  in  the  of- 
ferable  dinners.  For  example,  if  the 
Pophams  are  going  to  give  a  dinner  to- 
morrow, Popham — who  ought  to  know 
better — leaves  the  composition  of  the 
menu  either  to  Mrs.  Popham  or  to  his 
chef,  if  he  has  one.  Now  Mrs.  Popham, 
and  here  she  becomes  generic,  has  usu- 
ally but  one,  rarely  two,  and  never 
three  possible  dinners  in  her  head,  — 
no  woman  has,  unless  she  herself  knows 
how  to  cook.  She  could  plan  seven  din- 
ners a  week  for  Popham  and  herself 
without  repeating  herself,  but  when 
it  comes  to  Dinners  with  a  capital,  her 
reason  wobbles  and  she  takes  refuge 
in  the  conventional.  Or  suppose  the 
menu  is  left  to  the  chef:  the  first  im- 
pulse of  every  known  chef  is  not  to  feed 
the  hungry  but  to  'show  off,'  and  all 
chefs  show  off  in  precisely  the  same 
way. 

Obviously,  then,  Popham,  who  has 
dined  out  almost  as  much  as  I  have, 
ought  to  take  the  culinary  helm  into 
his  own  hands;  and  I  feel  sure  Popham 
would  do  so  if  he  were  not  always  hop- 
ing against  hope  that  the  next  time  he 
went  out  to  dinner  he  would  get  some- 
thing different  from  his  own  domestic 
fare.  But  he  does  n't,  and  I  am  be- 
ginning to  notice  distinct  lines  of  dys- 
pepsia in  Popham's  puzzled  face. 

Well,  here  is  the  only  really  rational 


852 


THE  CHOP  OUT  OF  THE  WINDOW 


solution  of  it  all,  and  it  came  to  me 
some  years  ago  when  I  was  once  in- 
veigled into  spending  a  month  in  a 
small  settlement  on  Buzzards  Bay. 
There  was  a  good  inn  there,  and  the 
summer  residents  had  built  a  pleasant 
little  casino;  one  saw  everybody  else 
several  times  a  day,  either  at  the  ca- 
sino or  at  the  village  post-office,  and 
life  was  a  simple,  friendly,  informal 
affair.  As  I  was  supposed  to  be  writing 
a  book,  and  as  the  colonists  were  chief- 
ly Bostonians,  every  one  of  whom  had 
an  uncle,  cousin,  or  brother  who  had 
done  the  same  thing,  I  found  myself  in 
a  very  hospitable  society.  On  the  last 
day  but  one  of  my  visit,  Mrs.  Faneuil, 
at  the  casino,  fixed  me  with  a  genial 
eye  and  asked  me  if  I  would  dine  with 
her  that  evening. 

*  With  great  pleasure,'  I  replied  halt- 
ingly, *  but  on  one  condition,  —  that 
you  don't  have  chicken ! ' 

'Well,  I  like  that,'  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Faneuil,  —  *  making  conditions!  And, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  was  going  to  have 
chicken.  Consider  the  invitation  with- 
drawn temporarily,  and  explain.' 

'Dear  Mrs.  Faneuil,'  I  replied  as 
cheerfully  as  I  could,  *  I  have  been  here 
now  thirty  days  at  the  inn.  Thanks  to 
the  wholly  delightful  hospitality  of  you 
all,  which  has  left  its  permanent  mark 
on  my  heart  —  and,  I  fear,  on  my  di- 
gestive organs  —  I  have  been  asked 
out  to  dinner  twenty- four  times.  At 
twenty- one  of  these  dinners  chicken 
was  the  main  feature.  I  also  struck 
chicken  at  two  of  my  six  dinners  at  the 
inn.  This  makes  the  ghastly  total  of 
chicken  twenty- three  nights  out  of  a 
possible  thirty.  It's  all  very  well  to 
have  a  chicken  course  every  night  in 
France,  for  they  always  give  you  an- 
other roast  besides.  But  nothing  but 
chicken  for  a  mildly  carnivorous  man 
is  awful.  Each  morning  when  I  get  up 
now,  I  have  to  check  a  constantly 
growing  impulse  to  cluck  violently.' 


Hysterical  sympathy  by  this  time 
had  suffused  Mrs.  Faneuil's  pink,  sun- 
burned face.  'It's  all  the  local  butch- 
er's fault,'  she  gasped,  'it's  almost  the 
only  decent  thing  we  can  get  here, 
and  when  we  have  guests,  of  course  we 
want  to  do  the  best  we  can  for  them, 
and  without  realizing  it  we  all  tragical- 
ly offer  the  same  thing.  I  never  thought 
of  it  before  but  I  know  now  how  dread- 
fully you  feel.  Just  wait  a  minute!' 
And  she  rushed  off,  rippling, '  Toujours 
perdrix!'  as  an  ecstatic  war-cry. 

In  five  minutes  she  came  out  of  the 
casino  and  rushed  past  me,  dropping 
a  little  note  in  my  lap.  Here  it  is:- 

'DEAR  MR.  JAMES, 

'  Won't  you  dine  with  us  to-night  at 
eight?  We  should  so  like  to  have  you, 
your  last  evening  here.  As  the  time  is 
so  short,  pray  don't  trouble  to  answer 
this,  for  I  quite  count  on  your  coming. 
:  Very  sincerely  yours, 

'NINA  FANEUIL.' 
'  Corned  Beef.' 

It  was  a  perfectly  bully  dinner,  and 
after  all  these  years  I  still  treasure  her 
note,  —  a  note  which,  it  seems  to  me, 
solves  one  of  the  great  problems  of  life 
triumphantly.  In  making  this  simple 
solution  public,  I  feel  that  I  am  con- 
ferring a  real  boon  on  a  large  and  har- 
assed proportion  of  social  mankind. 

The  moment  society  adopts  my  pro- 
posal, and  puts  down  the  simple  mag- 
ic word,  'Beef,'  'Mutton,'  or  the  like, 
at  the  end  of  dinner-invitations,  two 
things  will  happen.  First,  a  man  going 
through  his  invitations  will  be  able  to 
map  out  a  dietetic  programme  which 
will  be  at  once  agreeable  and  eupeptic. 
Second,  society  will  suddenly  realize 
how  restricted  is  the  variety  of  food 
offered  on  what  should  be  festive  oc- 
casions, and  will  slowly  make  little 
experiments  which  I  am  sure  will  turn 
out  delightfully. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


853 


I  was  discussing  just  this  point  last 
night  with  a  friend  of  mine  who  is  a 
poet  of  high  distinction.  'Good  heav- 
ens! what  a  blessing  you  are  suggest- 
ing,' he  exclaimed.  *  Just  think  of  it, 
—  I  have  never  been  to  a  dinner  party 
where  the  chief  dish  was  roast  pork.  I 
adore  roast  pork,  and  I  think  I  'd  accept 
an  invitation  from  the  richest  Philis- 
tines I  know  if  such  a  bait  were  offered.' 

So,  too,  with  the  exception  of  Mrs. 
Faneuii's  charming  little  concession  to 
eupepsia,  I  have  never  been  to  a  dinner 
party  where  corned  beef  was  the  piece 
de  resistance.  Certain  climbers  doubt- 
ful of  their  position  would  of  course 
shrink  from  offering  a  viand  generally 
regarded  as  inexpensive;  but  if  you  go 
to  the  right  predatory  butcher  you  can 
spend  any  amount  of  money  —  even 
to  mortgaging  the  old  farm  —  on  a 
costly  cut  of  beef,  and  then  get  it  salt- 
petred  with  a  wonderful  and  special 
brilliancy.  Just  as  in  Pendennis  Miss 
Fotheringay,  of  the  Theatres  Royal, 


Drury  Lane  and  Crow  Street,  declared 
she  would  go  anywhere  with  a  gentle- 
man who  offered  her  lobster  and  cham- 
pagne with  honorable  intentions,  I  my- 
self would  go  anywhere  to  a  hostess 
who  offered  me  corned  beef,  no  matter 
what  her  intentions. 

Then  after  awhile  hostesses  would 
begin  gradually  to  learn  just  who  likes 
what,  and  on  this  basis  they  could  gath- 
er together  little  groups  of  charmingly 
congenial  people.  And  we  should  all 
be  in  such  a  well-prepared,  receptive 
state  of  mind  and  body.  I,  for  example, 
having  had  a  luncheon  that  would  not 
conflict  with  or  impair  my  enjoyment 
of  Mrs.  Midas's  dinner,  would  be  in  a 
delightful  mood,  and  the  next  night 
Mrs.Ponsonby  de  Tompkins  would  find 
me  even  more  agreeable  than  usual. 

I  do  hope  this  plea  of  mine  will  have 
some  effect,  for  as  matters  stand  now, 
I  shall  soon  be  driven  to  buying  all  my 
own  meals,  and  I  cannot  contemplate 
such  selfishness  with  equanimity. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


*ALL   MANNER   OF   MEATS ' 

THE  Head  of  my  House  declares  that 
I  am  an  inveterate  collector  of  cook 
books.  On  a  shelf  built  for  them,  they 
stand  in  orderly  array  on  my  kitchen 
table  —  books  bound  in  blue  and  gold; 
books  practically,  and  clammily,  bound 
in  oilcloth;  cardboard-covered  books 
that  came  with  the  baking-powder;  and 
paper-covered  ones  from  the  Ladies' 

§Aid.  There  is  one  whose  colors  time 
has  dimmed  beyond  all  guessing,  but 
whose  century-old  recipe  for  rose-leaf 
salve  stands  true. 


Once  upon  a  time  I  read  in  the  Con- 
tributors' Club  an  appreciation  of  cook 
books.  Their  literary  charm  was  ten- 
derly acknowledged  by  a  convalescent. 
I  myself  had  newly  recovered  from 
typhoid  fever,  and  his  enthusiasm 
found  an  echo  in  my  heart.  Since  that 
time,  I  have  begun  to  test  the  efficiency 
of  cook  books  as  first  aids  to  young 
housekeepers,  and  to-day  I  feel,  like 
Will  Wimble,  that  'much  might  be  said 
on  both  sides.' 

My  first  experiences  were  with  a 
volume  of  many  alluring  pages,  com- 
piled by  a  Virginia  housekeeper  whose 


854 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


own  table  *  would  tempt  a  dying  an- 
chorite to  eat/  The  directions  seemed 
clear,  but  the  proportions  were  not  for 
families  of  two.  The  first  Christmas  in 
our  own  home  suggested  to  our  minds 
a  modest  glass  of  egg-nog.  We  looked 
for  the  Virginia  recipe.  I  have  never 
read  it  all.  The  first  line  says,  'Take 
three  gallons  of  whiskey  and  one  of 
rum.'  That  led  us  to  the  purchase  of 
hand-books  on  catering  for  small  fami- 
lies. Most  of  these  I  have  found  exact, 
exacting,  and  exasperating.  They  are 
of  the  'take-a-clean-dish'  type.  I  am 
told  in  which  hand  to  take  the  measur- 
ing-cup, in  which  the  spoon.  They 
produce  the  state  of  mind  the  Toad 
produced  in  the  Centipede,  who  was 
happy  quite,  — 

Until  the  Toad  in  fun, 
Said,  '  Pray,  which  leg  comes  after  which?  ' 
Which  wrought  her  mind  to  such  a  pitch, 
She  lay  distracted  in  a  ditch, 

Considering  how  to  run. 

I  turned  to  another  of  the  Southern 
group.  Here  at  least  I  was  not  surfeit- 
ed with  detail.  The  rule  for  boiling  a 
leg  of  mutton  reads:  'Take  a  leg  of 
mutton  of  the  right  size,  the  larger  the 
better,  put  it  over  the  fire  in  a  suffi- 
cient quantity  of  water  early  in  the 
morning  and  boil  till  dinner-time.' 

Disheartened  again  by  the  phrase, 
'the  larger  the  better,'  I  made  a  brief 
sortie  into  the  field  of  the  economical 
use  of  left-overs,  —  this  is  the  subject, 
not  the  title,  of  the  book.  These  rules 
were  easy  to  follow,  being  briefly, 
'Take  what  you  have  in  the  house, 
sprinkle  sparingly  with  butter  and  lib- 
erally with  bread  crumbs,  and  bake  in 
a  slow  oven.'  I  abandoned  this  line 
when  everything  cooked  according  to 
direction  seemed  unwholesome.  I  was 
reminded  of  an  aphorism  of  a  family 
servant,  *Po'  white  folks'  cookin'  al- 
ways colics  quality  folks.' 

A  natural  reaction  led  me  to  hand- 
books of  the  scientific  type.  One  of 


these  emphasizes,  appetizingly,  the  food 
value  of  butter,  cream,  and  prime  cuts 
of  meat  by  insisting  upon  the  import- 
ance of  *  buy  ing  the  best.'  Accuracy  is 
insisted  upon.  'The  recipes,  if  strictly 
followed,  cannot  fail.'  I  read  the  motto 
hopefully  and  with  faith.  For  that 
matter,  I  always  believe,  till  the  blow 
falls,  that  my  cooking  'cannot  fail.' 
My  scientific  guide  gives  explicit  direc- 
tions as  to  ingredients  and  mixing,  and 
airily  remarks  as  the  conclusion  of  the 
whole  matter,  'Success  depends  upon 
having  the  oven  just  right.' 

'Having  the  oven  just  right.'  Must 
it  be  quick,  or  slow,  or  moderate? 
And  when  is  an  oven  this,  that,  or  the 
other?  The  eldest  of  the  Ruggleses  was 
not  more  harrowed  by  her  mother's 
rule  of  social  conduct,  that  she  must 
'get  up  to  go  once  in  so  often.'  I  have 
gathered  more  reliable  information 
from  the  instructions  of  an  old  Negro 
servant,  whose  method  was  undeniably 
impressionistic. 

'You  want  me  to  tell  you  how  I 
makes  my  batter  bread?'  Aunt  Mattie 
repeated;  'why,  honey,  you  jus'  takes 
what  you  needs  of  your  'gregiences,  all 
'cep'n'  your  cornmeal.  You  mus'n't 
take  but  mighty  little  of  that.  But 
take  the  right  amount  of  everything 
else  an'  a  few  mo'  aigs.' 

Any  Southern  housekeeper  will  tes- 
tify to  the  value  of  this  recipe.  A  light 
hand  with  the  meal  and  a  heavy  one 
with  the  eggs  is  a  safe  guide. 

Aunt  Mattie's  light  bread  will  al- 
ways be  in  our  family  the  standard  of 
perfection.  Her  instructions  to  me  on 
this  point  were  these:  'The  principal 
thing  is  not  to  forget  none  of  your 
'gregiences.  But  ef  you  don't  forget 
none  of  your  'gregiences,  all  you  got  to 
do  is  to  handle  it  twell  it  feels  right.' 

It  was  easy  to  glean  from  books  the 
names  of  the  'gregiences.'  'Handling  it 
till  it  feels  right '  has  made  my  bread  a 
success. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


855 


The  crowning  pleasure  of  every  meal 
at  the  home  of  a  friend  was  a  cup  of 
Aunt  Charity's  coffee.  We  begged  her 
to  tell  us  her  secret  and  she  did  it  will- 
ingly. 'Why,  chil'ren,'  she  said,  'all 
you  got  to  do  is  to  take  your  coffee 
'cordin'  to  your  family  and  den  jus* 
pour  in  water  twell  it  feels  kinder 
heavy  in  your  hanY 

While  I  cavil  at  cook  books,  I  am 
humbled  by  a  memory. 

All,  save  the  very  newest,  brides  and 
grooms  who  have  been  to  New  Orleans 
on  their  wedding  journey  must  recall 
Begue's,-  -the  smoke,  the  sanded  floor, 
the  smell  of  garlic,  the  taste  of  fines 
herbes;  and  Madame  Begue  limping 
about  the  table,  offering  her  cook  book 
for  sale.  When  my  turn  came  I  bought 
one  eagerly.  Never  had  I  tasted  a 
breakfast  as  savory  as  Begue's.  The 
old  woman  slipped  the  coin  I  gave  her 
in  a  huge  apron  pocket  and  handed  me 
the  gayly  printed  book.  'Take  it,  my 
daughter,'  she  said.  'It  will  do  you  no 
earthly  good.  Everything  is  in  the  hand 
of  the  cook.' 

THE  RIVER 

IT  is  never  supposed  to  be  by  chance 
that  cities  so  often  establish  themselves 
on  the  banks  of  rivers.  Their  practical 
purpose  in  doing  so  is  obvious  enough. 
But  practical  purposes  are  frequently 
blinds,  used  to  hoodwink  a  shallow 
world  which  does  not  care  for  ultimate 
reasons.  Or,  to  put  the  matter  another 
way,  they  are  baits  of  expediency,  laid 
to  entrap  careless  mankind  into  a 
greater  good.  People  may  think  they 
know  why  they  build  cities  beside 
rivers,  but  the  wise  heavens  must  often 
smile  at  the  reasons  they  give. 

To  connect  them  with  other  cities, 
forsooth;  to  promote  their  commerce; 
to  bring  them  the  material  supplies  on 
which  they  depend?  Yes,  all  these  rea- 
sons are  cogent  enough;  but  under- 


neath them  is  the  reason  of  reasons: 
that  life's  diversity  and  tumult  must 
ever  seek  to  found  itself  on  eternity's 
repose. 

Symbols  are  all  but  realities.  They 
are  nearer  reality  than  anything  that 
ever  tries  to  express  itself  directly  in 
this  baffled  and  baffling  world.  A 
river  flowing  toward  the  sea  is  so  sig- 
nificant of  the  sure,  unhurried  progress 
of  our  human  destiny  that,  standing 
beside  it,  one  feels  his  own  fretful, 
hampered  life  escape  from  its  artificial 
hindrances  and  slip  smoothly,  grand- 
ly, to  regain  its  peace.  Cities  are,  of 
course,  the  most  complicated  of  all  the 
artificial  hindrances  which  man  is  inex- 
plicably impelled  to  create  for  himself. 
It  is  well  that  they  should  have  ever 
before  their  eyes  the  correcting  vision 
of  untroubled  freedom. 

One  wonders  sometimes  how  the 
rivers  themselves  feel  about  the  alli- 
ance which  they  are  obliged  to  main- 
tain with  man's  partial,  restless  ways. 
Take  our  own  Hudson.  No  nobler, 
more  typical  stream  is  there  in  all  the 
world.  It  rises  among  the  distant,  si- 
lent hills,  cradled  in  the  very  peace 
which  it  sets  forth  to  seek.  The  woods 
and  the  fields  hallow  it,  the  stars  con- 
secrate it.  Nevertheless,  it  must  seek 
that  wider,  deeper  peace  which  it  di- 
vines beyond,  that  peace  which  can 
only  come  from  the  utter  giving  of  it- 
self. So  it  starts  out  very  purposefully, 
striving  and  hurrying  at  first,  then 
going  more  gravely  as  it  better  under- 
stands the  greatness  of  the  consumma- 
tion that  lies  before  it.  Between  the 
purple  hills,  underneath  the  watchful 
sun  and  stars,  it  goes  surely  on  its  way, 
deepening  and  widening,  a  majestic 
presence.  The  sea  draws  it,  draws  it, 
as  God  draws  the  soul. 

Is  there  not  now  a  certain  sense  of 
pity  —  worse,  of  profanation  —  in  the 
fact  that,  as  it  approaches  its  great  end, 
its  privacy  is  more  and  more  encroached 


856 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


upon?  Towns  spring  up  on  its  banks, 
bridges  and  ferries  span  it,  railroads 
shriek  beside  it,  and  boats  crowd  its 
quiet  breast.  Must  it  not  long  for  soli- 
tude, as  at  last  it  comes  in  sight  of  the 
goal  that  has  allured  it  through  all 
these  miles,  as  it  feels  the  first  brackish 
tidal  thrust  that  tells  it  the  sea  is  nigh? 
But  there  before  it  the  city  waits,  the 
hardest,  busiest,  most  restless  city  in 
the  whole  world;  and  under  the  city's 
unsympathetic  eyes  the  holy  death  and 
re-birth  must  be  consummated.  Alas! 
one  could  weep  for  the  river. 

It  does  not,  however,  weep  for  itself. 
Indeed,  no!  Its  purpose  is  deeper  than 
any  faint-hearted  human  intentions  of 
ours  that  have  to  be  encouraged  by 
circumstance;  its  peace  is  beyond  any 
thwarting.  The  city  need  not  flatter 
itself  that  the  river  regards  it  at  all, 
thinks  any  more  of  the  boats  and  the 
bridges  than  it  thought  of  the  fallen 
trees  and  the  rocks  up  among  the  hills. 
The  sea:  that  is  all  its  concern,  and  to 
that  it  gives  itself  in  the  face  of  the 
universe.  Let  the  proud  ships  and  the 
squat  ferryboats  witness  the  surrender 
if  they  will.  It  knows  no  hesitation. 

And  yet,  after  all,  one  does  some- 
times hope  that  the  river  regards  the 
city  a  little  and  is  tender  toward  it. 
Not  down  where  it  actually  meets  the 
sea,  —  that  would  be  asking  too  much 
of  it,  —  but  farther  up  where  it  first 
begins  to  skirt  the  troubled  streets.  It 
sweeps  down  upon  them  so  grandly, 
curving  between  its  two  headlands,  as 
if  it  surely  had  seen  them  and  under- 
stood them  and  were  coming  straight 
to  their  rescue.  A  strong  soul  with  an 
absolute  purpose  might  be  able  to 
minister  to  another's  need  without 
impeding  its  own  invincible  progress. 

Certainly  it  seems  to  linger  when  it 
finds  itself  opposite  the  rows  of  houses, 
the  canyoned  streets.  The  soul  of  the 
city  comes  out  to  meet  it  and  makes 
an  unconscious  appeal.  What  is  here? 


What  strange  clamor?  What  uncer- 
tainty? What  conflicting  purposes? 
Does  it  not  know  what  it  wants,  then, 
the  city?  But  how  should  any  created 
thing  fail  to  know  what  it  wants? 
Must  the  river  stop  and  tell  it?  Well, 
it  cannot  stop;  but  it  does  its  best,  in 
passing,  to  share  its  certainty. 

'It  is  all  quite  simple.  I  want  the 
sea,  and  you  want  God,'  it  says  pa- 
tiently over  and  over  to  the  impatient 
streets. 

How  gentle  it  is  in  its  bearing,  al- 
most wistful,  as  if  for  the  first  time  in 
its  life  it  found  itself  not  quite  sure  of 
its  environment.  The  strange  appeal 
of  the  city  troubles  it  a  little.  It  gath- 
ers its  dreams  about  it,  partly  because 
it  divines  them  its  best  offering,  partly 
because  they  suddenly  seem  under  a 
threat.  Misty,  shimmering,  opales- 
cent, it  steals  through  the  dawn  and 
the  sunset,  veiled  in  mystery. 

'Oh,  hush!  Oh,  hush!'  it  says  to  the 
city.  *  See  how  beautiful  everything  is, 
how  quiet  and  safe.  There  is  no  need 
of  making  such  a  to-do.' 

Its  very  industry  —  the  business 
which  is  more  and  more  thrust  upon  it 
—  is  a  lesson  to  the  rushing  traffic  of 
the  streets.  Every  craft  which  invades 
it  catches  something  of  the  grandeur  of 
its  motion,  and  bears  itself  with  a  cer- 
tain inscrutable  composure.  Even  the 
coal-barges.  One  has  but  to  watch 
them  dreaming  along  on  their  way 
downstream  —  their  beautiful,  warm, 
faded  reds  accenting  the  blue-gray  and 
silver  of  their  surroundings  —  to  real- 
ize that,  after  all,  the  practical  world 
makes  a  less  strenuous  demand  than 
one  had  supposed.  As  for  the  sail- 
boats, the  sight  of  one  of  the  great, 
serene,  gray  birds  standing  slowly  in 
from  the  sea,  is  enough  to  arrest  the 
busiest  footsteps,  call  a  halt  to  the 
processes  of  the  most  distracted  brain. 
The  rapt,  mystical  passing  is  like  a 
prayer. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


857 


'Thus  and  thus,'  says  the  river,  'you 
should  go  about  your  business,  bearing 
it  all  with  you  on  your  way  into  eter- 
nity. Confusion  is  only  a  hindrance  and 
waste.  Can  you  not  understand?' 

Can  the  city  ever  understand? 
Surely,  it  must,  in  time.  Understand- 
ing is  its  desire  and  destiny.  Its  turbu- 
lence is  so  artificial  that  it  would  seem 
to  have  taken  distraction  on  itself  as  a 
paradoxical  means  of  realizing  repose. 
It  values  peace  too  highly  to  be  will- 
ing to  accept  it  ready-made,  but  must 
work  it  out,  prove  it,  win  it.  The  river's 
methods  are  much  the  same.  It  turned 
its  back  on  its  natal  peace  in  the  hope 
of  something  better.  The  river's  strife 
is  less  than  the  city's.  Perhaps  that  is 
only  because  its  ultimate  peace  is  less 
profound. 

Meanwhile,  its  quiet  presence,  so 
near  the  rapture  of  its  consummation, 
is  a  blessing  and  help  to  the  city.  It 
hushes  it,  frees  it,  admonishes  it.  As 
a  child  to  its  mother's  side,  the  com- 
plaining city  clings  to  the  banks  of  its 
river. 

'  ALPS  ON  ALPS  ARISE  ' 

FROM  the  inquisitive  elder  Disraeli  I 
learned  that  Lope  de  Vega  was  a  poet 
from  his  cradle,  and  I  learned  it  bit- 
terly, for  I  was  sixteen,  and  my  poetic 
April  lingered.  There  was  great  solace 
in  Keats,  who  had  begun  to  be  a  poet 
at  an  age  which  gave  me  still  two  years 
to  falter  in.  But  what  of  these  cradle 
rhymes  of  the  Spaniard?  What  of  the 
numerous  lispings  of  Pope  to  nurse  and 
bottle?  What  of  the  spines  of  satire 
Bryant  put  out  at  three-and-ten,  or  the 
Blossomes  Cowley  bore  midway  his 
second  decade?  And  Chatterton! 

Never  mind  Pascal  and  his  conic 
sections,  precocious  Pliny,  or  the  well- 
stuffed  Hermogenes  —  monsters,  not 
poets!  But  to  see  the  years  slip  by  and 
real  virtues  hidden  still  under  a  cloud 


of  youth,  was  a  trial  which  set  me 
brooding,  full  of  anger,  over  the  hours 
I  had  wasted  in  play  before  I  had 
grown  conscious  of  an  imperative 
function.  No  honorable  poet  could 
weigh  pleasure  against  the  duty  to  be 
great.  For  all  her  tricky  record,  For- 
tune had  never  behaved  so  ill  as  when 
she  cheated  me  of  my  destiny  by  fif- 
teen years'  stark  ignorance  of  it.  In 
the  thought  that  most  forward  poets 
had  been  early  at  their  calling,  lay  a 
dim  consolation  which  darkened  when 
I  feared  that  their  greener  majority 
may  have  meant  a  more  genuine  sum- 
mons. 

Nor  could  I  be  much  heartened  by 
the  spectacle  of  those  who  had  come 
late  into  self-knowledge.  Wandering  in 
the  wilderness  palled  no  less  because  of 
the  tribes  who  shared  it  with  me.  The 
dying,  I  felt,  might  lie  down  comforted 
that  patriarchs,  kings,  even  the  wise 
and  good,  were  bedfellows;  but  the  hot 
thrust  of  those  who  looked  toward 
birth  wanted  none  of  the  cool  medicine 
which  encourages  death.  We  who  had 
to  be  about  Father  Apollo's  business 
had  little  time  for  beds. 

And  yet,  strenuous  as  I  was  for  the 
bright  reward,  I  gave  hours  to  becom- 
ing a  specialist  in  the  youth  of  poets. 
Like  a  man  sick  with  some  lingering 
disease,  I  ransacked  annals  for  cases 
like  my  own,  mad  after  a  sign  which 
would  point  to  an  end  for  my  sullen 
malady  of  prose.  I  could  tell  you  at  a 
question  when  my  poets  had  assumed 
the  toga  poetica,  from  Tennyson,  cover- 
ing his  slate  with  blank  verse  at  six  or 
seven,  up  through  Goldsmith,  who 
scarcely  touched  pen  to  verse  on  the 
poetical  side  of  thirty,  to  Cowper,  who, 
at  fifty,  a  few  cheerful  bagatelles  aside, 
had  only  just  begun  to  be  a  poet.  From 
this  learning  of  mine,  more  truly  a 
scholar  than  I  knew,  I  took  examples, 
despair,  and  vindications.  When  I 
thought  of  poets  I  thought  of  a  thin 


858 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


line  marching  fierily  down  through  all 
the  ages,  endless,  quenchless,  and  my- 
self waiting  unsuspected  in  a  prairie 
village  for  the  tongue  of  flame  which 
should  mark  me  of  their  company. 
When  I  thought  how  much  I  lacked 
their  art  and  scope,  I  despaired;  but 
whenever  despair  had  a  little  numbed, 
I  vindicated  myself  against  the  preco- 
cious poets  by  instancing  those  who 
had  slept  late  in  the  shell. 

Thus,  year  by  year,  I  pushed  back 
the  age  at  which  I  must  come  into  my 
powers  and  fame.  By  the  precedent  of 
Bryant,  I  should  have  written  some 
new  Thanatopsis  at  seventeen,  but  I 
had  only  heartache  from  that  prece- 
dent. With  what  a  thrill,  then,  I  learned 
that  he  had  made  the  poem  over  in 
riper  years.  Eighteen  was  harder  for 
me  to  endure.  Poems  by  Two  Brothers, 
Poe's  Tamerlane,  The  Blessed  Damosel 
(unanswerable  challenge),  drove  me 
ashamed  and  passionate  to  my  rhym- 
ing. But  once  again  I  found  out  a  de- 
fense. If  Pope's  Ode  on  Solitude,  writ- 
ten at  twelve  for  lasting  honor,  was  a 
prank  of  genius,  why  not  The  Blessed 
Damosel?  And  who  would  contend 
with  ghosts?  Yet  I  could  not  remember 
this  assurance  when,  that  year,  I  found 
Chatterton's  bitter,  proud  will,  and 
thought  of  the  career  which  had  led  so 
straight  toward  it. 

Some  years  were  kinder,  or  at  least 
my  ignorance  saved  me,  for  at  nine- 
teen and  twenty  "I  kept  my  courage 
well.  But  twenty-one  threatened  me 
to  the  very  teeth.  Drake's  Culprit  Fay 
mocked  me;  Holmes's  Old  Ironsides 
roared  at  me;  Campbell's  Pleasures  of 
Hope  enticed  me;  Milton's  Nativity  ode 
submerged  and  cowed  me.  'No,  no,' 
I  cried,  as  I  read  again  these  resonant 
strophes,  *I  will  be  a  minor  poet  and 
never  strive  with  Milton.' 

Later,  by  a  strange  reversal,  I  con- 
soled myself  with  proofs  that  the  great 
poet  must  come  slowly  to  his  height, 


and  I  lived  for  cheerful  months  on  the 
surpassing  badness  of  Shelley's  work 
before  Alastor,  fruit  of  twenty- three. 

But  the  years  would  not  cease,  nor 
would  they  bring  my  summons.  At 
twenty-two  I  thought  of  Gotz  von 
Berlichingen  and  thrust  my  boundary 
back.  Twenty-three  taunted  me  with 
Paracelsus  and  Endymion  and  Milton's 
wistful  On  his  Being  Arrived  to  the 
Age  of  Twenty-three.  I  passed  twenty- 
four  sickly  conscious  of  The  Defence  of 
Guenevere  and  Tamburlaine  and  those 
cantos  of  Childe  Harold  which,  already 
two  years  out  of  the  pen,  made  Byron 
splendid  in  a  night.  Keats,  dying  glori- 
ous at  twenty-five,  made  my  year  deso- 
late. To  be  twenty-six  was  to  remem- 
ber The  Ancient  Mariner,  Collins's 
pure  Odes,  and  youth's  dreamland,  the 
fair,  the  fragrant,  the  unforgettable 
Arcadia.  Nor  was  twenty-seven  better : 
what  could  my  numbness  say  to  The 
Strayed  Reveller,  The  Shepheardes'  Cal- 
ender, and  Poems,  Chiefly  in  the  Scottish 
Dialect  ?  With  twenty-eight,  The  Lyri- 
cal Ballads  and  Atalanta  in  Calydon 
saw  my  hopes  begin  a  slow  decline, 
which  dropped  off,  the  next  year,  amid 
contracting  ardor,  past  Johnson's  Lon- 
don, Crabbe's  Village,  Clough's  hos- 
pitable Bothie,  into  thirty's  hopeless 
wilderness.  After  thirty  poets  are  not 
made.  And  I  am  thirty. 

Tall  Alp  after  tall  Alp  behind  me,  I 
see  before  me  only  a  world  of  foothills. 
Yet  my  journey  was  passionate.  Now 
the  work  I  have  done  is  dead  leaves, 
my  energy  all  burned  grass,  my  aspira- 
tions dust.  And  dry  and  bitter  in  my 
mouth  is  the  reflection  that  the  sum- 
mons may  have  missed  my  ear  while  I 
watched  my  fellows.  Did  zeal  over- 
reach me,  some  hidden  jealousy  undo 
me?  What  grief  and  rebellion  to  know 
one's  self  cause,  agent,  and  penalty  of 
one's  own  ruin!  O  black  decades  to 
come! 

Scott  found  himself  at  thirty-four. 


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